The Dead Letter
That summer morning was humid, bright, and busy. The girls were rushing around doing homework, digging out plimsolls, and searching for lunch boxes; raisins, cucumber, and tubs of yoghurt – packed lunches. It arrived in the morning post, bundled with bills, catalogues, and fast-food flyers. The postmark was antipodean, and the franking skew with surreal
Christmas Day
His nine-year-old loved her nursery, and she loved climbing trees, and reading her books about history, flowers, and trains. And she loved her father, and he thought of her as he buffed his black Oxford brogues from Loakes in London. And he thought of her again when he ironed his shirt, how she smiled when