Chapter Text
“Mama, why are you sending all of the biccies away?”
Demelza looked up from the parcel she was packing at the sound of her daughter Julia’s voice. Her four-year-old baby’s soft blue eyes were trained on the packet of shortbread biscuits in her mother’s right hand. “They aren’t getting all of them, sweetheart. You had two only a few minutes ago.” She checked the snacks off her spreadsheet and collected the cans of condensed milk next on the list. “Your Uncle Samuel suggested we put together care packages for some of the soldiers away from home, remember?”
Julia nodded. “The ones who might not get a visit from Santa?”
“That’s right,” Demelza said, her brow furrowing a little with the fib, the only one she’d been able to think of when Julia had questioned the piles of snack foods taking over their kitchen counters. “We’ve only a few more things to go into the boxes.”
“Do you know who they are?” her daughter asked.
“No, we don’t, honey.” That was the way the program worked, her brother had explained: you send the parcels in and they are randomly distributed to a soldier. They have the option to write back, but they are not required to do so. Simple enough, right? Except when you happened to have a smart, inquisitive little girl who was full of questions.
When Thomas Carne’s prodigal daughter turned up on his doorstep, eighteen years old, single and pregnant, he’d been forced to put his newfound Methodism to the test. But the instant baby Julia Carne uttered her first howl she’d had him -- and soon the rest of the family -- wrapped her wee little finger. It’d been a good thing, too, for Demelza would never have been able to straighten the meandering path she’d wandered down if it hadn’t been for her family and her mentor.
She’d met Jane Gimlett, the owner of Perranporth Bakery when she’d answered an ad for part-time work. Jane had been so impressed with Demelza’s skills that she’d offered the young mother an apprenticeship when she returned after maternity leave. Jane’s guidance, along with Sally Chegwidden Carne’s love of babysitting wee Julia had made it possible for Demelza to turn things around. Five years later, she’d found herself enjoying her second profitable season with Demelza’s Delectables and was beginning to entertain the prospects of expanding in the spring.
All of the long hours required to forge a successful career in specialty pasties had left no time for a social life, that was for certain, not that she’d had any desire to get tied up with a man ever again. The one who’d given her the greatest gift of her life had run the moment she’d told him the news and it had devastated her. She’d resisted when her brother suggested she participate in the parcel program, thinking it was yet another hair-brained attempt to set her up with a fine, upstanding military man. She’d finally relented only after he assured her she’d be under no obligation to continue correspondence, even if the recipients sent her a note of thanks.
“---snowflake?”
Demelza blinked, returning her attention to her child. “I’m sorry, Julia, what did you say?”
“I asked if I could send them snowflakes!” They’d made snowflakes from folded up paper and safety scissors earlier that day. The glittering remnants of their decorating could still be seen twinkling in her daughter’s fine, strawberry-blonde hair. “Pleeeeease?” The little girl danced on her toes.
“I think they would love one,” Demelza grinned, dusting a kiss on Julia’s nose. “Go run to your room and get three of them for me, love. One for each box.”
Ten minutes later, the last piece of packing tape was in place and the two Carnes headed towards the post office.
“Package for you, Captain Poldark, sir.” Ross Poldark, a captain in 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards glanced away from his battered laptop to frown at the young private standing in the doorway of the officer’s quarters. She held a box that made her arms quiver with effort. He jumped from his seat, circled the desk and plucked it from her hands. “Thank you, sir.”
“What is this, Private Hoblin?” he asked, peering at the postmark.
“A package from Soldier’s Angels, sir,” the young woman responded. “You were one of the platoon’s selected recipients.”
Ross shook his head. “No, this should go to one of the enlisted troops,” he insisted.
“Colonel Pascoe thought you would say that, s-s-sir,” Private Hoblin said, swallowing heavily. She tucked an envelope under Ross’s thumb. “He said I was to give this to you if you refused it.”
Ross set the box on his desk with a thump, tore open the end of the envelope with his teeth and slipped out the sheet of foolscap: Consider this to be a direct order, Poldark. That is all. Ross swore under his breath. “That’ll be all, private. Thank you.”
Private Hoblin wasted no time clearing the room, leaving Ross to drum his fingers along the box’s seam. Of all the bloody nerve, Ross thought to himself. Pascoe had been all over him in recent weeks. It was no secret he hadn’t been himself this time around. He and Elizabeth had had yet another massive falling out before left for this deployment, going so far as to agree to take a break from their relationship during his absence. He’d been able to perform his duties, of course, but the entire situation was a distraction he simply didn’t need.
“Well, there’s nothing to stop me from doling out the items inside the parcel to someone else, is there?” he muttered as he searched for the box cutter. Ross shut the canvas flap on his door and dug in.
He couldn’t help but chuckle when he came across the sparkling snowflakes that greeted him the moment the lid was opened. He also knew several of the troops would appreciate the treats and trinkets inside, packs of beef jerky for Mark and the tins of condensed milk would be fought over by Zacky and Paul. As he searched, he encountered items that could only have come from Cornwall: specialty crisps and Bakewell tarts from the bakery near Nampara. His throat grew tight at the memories of home, wishing he were back there instead of having six more months of a third tour to endure.
He sighed heavily, pulling out items until they all but covered his desk until his hand closed over a small, soft item buried deep at the bottom of the parcel. He slowly withdrew his hand, revealing a handmade puppy doll. It wasn’t new by any stretch of the imagination. One of the button eyes was loose and the yarn near the left ear was coming undone. In fact, it was clear the toy was well loved and, while his exposure to children was negligible, something like this would be deeply missed by its owner.
They were not under any obligation to return a message to the sender of the care packages, but this was a special case. He picked up the return address card he’d set aside before he’d begun unearthing the package. “Demelza Carne, 23 St Pirans Rd, Perranporth.”
He tapped the card on the side of his cheek before setting it and the toy on top of the shelf over his bunk and stuck his head out of his doorway. His eyes narrowed on Zacky Martin, Paul Daniel and his brother Mark. The threesome was huddled around the flat screen telly, waving game controllers and shouting obscenities as they continued their battle for supremacy over FIFA. They were his best mates, comrades he’d met during their first deployment. They’d done everything they could to stick together, too.
“Paul, Zacky, Mark!” Ross called. “Care package items up for grabs!” He laughed when they dropped their controllers and clambered over and around the couch to reach the office. The noise and friendly bickering over the items made Ross smile, as did the little dog with the lopsided eyes.