'Pamela! Are you coming?'
'What? Oh, sorry . . . I'm coming, Mrs. Pascoe.'
'Pamela Dee, if I hear you apologise to me once more, I'm going to wash your mouth out with soap!'
Things took on a comfortable routine over the next several weeks, broken only by choir practice, church, and the odd foray into Haworth. As Christmas drew near, however, Pamela felt her spirits falling. It seemed that everyone was going away for the holidays. Everyone, that is, except herself. Soon it appeared as though she would be alone in the house over the holidays.
The week before Christmas, as she and the others exchanged idle chitchat while they prepared supper, Ellie said suddenly, 'Perhaps you'd like to come with Doris and me to Scarborough for the holidays? You'll probably be bored to tears, sharing Christmas with a pair of dried-up old maids like us, but it'ud be much better than sitting here all by your lonesome.'
'Besides,' put in Doris, 'we have a number of nieces your age, some of whom will be dropping by Christmas day, and some of whom will be staying over for the holidays.'
'Well,' Pamela said doubtfully, 'if I'm not too much bother-'
'Nonsense!' Ellie said firmly. 'We'll put you to work making cookies and treats and Christmas pudding and rum cake. You'll be no bother at all, and you'll soon forget all about whatever it is that's making you so quiet these days.'
Ellie was as good as her word. Pamela had such a good time that when the holidays were finally over and they boarded the train to go home, she found she was genuinely going to miss the east coast and all the people she had met there; especially Tessa, Ellie and Doris's youngest niece, who was almost exactly Pamela's age. The two had promised to write to one another just as soon as they arrived at their respective homes.
A few days later, as Mrs. Dewhurst and Theo were leaving with their driver, Mr. Pascoe, Pamela approached them awkwardly. Unfortunately it was Theo who was the last to leave the house, so she was forced to confront him with her request.
'A letter? Well . . . of course, but . . . why didn't you simply send it by e-mail?'
Red-faced, Pamela stammered something unintelligible. She didn't want to admit to him that she had never sent or received a real letter to a personal friend before. To her incomprehension, he checked outside to see if Mr. Pascoe and his mother were in the car, closed the door, took a quick glance about to make sure no one was watching, took her by the waist, drew her to him, and kissed her. Maddeningly, for the longest moment her body responded of its own accord, until she wrenched herself free from his grasp and stood before him, gasping for breath.