The Lost Chapter – A Special Anniversary Edition of The Vintage Coat

As The Vintage Coat celebrates its 10th anniversary, I’m overjoyed to mark this special occasion by sharing something truly unique with you all — The Lost Chapter.

When I first began writing The Vintage Coat, I never imagined how it would come to resonate so deeply with so many readers. The story of Joe and his journey, alongside the richly woven tapestry of nostalgia, family, and self-discovery, has remained close to my heart. The incredible love and support this book has received over the past decade have been beyond anything I could have anticipated, and I’m still humbled every time someone reaches out to talk to me about it.

To commemorate this milestone, I’ve decided to unveil something special that has never before been shared with the public: a chapter that was originally meant to be the grand finale of the book. However, in the final stages of writing, I made the decision to set it aside in favour of the ending you know — the one where Joe attends his grandfather’s party six months after the events that unfold.

This chapter was to be the emotional close, tying together the intricate threads of the narrative, but in the end, I chose a different direction. And so, The Lost Chapter remained just that — lost. But now, a decade later, it feels like the right time to finally share this pivotal moment with you.

I’m so grateful for the years of connection with readers who continue to tell me how much this book means to them. Your unwavering enthusiasm has reminded me of why I write, and why The Vintage Coat still holds a special place in the literary world. So, to each of you, this chapter is for you.

Why Now?

There’s something undeniably special about revisiting a story after so many years. The Vintage Coat has left an indelible mark on me, and over the years, I’ve reflected on the different choices I made during the writing process. The decision to leave this chapter out was significant, but with time comes the perspective that allows me to see the full picture of the story I set out to tell.

I’ve heard from countless readers who’ve shared their thoughts on the book — and many have asked for more, wondering what might have been. Now, it feels right to give you a glimpse of the path not taken.

The release of The Lost Chapter also gives me a chance to say thank you. The lasting impact of The Vintage Coat on its readers is something I’ll always cherish, and this anniversary feels like the perfect moment to share this chapter with you.

So, as we celebrate this 10th anniversary together, I invite you to read The Lost Chapter and experience the story once more, through a different lens. I hope you’ll find, as I did, that sometimes the path not taken is just as meaningful as the one we choose.

The Lost Chapter is now available exclusively as part of this extended edition on kindle and paperback. Keep reading to find the chapter at the end of this post, and let me know what you think — I’d love to hear your thoughts on this hidden piece of The Vintage Coat.

SPOILERS

If you have not yet read The Vintage Coat DO NOT go any further. The Lost Chapter containers spoilers. This chapter has now been added to the end of Kindle and Paperback copies of the extended edition.

A quick reminder of how the chapter before ended… 

‘Hey now.’ Charlie interrupted, looking around for the shooter, who seemed to have run away to join his friends. ‘You had no way of knowing this would happen. It’s not your fault.’  Charlie began to put pressure on Joe’s chest wound, but he could see that he was losing too much blood. Charlie tried to talk to him and keep him conscious, but Joe was in and out. His cries of pain not only from the bullet but from his broken heart. Joe was dazed, and the ground beneath seemed to be spinning faster and faster. He found it hard to focus on Charlie’s face. His vision blurred and his eyes rolled back into his head as he gasped for air. Joe blacked out.

The Lost Chapter

Joe woke to a dull, aching pain in his chest as though he had been winded, his body sprawled across the floor of his bedroom. His vision blurred as he forced himself upright, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. The room swam around him—the familiar peeling wallpaper, the cluttered desk, the blinking light of his digital alarm clock. He was home.

But how? The coat failed to work before.

Memories crashed into him like waves. The crack of gunfire. Charlie shouting. Poppy’s face—so full of life, then suddenly, terrifyingly still. The warmth of her blood on his hands. The sharp sting in his chest as he was hit. The moment he thought he was dead.

His hands scrambled at his chest, fingers grasping fabric—his coat. He was still wearing it, yet he wasn’t in 1943. He pulled it away slightly, eyes locking onto the dark hole torn through the fabric. His breath hitched.

His stomach lurched. He yanked the coat off, then clutched it tightly, willing it to work. He threw it back over his shoulders, closing his eyes, praying. He willed the air to shift, for that strange sensation to creep over his skin, for the world to dissolve around him and deposit him back where he belonged. Where Poppy was. Where she had died.

Nothing happened.

He ripped the coat off again, heart pounding. Threw it to the floor. Picked it up. Tried again. And again. And again.

Still nothing.

He raced downstairs, holding the coat in his arms, and began searching through the kitchen cupboards. He knew he had a small sewing kit somewhere, perhaps if he could repair the coat? He found a thread that was closest to the navy blue coat and carefully patched up the hole. Once done he tried on the coat once more. Yet he still found himself sat in his own home.

The truth settled over him like a lead weight. He was never going back.

A broken sob tore from his throat. He sank to his knees, his grip tightening around the useless coat. His shoulders shook as grief wracked his body. Poppy was gone. He had watched her die, helpless to stop it. And now he was here, alive, when he shouldn’t be, the sting of guilt consuming him.

He let the coat slip from his fingers, his eyes burning as he stared at it. He felt numb.

Joe didn’t know how long he sat there, his red swollen eyes fixated on the coat lying of the floor. The image of Poppy lying on the ground consuming his thoughts, the sound of Charlie shouting, of gun shots. Images and sounds he feared would haunt him forever.

Days passed in a blur. Joe barely left his bedroom, barely ate. He moved through his grief like a man drowning, caught between reality and the memories of a past he could never return to.

What was worse, he couldn’t even confide in anybody. Who would believe that he had been travelling between 1943 and the present. The house remained silent, save for the occasional creak of floorboards as he paced aimlessly. His phone occasionally pinged, but he turned it to silent. Not yet ready to face those in his life, who had no idea what he had been going through.

On the third day, a realisation hit him—information was more readily available in his own time, something as simple as an online search might reveal answers that once seemed unreachable. His heartbeat quickened as he reached for his laptop. More than anything, he needed to know—was there any record of that night? Of Poppy?

His fingers trembled as he typed into the search bar. A few moments later, an old newspaper article appeared on the screen. His heart pounded as he read:

‘Tragic Death of Local Woman: Poppy Appleton, 22, Killed in Sudden Attack’

The words blurred as his eyes welled with tears. The article recounted the violent events of 1943, speaking in vague terms about foreign soldiers and an unexpected skirmish near the town. But it was the last section that made his breath catch in his throat.

‘Miss Appleton’s funeral will be held on Wednesday at 11am, at St Augustine Church.’

Joe sat frozen. His mind raced. If her funeral was there… did that mean she was buried in the churchyard?

A sudden urgency gripped him. He couldn’t stay in this room, in this house, in this crushing silence any longer. Without hesitation, he pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled to the bathroom, grimacing at his reflection in the mirror. Dark circles clung beneath his eyes, his skin pale and greasy, his hair a mess. He hadn't showered in days, too lost in his grief to care. The stale scent of sweat and unwashed clothes clung to him. With a deep breath, he turned on the shower, letting the hot water cascade over him, washing away the grime and exhaustion. He scrubbed at his skin, at his scalp, as if trying to cleanse himself of the past few days. If he did find Poppy’s grave, it wasn’t going to be looking this bad for her.

When he finally stepped out, he felt lighter, fresher, though the weight in his chest remained. He wiped the steam from the mirror, ran a hand through his now-damp hair, and exhaled slowly.

He dressed quickly, pausing only when his eyes landed on the military coat still lying on the floor. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of emotion crashing over him. He reached for it hesitantly, his fingers brushing the worn fabric, tracing the edges of the bullet hole, which was back after he had unpicked his sewing a couple of days ago. This coat had been his key to another life, a vessel that had carried him through time, allowing him to experience love, purpose, and adventure. But it had also taken from him—had failed him when he needed it most.

A lump formed in his throat as he clutched it to his chest, inhaling deeply, as if he could still smell the faint traces of 1943 lingering in the fabric—gunpowder, damp earth, a hint of Poppy’s perfume. But the past was beyond his reach now, no matter how desperately he wished otherwise. His grip tightened before, with a shuddering breath, he folded the coat and carried it to his wardrobe. He hesitated for one last moment, running his fingers along the brass buttons, before pushing it deep into the back and shutting the door with finality.

It was over. The past belonged to the past.

Outside, the air was crisp and cool. Joe drove into town, barely noticing the passing faces. He parked outside a small flower shop, his fingers hovering over the vibrant bouquets before selecting a simple bundle of white flowers. Once purchased he left his car, and took the short walk up the street to the church of St Augustine.

The churchyard was quiet, overgrown in places, weathered gravestones leaning with time. He wandered between them, his breath catching as he searched. The cold winter made the churchyard look like something out of a horror film, with frozen cobwebs glistening in the faint sunlight.

He walked up and down each row of graves to the fronts and side of the church, but couldn’t find the one he was looking for. He retreated to the rear of the church, where even more graves stood silent, a slight frost covered these which had been sitting behind the shadow of the church all day. He was starting to worry that she wasn’t here.  And then—There.

A small headstone, barely noticeable among the others. Poppy Appleton. The name hit him like a punch to the gut. There were no flowers, no signs of visitors. Just a name, a date, and a silence that stretched across seventy years.

Joe knelt, his hands trembling as he placed the flowers on the grave. The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, his chest heaving with each sob.

‘I’m so sorry, Poppy,’ he whispered, his voice breaking. ‘I should never have been there in the first place…’ his voice faltered as he wiped the tears from his face, ‘It’s all my fault…’ His tears turned into silent sobbing as he knelt on the cold ground.

He bowed his head, fingers brushing the cool stone. The past was lost to him now. But Poppy would never be forgotten, he would make sure of that.