The Lost Art of Letter Writing

by Praag, Menna van

  The first letter arrives three days later. He must have written it as soon as he received the pen. The next day two more letters come. The day after that, three. On day four it’s just one. Clara holds them in their envelopes. She can feel the sorrow, the love and longing wafting from the envelopes as if he has sprayed them with that particular scent. She wants to know what he says, she wants to hear him. The desire to open the letters is so strong that her fingers shake with it. But her fear is greater. She will cry if she reads them. She will sob. She will want to run to London, jump on the next train to Amsterdam and ruin Pieter’s life, without thought or care. It took all the power Clara had to be able to leave someone she loved for their own good. Being selfless is not an easy thing, especially under the influence of hormones, and Clara fears that reading them will shatter the last shards of selflessness she still clings to.

  So, every day, she picks them off the mat of the shop and places them in the drawer beneath the till. If he keeps up at this prolific pace she’ll have to find another place to put the letters, probably a box in the attic, for one day, surely, she’ll be able to read them. But, for now, Clara wants them close. Several times a day, she opens the drawer to press her fingers to the paper, imagining she can feel the imprint of his touch as he sealed them and sent them off. So, because she can’t read his letters, in a vain attempt to sate her desire for Pieter’s words, Clara reads Marthe’s letters instead, over and over again. Of course, the love she reads there only makes her cry too, so that Clara has to sit back from the counter and let the salty water soak her T-shirt instead of the inky pages. But at least they don’t (nearly, but not quite) make her run out of the shop and all the way back to Amsterdam.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It’s his first day at A&B Associates. And it’s the first time, saving his interview, that Edward has worn a suit in over three years. The shirt collar feels too tight and itchy against his skin. He tugs at it repeatedly, before undoing the top button and hoping that nobody notices. And, for most of the day, while he’s orientating himself and organising his new office, nobody does. Until he’s standing in the office kitchen, making himself a triple espresso from the very fancy and expensive coffee machine.

  ‘Settling in well already, I see.’

  Edward glances up to see what he can only describe as one of the sexiest women he’s ever laid eyes on, standing next to the fridge holding something – probably something edible, he doesn’t see what and nor does he care – since he can’t take his gaze off every other inch of her. She’s quite tall and voluptuous, not especially slim, but she holds her weight in a way he’s never quite seen on a woman before: with such supreme confidence, as if she knows that she’s quite the most desirable female on earth. Her clothes are tight, hugging every curve of flesh, her shirt is unbuttoned just low enough to reveal the dip of her breasts. Her skirt isn’t short but, somehow, her legs are all the more enticing for being hidden beneath it, just her smooth ankles revealed, along with feet slid into tall, black, shiny heels.

  Looking at her, probably open-mouthed, probably drooling, Edward feels something else he hasn’t felt in years. Not since before Greer got sick. He is, suddenly and completely, overcome with pure unadulterated lust. The experience is so surprising, so shocking to him that he’s lucky he doesn’t spill all three shots of his espresso down his trousers.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ she asks.

  Still, Edward can say nothing. Only stare.

  The incredibly beautiful woman laughs, then turns and leaves.

  Edward is left staring after her, a ridiculous grin of undiluted joy spread across his face. He will not touch this particular woman, he knows. It would be career suicide, personal suicide too, most probably. But it doesn’t matter. She may be a goddess, but making love with her isn’t the point. She was a sign. She triggered his reawakening. And, for this, he will only always be grateful.

  Ross hasn’t seen Ava for three days. She cancelled their Monday lunch. Then didn’t turn up to the Wednesday swing dance class. Something is most definitely up, but she isn’t answering his calls so he doesn’t yet know what. So, there’s only one thing to do, other than waiting patiently until she’s ready to tell him – something far too passive for Ross to ever contemplate – which is to track her down at the library.

  He’s on his way there when, for some reason he can’t quite explain, he’s drawn to take a short detour along a street he never usually walks down. When he discovers that it is, in fact, a dead end, Ross turns to go back. Which is when he spots the little blue door, the window crammed with papers, pens and all kinds of writing paraphernalia. He squints to read the little handwritten note in the corner of the window, inviting him to step inside and Learn the lost art of letter writing …

  Ross has never particularly wanted to write letters. He’s quite happy with phone calls, texts and emails. Frankly, he’s never given the topic a second thought. And so he can’t explain why, despite being headed to find Ava, he does exactly what the little handwritten note has instructed him to do, he turns the handle of the little blue door and steps inside.

  Clara looks up from one of Marthe’s letters. Fortunately, she’s not crying.

  ‘Hello,’ he says, looking around, still a little confused.

  ‘Hello.’ She tucks the letter away. ‘Welcome to Letters.’

  ‘Aye, thanks. I dunno why I’m here, though.’ He grins. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever written a letter before in me life.’

  Clara stands, managing a smile. ‘Well, then you’ve come to the right place.’

  ‘O, aye?’ He laughs. ‘Then I suppose I should buy some paper and a pen.’

  ‘What kind would you like?’

  Ross shrugs. ‘I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘We’ve got plenty to choose from.’

  ‘Why don’t you choose summit for me then, lassie?’ he says. ‘I bet you’ve got a better eye for these things than I.’

  Clara crosses the carpet, stopping in front of the rows of drawers, a few feet from Ross. He watches her as she opens and closes drawers, examining papers.

  ‘You know, lassie, you’re a lot stronger than you think.’

  Clara stops, mid drawer, and turns to him. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You think you can’t cope with things,’ Ross says. ‘But y’ can.’

  Clara frowns. ‘Do I—have we met?’

  ‘Naw, but I just know things, about people,’ Ross says. ‘Women usually, it’s a gift.’

  ‘Oh?’ Clara raises an eyebrow, rather amused despite herself. ‘I see.’

  ‘You’re pregnant,’ he says, matter-of-fact.

  Clara’s eyebrows drop. She stares at him in amazement.

  ‘But … What … I don’t—I’m not even … How the hell do you know that?’

  Ross gives a little shrug. ‘I told you, it’s my gift.’

  ‘Well, bloody hell.’ Clara gasps. ‘Clearly … it certainly bloody is.’

  ‘And I’m telling you, it’s only when y’ think you can’t cope that you can’t. Y’ can do anything life puts in front of you, if only you believe y’ can.’ He smiles. ‘Even motherhood.’

  Clara stares at him.

  ‘Although,’ Ross considers. ‘Don’t let that stop y’ asking for help. It takes strength to reach out to others. Don’t try to do it all alone, okay?’

  Clara nods.

  So does Ross. ‘Good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Now, back to me letter …’

  Clara returns to the moment and matter at hand. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ Refocusing on the drawer, she picks out a piece of paper and hands it to him. ‘Here you go.’

  Ross examines it: blue as a bird’s egg with a white lace trim.

  ‘Oh aye,’ he says with a grin. ‘She’ll love that.’ He still has no idea what he’ll write, though he expects it’ll come to him.

  ‘I’ll get you a pen,’ Clara says, and she does.

  She shows him to the little writ
ing desk and he sits. And, when he finally puts pen to paper, he finds that, yes, the words come to him easily, so easily in fact that he hardly knows what he writes.

  Thirty minutes later, still smiling, still bemused and still wondering quite what happened, Ross closes the door of the little shop behind him. Realising he’s now late for Ava’s lunch hour, he hurries along the little cobbled cul-de-sac, and back towards the main road. At the intersection, he pauses, turns his face up to the sunshine and steps out onto the street. The driver sees him too late and is speeding too fast to be able to stop. Ross is still looking skyward when he’s hit.

  ‘You’ve got to play for people, in public.’

  Finn shakes his head. ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘But why not?’

  It’s a conversation they’ve been having in circles for days now. Neither will budge. Until, finally, Greer lowers herself to using her one bargaining chip.

  ‘If you do it, I’ll do it.’

  Finn frowns. ‘You’ll go busking? How would you even hold the violin? And you don’t even know how to play, I don’t—’

  ‘No.’ Greer gives him a meaningful look. ‘I’ll do it – the thing you suggested before, when …’

  ‘Oh. Oh.’ Finn brightens visibly. ‘You sneaky little minx.’

  Greer grins. ‘I know. I’m very, very naughty. Especially since I want to do it too.’

  ‘You do?’

  She nods. ‘Yes, but, being unburdened by earthly desires, I can hold out a lot longer than you can. Infinitely longer, in fact.’

  Finn scowls.

  Greer waits.

  ‘All right, then,’ he huffs. ‘I’ll do it.’

  Greer claps, though, of course, her hands make no sound.

  ‘Excellent,’ she says. ‘Then so will I.’

  Finn laughs. ‘I’m going to have to watch out for you, aren’t I?’

  Greer nods. ‘Yep, I’ll resort to anything when I want my own way. Just ask Edward.’

  Finn smiles. ‘I think it’s a little early for that, don’t you?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Greer says. ‘We’ll see.’

  Edward is walking home, hurrying along the street in order to get there as soon as he possibly can. He found the train journey from London a little stressful. He’d forgotten what rush hour on the Underground was like, all those sweaty bodies pressed together, too many armpits exposed. Of course, he hadn’t been able to get a seat on the King’s Cross to Cambridge train so had stood all the way. But he doesn’t care, so long as he gets home to see his daughter before bedtime and, hopefully, Greer too.

  And then, much to Edward’s surprise, he sees her right there. He’s standing on the pavement, waiting at the crossroads to turn onto Mill Road, and he looks up to see her hovering on the roof of a three-storey Victorian house, looking down across the street. He follows her gaze and it rests on a busker standing outside a little shop, holding a violin under his chin, tweaking his bow. Strangely, he has no open case, no empty hat, no place for passers-by to drop coins. And then, all at once, Edward recognises his next-door neighbour. He’s suddenly hit with a rush of jealous hatred, stunned into immobility, just as he had been by lust only a few hours before. He clenches his fists and grits his teeth.

  And then, the musician begins to play. The music is so beautiful, so sorrowful and sweet that it brings tears to Edward’s eyes. He watches the musician, this other man his ghost wife loves, play. And, try as he might, as the music soaks into him, Edward can no longer conjure up any hatred, any loathing for this person, someone who can create something so entirely sublime. Instead, he listens and watches. Memories rise up, pain pulls at his heart, opening it wider and wider until joy begins to seep in. Tears slide down his cheeks as he stands at the crossroads. And, for the second time that day, Edward is suddenly overcome with gratitude.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Our dearest, darling Otto,

  I cannot quite believe I am writing this. I can’t believe I am writing at all. I should, surely, be out in the streets, dancing, shouting joy and victory from the rooftops. And yet, I have become so used to writing now, it is part of my speech, my expression, and so I feel I have to write this momentous moment down, to commemorate it, to be sure that it has really happened.

  Mr X was the one who told me. I’ve only seen him half a dozen times since coming here but, occasionally, he visits the cellar to tell me when something significant happens, something to give us hope that the end might be in sight. In the last few months, since the start of the year, he’s visited the most often of all. On January 27th, when Soviet troops liberated Auschwitz. On April 12th, when the Allies liberated the Buchenwald and Belsen camps. On April 30th, when the Führer committed suicide. And today, May 8th, to say that yesterday was the unconditional surrender of all German forces.

  Tomorrow I will leave this place. Tomorrow I will see daylight for the first time in nearly two years and Otto will see it for the first time in his life. Tomorrow I won’t have to whisper, I won’t have to shush and keep Otto silent any more. Tomorrow I will come to find you.

  Ever Yours,

  Marthe

  Ava receives the letter and the phone call on the same morning. The phone call to tell her that Ross has died and the letter he has written. The phone call comes first, so when the letter arrives it is laced with an extra layer of poignancy. The letter is a surprise, though the phone call is not, since Ava knew it was coming. She didn’t know exactly when, but she knew it would be soon.

  She had spent the past week debating with herself, every minute of every hour of every day, whether or not to tell him. Although, even then, even as she tore herself apart, Ava knew that the answer would always be ‘no’. She wouldn’t tell him. He’d said, once, that he wouldn’t want to know particulars of his death, nor the fact that it was imminent, and she would respect that. She understood. She wouldn’t want to know either, and so she understood.

  Now she sits in her hallway, leaning back against the front door, eyes closed, for the entire afternoon until, at last, she opens the letter. She decides it’s either now or at three o’clock in the morning and, Ava well knows, that even minor upsets feel significantly worse at three o’clock in the morning. She certainly doesn’t want to face a major one. For this letter, she’ll need the slight uplift of sunlight. She’ll need all the help she can get. And so, as the last of the evening light falls through the windows, Ava opens the letter.

  Dear Ava,

  Why am I writing to you? Probably because you won’t answer my calls. Joke. I jest. Don’t take offence. Have I said something typically rude, brash or annoying and now you’re punishing me for it? If so, please stop. I miss you. Anyway, I’m just on my way to track you down, nay, stalk you, so I’ll find out what’s up soon enough, I’ll wheedle it out of you. I have my ways of making people speak, my means, but I promise not to use any of my very worst instruments of torture on you. At least, not at first …

  But, before we get to the good stuff, I have to tell you this. I’ve been thinking a lot about what job you could do and I’ve hit on it! A counsellor or, more precisely, a grief counsellor. Aye, now, I know that sounds like the most bloody depressing job in the entire world. But think about it for a wee sec. You’d never – at least, not often – have to censor yourself, you’d be working with people who’d probably already experienced the worst event of their lives and you’d get to chat with them about that. Well, not ‘chat’ maybe, but you get my point. Anyway, the idea came to me in a lightning strike of inspiration, as all my best ideas do, so you should really pay heed to it. Promise?

  All right, now it’s time for me to scuttle off and stalk you,

  Tallyho & all that,

  Ross

  Of course, Ava should have realised that she wouldn’t have been able to sleep after reading the letter, anyway. She wouldn’t be able to think of anything else. She almost – but not quite – laughs at the irony of his suggestion, given her current situation. It’s the second great grief she’s s
uffered now, after her sister, so she’d certainly be experientially qualified for the vocation, if not yet practically. Though that’d only be a matter of learning and Ava has always loved learning. She only wishes that Ross had been able to tell her himself. And so she sits in her hallway, until long past three, until, at last, she falls asleep, still clutching the letter in her lap.

  Clara sits behind the counter in her little shop. Still she’s receiving a letter from Pieter every day and the pen drawer is nearly bursting with them. Still she hasn’t opened a single one. She is exhausted. Not just because she can hardly stop crying, though of course that doesn’t help, but the impact of pregnancy on her body is something she simply hadn’t imagined. The baby is still so tiny, but Clara is so tired all the time that she has to close the shop for a few hours at lunchtime and sleep on the floor or at her chair. It doesn’t matter where, she’s out like a light in less than a minute. Mercifully, she hasn’t actually thrown up yet, though nausea sweeps over her constantly, not simply in the morning.

  Unfortunately, the tiredness means that she hasn’t been taking her evening walks. Which is a shame, since she misses sitting at her writing desk and she misses writing the letters. It’s also a shame since she’s still curious to see the man who lives on Riverside Drive, the one with the daughter. Clara wants to double-check that her letters have taken effect, that he’s happier now. She also imagines that she might ask him for a little parenting advice, as she still hasn’t told or asked anyone anything about the baby, not even her mother.

  Her customers keep her fairly distracted and she’s now read every one of the seventy-eight letters she received while in Amsterdam. It was so touching to take delivery of all that love and appreciation that Clara hasn’t been able to look any of her customers in the eye for several days, for fear she might spontaneously hug them or, more likely, cry.