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A Bridge of Letters

long enough. His mother was useless at fishing, didn’t play football or enjoy
watching it, and didn’t understand about railways, real or toy.
Suddenly, Peter was a very lonely, small boy. No mother at all, and not much of a
father either.
He had no time to wonder what might happen to him, because it happened anyway,
and immediately. Aunt Elizabeth moved in, for the time being, especially to look
after him. After the funeral, when they had finished packing all his stuff, like toys
and books and clothes and so on, they took him back to their place. He ended up
staying there for ever, with Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Norman. His old home was
put up for sale, and his Dad bought a small cottage somewhere else.
Now; there was nothing wrong with Aunt Elizabeth, or her husband, Uncle Norman,
who was OK, too. But they were no substitute for a real Mum and Dad, and they had
no children of their own, so he still had no-one at home to play with. However, it
was as strange for them to have Peter staying there as it was for Peter to be staying
with them. It soon became obvious that he was not just staying there, either – he was
living there. This was his new home. Uncle Norman and Aunty Liz had a nice
house, in a sort of rural area, and they had a dog, and they had a decent sized garden
where you could kick a ball about without annoying the neighbours, who were also
OK by the way, and the nearby school he was sent to was, in many ways, better than
the one he had started at and just left.
But somehow it wasn’t home, and never would be.
Peter and the dog got on really well; he made a lot of new friends there, at school,
and, for some reason, seemed to be learning a lot. He was probably quite happy,
given the stress and upheaval and sadness he had recently gone through. But he
longed for the rare visits his father was able to make. He knew his father couldn’t
visit more often, but, for a few months, actually saw him now more often than he had
when his mother was alive. But it wasn’t half often enough, and the visits quickly
became less and less frequent.
One day, not long after Peter had moved to his new home, his father sent him a letter.
There was not a lot of news in it, and his father didn’t say where he was, but the
envelope had a London postmark, so Peter guessed he was not „travelling’.
My Dear Peter,
I thought I would drop you a line just to see if you are all right,
and to send you my love. It was wonderful to see you again the
other day, and I wish I could see you more often, but you know my
work keeps me away from home quite a bit. I’m afraid I shall be
away quite a long time this trip. Aunty and Uncle tell me that
you are well, and I hope you are starting to settle in with them OK.
They are good people and are very fond of you so I am sure you
will be all right staying there. But I know it is not the same as
being at home, and perhaps one day we shall be able to live
together again in another home of our own. That will be really
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