Serendipity Foundation_292
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The first regrets were registered on Tuesday evening, and by eleven the Foundation realised the swell of entries had surpassed their ability to read them. As they awoke on Wednesday, the website’s counter read 61,000. They spent their day dipping in randomly; a montage of a nation’s melancholy, each entry a piece in a mosaic of unfulfilled dreams.
By Wednesday evening over a million had added their regret. 24 hours later this figure was up to 4 million. By Saturday, the website’s seven-digit counter stopped at 9,999,999.
It was described as the most collaborative public art piece in history. It was undoubtedly the largest piece ever commissioned by terrorists.
In later years it would be painstakingly reorganised into areas of regret: travel, family, friends, love, time and career. But for now, it read as an infinite scroll:
I regret not asking more questions of how my grandparents fell in love
I regret never having taken up an outdoor activity
I regret not telling the people I love how special they are more often
I regret not having the confidence to strike up conversations with strangers
I regret not buying spontaneous presents
I regret not looking after my parents in their old age in the way that I would like to be looked after by my children when I get old
I regret never opening the four language packs I bought
I regret nothing
I regret using emails and text messages as a substitute for phone calls when congratulating my friends
I regret not saying thank you to my mum before she died
I regret hiding behind the idea of being tired as an excuse for not maximising my weekends
I regret, in 1964, never asking Sarah Brannell to marry me
I regret having let my dad convince me to study to become an engineer
I regret staying with my ex-husband ten years longer than I should have
I regret not remaining close to the people who knew me when I was young
I regret not taking advantage of my body when it was healthy
I regret not taking greater interest in things I didn’t know
I regret not changing my career before I had children and got a mortgage
I regret holding people to standards higher than those I hold myself to
‘Who are they all confessing to?’ said Miller on Saturday afternoon. ‘No one’s going to read it.’
‘People feel the need to leave their mark regardless of whether they’re being read or not,’ said Liam. ‘Look at all the blogs and tweets forced upon the world for no other reason than to shout “I’m here” into the digital void.’
The men nodded, but noticed Jalila lightly shaking her head. They focused with Aiya in trying to read her thoughts.
‘We’ve always been storytellers,’ translated Aiya. ‘Stories of our hopes, self-justifications, ways of comparing our exper-iences with those of others. But it’s declining.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I thought she said as well,’ said Jordie.
‘You’re telling me that Twitter exists because no one tells stories any more,’ said Richard. They stared back at Jalila.
‘More that no one’s got the patience to listen,’ said Aiya. ‘So we’ve lost the patience to bother explaining. All the regrets are people wishing they’d formed better relationships with people or the planet, and the majority were caused by poor communication.’
Jordie shuffled. In the last decade, before arriving in Cairo, the only conversations he’d had about his own emotions were under the guise of complaining about work to his colleagues.
‘It seems what we’re talking about, gentlemen,’ said Aiya, ‘is extending the spirit of a week’s kidnap in this basement. A bit of violently enforced peace can go a long way.’
On Monday afternoon the following statement was released.
Dear Britain,
We were heartened by your overwhelming response to the Museum of Regret. We thought the demand should build on this.
All day long the hostages talk about their pasts: the happy memories, the amends they would make. They have the time to talk and the patience to listen. What better way to save their lives than for you to do the same?
This week we ask you to write three handwritten letters, and post them through the Royal Mail. The first letter must be posted by Wednesday, the second by Saturday, and the third by next Monday.
The first letter you write must be a thank you letter. It can be to anyone about anything. We would encourage you to think hard about events you may have overlooked.
The Royal Mail must publish the figures of how many letters are posted each day so we can compare them against the average post.
Yours in service,
The Serendipity Foundation
Royal Mail released the figures for post collected on Monday evening. The demand had huge potential benefits for their ailing business.
‘The lost art of letter writing’ became a stock phrase over the next two days. Most people didn’t really believe it was a lost art, but a redundant medium. Sure, everyone enjoyed receiving a handwritten letter; but there was a feeling the terrorists had become overly sentimental.
It is hard to say when this opinion started changing. Maybe when people began to select their recipient. They had been asked to consider what they might have overlooked, and so people delved into their pasts: the sacrifices that had been made for them, the sense of entitlement that had blinded them to the support from others, the taking for granted of love and friendship.
Or maybe opinions changed as they sat down to write. The words they effortlessly typed on phones and computers no longer stood up to the scrutiny of a communiqué that demanded its author imagine its reader sitting across the table. They had to leave a part of themselves on the paper. Their only hope would be to create a sanctuary free from modern distractions.
How strange the pens felt between their fingers. The smudges, the changing style as tentative fingers remembered old habits, the crossing out of letters as the writer sought to perfect the presentation of their thoughts, the patience bred from a desire to do justice to a belated thanksgiving.
The difficulty in finding addresses reflected how intangible location had become.
The taste of stamps and envelopes, the smell of ink on hands, the rubbing of middle fingers against the pen’s grip, the sound of the folded page. The subtle arousal of the writers’ senses gave a unique attachment to their creation.
As they posted the letter they might have felt a sense of excitement imagining how the letter would be received, a pride that the recipient would know how much time had been spent thinking about them.
On Wednesday morning a Michael Rayburn, residing at 10 Downing Street, received a letter. This was rare: his staff rarely deemed deliveries worthy of his time. He traced the black ink of his name with his finger, looking at the postmark for clues as to the sender. He didn’t recognise the handwriting; only his wife and children had that honour. The envelope had been opened by his secretaries, but sealed back up, as a sign of respect for its contents. He pulled out a single sheet, filled on both sides with voluptuous letters and extravagant tails on the ‘g’s.
Dear Michael,
Even under such circumstances it feels strange writing your name and remembering how you were all those years ago. Like many others before and after you, you gave me such hope. Is that not why I chose this path? The faith that your life can be judged by the value you add to the young, who in turn will help better the world after you have gone.
My wife died years ago, I am retired and spend my days in a house that is too big, surrounded by belongings that reflect my misplaced optimism. Sometimes I hear of my old students, and how they have disgraced themselves, or lost themselves to families, depression, or paperwork. I see no traces of my life’s dedication influencing a better future. It strikes me now how incredibly foolish my goal was.
So I want to say thank you. I doubt you remember much of what I taught you.
But I hold on to the hope that my guidance, no matter how far removed, had some distant bearing on the way you have led the country over the last few weeks. You have vindicated the life of an old man.
Your old Politics professor,
Mark Constance
In Edinburgh, eighty-five-year-old Edith McNally received a letter from her ex-husband of 60 years. Because of their acrimonious divorce, he had never had the opportunity to thank her for putting his future ahead of hers.
Café waitress Chloe Armitage received a letter from a customer, seventy-eight-year-old June Malford, thanking her for remembering her name and talking to her. June’s trip for afternoon tea was the only time she left the solitude of her flat.
Thousands of parents received letters from their children.
Thousands of children received letters from their parents.
Mark Constance, a retired politics professor, received a letter from one of his former pupils, Michael Rayburn, thanking him for instilling in him a sense of morality that transcended the political spectrum.
‘What an unexpected surprise,’ said Michael.
Rawlins instinctively straightened his back and brought his feet together whenever he entered a room in preparation to salute if the audience warranted it. In this case, it did not; he held his pose for a few seconds, as if at the end of a catwalk, before taking a seat.
‘And what can I do you for?’ asked Michael once Rawlins had arranged his jacket and medals.
‘This feels wrong.’
‘This?’
‘The nature of the ransoms.’
‘I delivered PM’s Questions in haiku a month ago. Pleased you’ve caught up.’
Rawlins fought his instinct to retaliate. ‘We’re now writing each other thank you letters.’
‘And what?’ said Michael. ‘Would you be more comfortable with an old-fashioned demand to release or destroy something?’
‘It’s not about what I feel comfortable with.’
‘I think it has everything to do with what you’re comfortable with.’
Rawlins was concentrating so hard on what he wanted to say that Michael’s wordplay passed over his head. He pressed his fingers to his temples.
‘Prime Minister. Terrorism can largely be placed in two categories. The first is fuelled by perceived injustice and inequality; the demands are their dream of what a better world looks like. At the moment these demands are hardly a cohesive vision for crushing the new world order.’
‘So what would you ask for?’ Michael sat back, crossed his legs and raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, if I was them, I’d . . . well . . . hmm.’ Rawlins had spent most of his time criticising what others were asking for. ‘I’d probably want to break the shackles of a foreign power.’
Michael smiled. ‘Death to America! That sort of thing?’
Rawlins nodded lightly; he accepted he had gone too big too early. ‘OK then . . . the cancellation of national debt.’
‘And who exactly is going to forgive billions of dollars for four lives?’
Rawlins spent a lot of time weighing the cost of a life against national security, but had little idea of the hard cash equivalent. Judging by a report he had recently read on human trafficking, he felt confident it was not billions. He coughed to signal a change of tack.
‘The second category of terrorism is simple, it’s about making money. Let me repeat: these demands don’t fit together. It’s as if they were made up by four different people.’
Michael leaned back and smiled. ‘Maybe you’re presuming a vision of a better world has to be about ends rather than means.’
But Rawlins had stopped paying attention. His last comment had taken his thoughts somewhere quite unexpected.
It’s as if they were made up by four different people.
Figures by the Royal Mail on Wednesday night indicated over 17 million extra letters had been posted in the last three days, although not all had been delivered due to the extra workload placed on the postal system. The kidnappers put back the deadlines by a day to ease the pressure on Royal Mail employees.
Included within the 17 million were responses to thank you letters, as old friendships became rekindled. It was hard to decide which one person was most deserving of a thank you; many people must have sent multiple letters. Maybe 17 million people sent one letter. Maybe one million sent 17.
On Thursday evening a statement was released.
Dear Britain,
Your next letter should be an apology. What sorry did you overlook?
Lots of love,
The Foundation
‘Ex-lover you wronged or boy at school you bullied?’ said Charlie as he entered the office to find Michael pen in hand.
Panic rose from Michael’s stomach. He hadn’t considered the bullying angle. ‘I discounted the wronged ex-lover approach. The two I behaved badly towards look younger and happier than me. I was a slippery stepping stone on the path to their future happiness.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘Yeah, I wish I’d ruined their future just a little bit.’
‘Indeed, my selfless leader. So who are you apologising to?’ Charlie walked behind Michael, who quickly covered the letter with his hand.
‘All right. I was just coming to see if you wanted to publicise what you’re thankful and sorry for. I presume you’re not interested, then?’
‘Well, you know, not sure I want the wife finding out, do I?’ said Michael with a grin, moving his eyebrows up and down. Which, in many ways, he didn’t. Michael had composed two letters. The first one was to his sister, to whom he was apologising for having hidden behind work to avoid taking care of his dad during his final course of chemotherapy. The second letter was to a young lady by the name of Lucy Smalling, to whom he was apologising for not having yet sent the demand he had promised her, which he now belatedly enclosed.
Sometimes apologies are not made in time. In graveyards throughout Britain, envelopes lay on graves in zip lock bags. Some people wrote an apology letter to themselves; presumably they recognised the handwriting.
By Monday, the extra post in the system since Thursday had topped 25 million.
By Tuesday there was still no word from the kidnappers. An additional 4 million letters were posted before the kidnappers eventually released their next statement on Wednesday even-ing.
Dear Britain,
In the third letter you send you must tell a story. It can be fact or fiction, tragedy or comedy, history or fable, paragraph or novella. Our only request is that within its lines, you express something you believe to be true.
By tomorrow morning everyone who registered for the Museum of Regret will receive an email containing the home address of another contributor of regret, where you should send your story. For all the unregistered: flick through an address book, pick a page, close your eyes and select. Alternatively, use an online address book, guess a postcode, and let serendipity take its course. You have until Saturday.
The Foundation
Across the country, people awoke to receive the address of their private audience. Apologies were one thing, but parading your imagination to a stranger was a step too far. Many had not told a story for years.
Of course, not everybody struggled to tell a story. Many had just struggled to find an audience.
Something you know to be true.
In a short story, a ninety-year-old couple both died peacefully within a week of each other.
A riddle was sent that appeared to make no sense at all, presumably as a statement that there is no truth.
A science fiction novella detailed the apocalyptic battle between the Wherearetheys, a race who appeared to be no-where, and the Theyareheres, a race who appeared to be everywhere.
A fictional story of the rise and fall of a vaudevillian singer in 1920s Louisiana spoke of the fleeting nature of success and time.
Thousands of original fairy tales were sent, with countless castles, princesses, evil stepmothers and physic
ally (yet humorously) deformed humans.
Countless myths outlined the debatable truth of there being a good and an evil.
People took the opportunity to recount stories of their lives: of their parents, of their memories of youth, of their siblings, of meeting their partners, of their first home, holidays, children, illnesses and retirement.
Role-plays, sonnets and haikus were test-driven, violated and folded inside envelopes.
But most of all, people wrote about love: celebrating it, lamenting it, questioning and vilifying it, immortalising and memorialising it, pledging allegiance and renouncing it, swimming and drowning in it, making myth or science of it; people wrote about love.
Heather Bassett awoke on Saturday to find a letter on the doormat of her waterfront cottage in Salcombe. She had been expecting a correspondence, but as she picked up the envelope she noticed a stamp on the back that read ‘Number 10 Downing Street’. Her mind flooded with possible explanations and she sat down excitedly with a cup of tea before opening it.
The Parable of Small Beginnings
There once were two men called Ted and Tom. They lived on opposite sides of a village and owned the belt of land that surrounded it. Imagine a Polo mint with a village in the middle. Each man owned an exact half of the mint. They were the richest, most important men in town.
Unfortunately, Ted and Tom disagreed about everything. The first quarrel was over where the boundary lay between their lands. They argued without resolution, and returned home bitter and righteous.
The conflict soon spiralled out of control. Ted liked white bread, so Tom liked brown. Marmalade or strawberry jam, lager or ale, latte or cappuccino: they were divided on everything. Their personal feud started to affect the locals: Tom sacked anyone he saw drinking a coffee with equal proportions of hot milk to foam.
Eventually, an elder visited them both and told them the village was going into exile. They could no longer tolerate being pawns in Ted and Tom’s personal battles. The two of them were shocked by the threat and pleaded with the elder to mediate a solution over dinner.