The Girl in the Letter Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Emily Gunnis

  The right of Emily Gunnis to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This Ebook edition first published in 2018

  by HEADLINE REVIEW

  An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Edna St. Vincent Millay, ‘First Fig’, 1920

  Mary Elizabeth Frye, ‘Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep’, 1932

  Cover images: garden © Tuan Tran/Getty Images and girl © Rekha Garton/Trevillion Images; gate © kzww, shadows © milano1968 and leaves © Mongkol Rujitham, all at Shutterstock.

  Author photo © Laurie Fletcher

  eISBN 978 1 4722 5508 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Sources

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Emily Gunnis previously worked in TV drama and lives in Brighton with her young family. She is one of the four daughters of Sunday Times bestselling author Penny Vincenzi.

  For more about Emily, visit her on Twitter @EmilyGunnis and on Instagram @emilygunnis.

  About the Book

  A heartbreaking letter. A girl locked away. A mystery to be solved.

  1956. When Ivy Jenkins falls pregnant she is sent in disgrace to St Margaret’s, a dark, brooding house for unmarried mothers. Her baby is adopted against her will. Ivy will never leave.

  Present day. Samantha Harper is a journalist desperate for a break. When she stumbles on a letter from the past, the contents shock and move her. The letter is from a young mother, begging to be rescued from St Margaret’s. Before it is too late.

  Sam is pulled into the tragic story and discovers a spate of unexplained deaths surrounding the woman and her child. With St Margaret’s set for demolition, Sam has only days to piece together a sixty-year-old mystery before the truth, which lies disturbingly close to home, is lost for ever . . .

  Gripping. Heartwrenching. Twisting. Page-turning.

  Unravel the story of The Girl in the Letter.

  For Mummy

  I miss our walks, our talks, your love of life. But you always said, don’t cry, make notes.

  So, I promise to try . . .

  My candle burns at both ends;

  It will not last the night;

  But, ah, my foes, and, oh, my friends—

  It gives a lovely light!

  Edna St. Vincent Millay, ‘First Fig’

  Prologue

  Friday 13 February 1959

  My darling Elvira,

  I do not know where to begin.

  You are just a little girl, and it is so hard to explain in words that you will understand why I am choosing to leave this life, and you, behind. You are my daughter, if not by blood then in my heart, and it breaks to know that what I am about to do will be adding to the mountain of hurt and pain you have had to endure in the eight long years of your short life.

  Ivy paused, trying to compose herself so that the pen in her hand would stop shaking enough for her to write. She looked around the large drying room where she had hidden herself. From the ceiling hung huge racks crammed with sheets and towels meticulously washed by the cracked and swollen hands of the pregnant girls in St Margaret’s laundry, now ready to go down to the ironing room and out to the oblivious waiting world. She looked back down to the crumpled piece of paper on the floor in front of her.

  Were it not for you, Elvira, I would have given up the fight to stay in this world much sooner. Ever since they took Rose away from me, I can find no joy in living. A mother cannot forget her baby any more than a baby can forget her mother. And I can tell you that if your mother were alive, she would be thinking of you every minute of every day.

  When you escape from this place – and you will, my darling – you must look for her. In the sunsets, and the flowers, and in anything that makes you smile that beautiful smile of yours. For she is in the very air you breathe, filling your lungs, giving your body what it needs to survive, to grow strong and to live life to the full. You were loved, Elvi, every minute of every day that you were growing inside your mother’s tummy. You must believe that, and take it with you.

  She tensed and stopped momentarily as footsteps clattered above her. She was aware that her breathing had quickened with her heart rate, and underneath her brown overalls she could feel a film of sweat forming all over her body. She knew she didn’t have long before Sister Angelica returned, slamming shut the only window in her day when she wasn’t being watched. She looked down at her scrawled letter, Elvira’s beautiful face flashing into her mind’s eye, and fought back the tears as she pictured her reading it, her dark brown eyes wide, her pale fingers trembling as she struggled to take the words in.

  By now, you will have in your hands the key I enclose with this letter. It is the key to the tunnels and your freedom. I will distract Sister Faith as best I can, but you don’t have long. As soon as the house alarm goes off, Sister Faith will leave the ironing room and you must go. Immediately. Unlock the door to the tunnel at the end of the room, go down the steps, turn right and out through the graveyard. Run to the outhouse and don’t look back.

  She underlined the words so hard that her pen pierced a hole in the paper.

  I’m so sor
ry I couldn’t tell you face to face, but I feared you would be upset and would give us away. When I came to you last night, I thought they were letting me go home, but they are not, they have other plans for me, so I am using my wings to leave St Margaret’s another way, and this will be your chance to escape. You must hide until Sunday morning, the day after tomorrow, so try and take a blanket with you if you can. Stay out of sight.

  Ivy bit down hard on her lip until the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth. The memory of breaking into Mother Carlin’s office at dawn was still raw, the anticipation of finding her baby’s file turning to shock as she discovered no trace of Rose’s whereabouts. Instead, the file contained six letters. One was to a local psychiatric unit, the word ‘Copy’ stamped in the corner, recommending she be admitted immediately; the other five had been written by Ivy herself, begging Alistair to come to St Margaret’s and fetch her and their baby. A rubber band was wrapped tightly around these letters, Return to sender written in Alistair’s scrawl across every one.

  She had walked over to the tiny window of the dark, hellish room where she had suffered so much pain and watched the sunrise, knowing it would be her last. Then she had slotted Alistair’s letters into an envelope from Mother Carlin’s desk, scribbled her mother’s address on it and hidden it in the post tray before creeping back up the stairs to her bed.

  Without any hope of freedom, or of finding Rose, I no longer have the strength to go on. But Elvira, you can. Your file told me that you have a twin sister named Kitty, who probably has no idea you exist, and that your family name is Cannon. They live in Preston, so they will attend church here every Sunday. Wait in the outhouse until you hear the bells and the villagers begin arriving for church, then hide in the graveyard until you see your twin. No doubt you will recognise her, although she will be dressed a little differently to you. Try and get her attention without anyone seeing. She will help you.

  Don’t be afraid to escape and live your life full of hope. Look for the good in everyone, Elvira, and be kind.

  I love you and I will be watching you and holding your hand for ever. Now run, my darling. RUN.

  Ivy XXX

  Ivy started as the lock to the drying room where she and Elvira had spent so many hours together clicked suddenly and Sister Angelica burst through the door. She glared at Ivy, her squinting grey eyes hidden behind wire-framed glasses that were propped up by her bulbous nose. Ivy hurriedly pushed herself up and stuffed the note into the pocket of her overalls. She looked down so as not to catch the nun’s eye.

  ‘Aren’t you finished yet?’ Sister Angelica snapped.

  ‘Yes, Sister,’ said Ivy. ‘Sister Faith said I could have some TCP.’ She buried her trembling hands in her pockets.

  ‘What for?’

  She could feel Sister Angelica’s eyes burning into her. ‘Some of the children have bad mouth ulcers and it’s making it hard for them to eat.’

  ‘Those children are of no concern to you,’ Sister Angelica replied angrily. ‘They are lucky to have a roof over their heads.’

  Ivy pictured the rows of babies lying in their cots, staring into the distance, having long since given up crying.

  Sister Angelica continued. ‘Fetching TCP means I have to go all the way to the storeroom, and Mother Carlin’s dinner tray is due for collection. Do you not think I have enough to do?’

  Ivy paused. ‘I just want to help them a little, Sister. Isn’t that best for everyone?’

  Sister Angelica glared at her, the hairs protruding from the mole on her chin twitching slightly. ‘You will find that hard where you’re going.’

  Ivy felt adrenaline flooding through her body as Sister Angelica turned to walk back out of the room, reaching for her keys to lock the door behind her. Lifting her shaking hands, she took a deep breath and lunged forward, grabbing the nun’s tunic and pulling it as hard as she could. Sister Angelica let out a gasp, losing her balance and falling to the ground with a thud. Ivy straddled her and put one hand over her mouth, wrestling with the keys on her belt until they finally came free. Then, as Sister Angelica opened her mouth to scream, she slapped her hard across the face, stunning her into silence.

  Panting heavily, with fear and adrenaline making her heart hurt, Ivy pulled herself up, ran through the door and slammed it shut. Her hands were shaking so violently, it was a struggle to find the right key, but she managed to fit it into the lock and turn it just as Sister Angelica rattled the handle, trying to force the door open.

  She stood for a moment, gasping deep breaths. Then she unhooked the large brass key Elvira needed to get into the tunnels and wrapped her note around it. She heaved open the iron door to the laundry chute and kissed the note before sending it down to Elvira, pressing the buzzer to let her know it was there. She pictured the little girl waiting patiently for the dry laundry as she did at the end of every day. A wave of emotion crashed over her and she felt her legs buckling. Leaning forward, she let out a cry.

  Sister Angelica began to scream and hammer on the door, and with one last look back down the corridor that led to the ironing room and Elvira, Ivy turned away, breaking into a run. She passed the heavy oak front door. She had the keys to it now, but it led only to a high brick wall topped with barbed wire that she had neither the strength nor the heart to climb over.

  Memories of her arrival all those months ago came flooding back. She could see herself ringing the heavy bell at the gate, her large stomach making it awkward to lug her suitcase behind Sister Mary Francis along the driveway, hesitating before she crossed the threshold to St Margaret’s for the first time. Hurrying up the creaking stairs two at a time, she turned as she reached the top and pictured herself screaming at the girl she once was, telling her to run away and never look back.

  As she crept along the landing, she could hear the murmur of voices coming towards her and broke into a run, heading for the door at the foot of the dormitory steps. The house was deathly quiet, as all the other girls were at dinner, eating in silence, any talk forbidden. Only the cries of the babies in the nursery echoed through the house. Soon, though, Mother Carlin would know she was gone, and the whole building would be alerted.

  She reached the door of the dormitory and ran between the rows of beds just as the piercing alarm bell began to ring. As she reached the window, Sister Faith appeared at the end of the room. Despite her fear, Ivy smiled to herself. If Sister Faith was with her, that meant she was not with Elvira. She could hear Mother Carlin shouting from the stairway.

  ‘Stop her, Sister, quickly!’

  Ivy pulled herself up onto the ledge and, using Sister Angelica’s keys, opened the window. She pictured Elvira running through the tunnels and out into the freedom of the night. Then, just as Sister Faith reached her and grabbed for her overalls, she stretched out her arms and jumped.

  Chapter One

  Saturday 4 February 2017

  ‘Have you cracked it yet?’

  Sam pulled on the handbrake of her battered Vauxhall Nova, wishing it was a noose around her news editor’s neck.

  ‘No, not yet. I’ve only just arrived. I had to drive all the way from Kent, remember?’

  ‘Who else is there?’ barked Murray down the phone.

  Sam craned her neck to see the usual suspects standing in the drizzling rain outside a row of pretty terraced cottages set back from the road in perfectly manicured gardens. ‘Um, Jonesey, King . . . and Jim’s at the door now. Why am I even here if Jim’s already on the case?’ She watched one of Southern News Agency’s most experienced hacks trying to get his foot through the door. ‘Won’t he think I’m treading on his toes?’

  ‘I thought this one might need a woman’s touch,’ said Murray.

  Sam glanced at her watch. It was 4 p.m. – close to cut-off time for the national press going to print – and she could picture the scene in the office now. Murray on his mobile, shouting orders at everyone whilst admiring his reflection in the glass of the framed covers of Southern News scoops. Koop would be typing,
pulling anxiously at his unkempt hair, surrounded by cold cups of coffee and wilted sandwiches, while Jen chewed on her Nicorette gum and frantically made calls to contacts trying to fill in gaps in her copy. After he’d hung up on her, Murray would be straight on the phone to the Mirror or the Sun, lying through his teeth and telling them Sam was already on the case and to hold the press for her.

  ‘I’m really not sure I’m the right person for this,’ she said, studying her reflection in the rear-view mirror and catching sight of her grandmother’s birthday flowers wilting on the back seat. She was supposed to have been at Nana’s flat an hour ago to take over with Emma and cook Nana her birthday dinner.

  ‘Well, the cream of the bunch will have already left for the Press Awards tonight. You’ll have to do it.’

  ‘Great. Good to know I’m considered the dregs of this agency,’ mumbled Sam.

  ‘Call me when you’ve got something.’ Murray hung up.

  ‘Wanker.’ Sam threw her battered phone onto the seat next to her. She was pretty sure that the hours she’d worked that day on her tiny salary amounted to slave labour, and now she was expected to pull off a death knock.

  She pressed her fingers into her eyes, massaging the sockets. She’d thought she knew what tiredness was before she became a mother. People lied to new parents, telling you to hang in there, that babies slept at six weeks, which was patently a lie. Then it became once they were weaned, then when they were a year old. Emma was four now, and it was still a miracle if she slept through. Before, Sam would complain of tiredness after getting six hours’ sleep instead of eight, dragging herself into work in a haze of hangover after a night out clubbing. Now, at the grand age of twenty-five, she felt like an elderly lady; the four years of accumulated sleep deprivation had infected every muscle in her body, altering her brain and dragging her down so that some days she could barely form a sentence. On Ben’s days with Emma, she could at least sleep until seven. But now that he had whittled that down to two days a week, on the pretext of needing more time to job-hunt, she had to be up at six most days to get herself and her daughter up and out of the door in time for nursery drop-off.