The Last Train Home

Chapter Eighteen

It took me a while to get used to using the Goodwins first names. They felt foreign to speak and I couldn't shake the feeling that I would get in trouble every time I said it. Mum always said it was impolite to call an adult by their first name unless they were a relation; she would kill me if she heard me talk to the Goodwins in such a relaxed way.

Still, the lack of formality between the three of us certainly helped to lessen the tension that had weighed so heavy over the past few months and even Mrs Goodwin - Barbara - had become more relaxed towards me. To anyone who didn't know our situation, we most likely looked like an ordinary family unit, perhaps extended or adopted family, but a family unit nonetheless. Perhaps I could grow to see them more as an Aunt and Uncle like Eva did, but I would never see them as more than that.

Mum's letters kept arriving, almost one a week since the month-long gap between the first and second one. She even wrote another letter to the Goodwins to find out more about what I had been up to. Not that much had changed since their first letter except that the work around the farmhouse had lessened because most of it had been completed. The walls were painted, the creaking floorboards and stairs repaired and we had even washed the staircase and the wooden flooring. It was far from the dingy house that it had been when I turned up.

I also received a letter from Dad after months of hearing nothing from him. Eva had given it to me on a visit to the Post Office with Barbara but she didn't get the chance to read it for me before someone else walked in who needed her attention. For two days, it had sat in my room with me unable to figure out what it said. I wanted to write back to him, but I couldn't do that if I didn't know what his letter said.

After church on Sunday, I grabbed the letter from my room and took it down to the living room with me. Barbara's rules were that we spent the entire Sunday together so I didn't have much of a choice. I sat on the sofa with the letter open on my lap, struggling to read it. Jonathan, who had sat beside me, peered over at me from the top of his book.

"You alright over there?" he asked.

"Fine," I said.

"Need a hand?"

"I can read it myself."

Jonathan put his book down on the table and sat forward. "I never said you couldn't. Your dad's handwriting looks really hard to decipher, I just thought you might need a little bit of help trying to figure out what he even wrote. It sort of reminds me of a Doctor's note."

I laughed. "My grandmother always said he was in the wrong profession."

"Let's have a look, maybe we can figure this out together."

I reluctantly handed over the letter and sat back to watch Jonathan try and figure out what Dad had written in his letter. His handwriting had been difficult for anyone to understand, even Mum, so for me, it felt like trying to read a different language. None of the letters looked the way I expected them to and some of them even merged into the next making it impossible for me to tell what the word was supposed to be. Although I didn't want to admit to Jonathan the real reason why I couldn't read the letter, I welcomed the help.

"It looks like his training is going well," Jonathan said after a little while. "They haven't been deployed yet but he says he'll tell you the moment he knows if he is. He also says that he's really proud of you for the work you've been doing on the farm. It looks like he'll be coming for a visit once he gets leave as well."

"When will that be?"

"Doesn't say, but I'm sure he'll let you know." He handed the letter back to me.

"Thank you," I said. "For reading it. Dad's handwriting is a mystery to me."

"You know, Sybil, it doesn't hurt to ask for help sometimes, or even to admit that you need it."