More Than Love Letters

by Rosy Thornton

  Oh, God – school today, and I haven’t given a thought to my lesson plan. I’m going to be dragging myself in wearing yesterday’s shirt and no knickers under my trousers because I don’t have a clean pair. Maybe I am the slut that half the parents believe I am after all!

  And you – still celibate? Must be getting on for a fortnight now . . . something of a record!

  Love and hugs,

  Margaret xx

  From: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Sent: 8/7/05 22:08

  To: Margaret Hayton [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Hi Margaret,

  Blimey! I needed a cold shower after just reading your e-mail – I don’t know how you managed to be so restrained. As for him . . . you should have picked a Tory MP. They have any vestiges of conscience surgically removed by the Party chairman when they accept the candidacy.

  And yes, my nunnish lifestyle here continues unstained. Men are right off my menu.

  But it is just horrible about your friend Helen.

  Big hugs,

  Becs xx

  From: Margaret Hayton [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Sent: 11/7/05 21:43

  To: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Dear Becs,

  Well, life goes on . . . in the shape of the St Edith’s sports day this afternoon. We have separate events for boys and girls, to mask differences which are, I suspect, due not so much to their pre-pubertal musculature as to socialisation. In the practice sessions, the girls always win the skipping, with even the tubbiest and most knock-kneed rotating the rope in smooth synchronism to their stride, while the boys (those that do not end in a tangled heap) either lollop along awkwardly or else simply sprint, half-halting to put in a token turn of the rope every few metres. All, that is, except David Phillips in Year 4, the sole brother among four sisters, and a veritable wizard with the rope. At running, the boys excel almost uniformly, but I wonder whether this is also more down to nurture than nature. They just spend a higher percentage of their lives careering at full tilt – and a correspondingly lower percentage talking to one another.

  Also, if you ask me, the peculiar Britishness of all those skipping ropes and hoops and bean bags and eggs-and-spoons is not preserved out of any respect for quaint tradition. Nor is it merely, in these egalitarian days, intended to introduce a random element in order to disguise the innately competitive ethos of the whole event, sparing the blushes of the wheezy, the overweight and the uncoordinated. I’m sure I’m not allowed to say this, but my observations suggest that it is primarily to stop the black children from winning everything, and to leave the weedy white and Asian kids in with a fighting chance.

  The biggest excitement of the afternoon came when the hot favourite for the infant girls’ egg-and-spoon race (a leggy, high-stepping Year 2 with a flowing pale chestnut mane) was dramatically brought down by toddler with a pushalong tractor, straying out from the crowd at the rails in a manner reminiscent of Emily Davison at Epsom in 1913. Sniffling and lame, she subsequently pulled out of the sack race without coming under starter’s orders, causing major readjustments in the trackside prices, and confounding those who had laid large sums upon her ante post.

  Richard has gone back to London and out of the way of temptation (i.e. me), but he has promised to come back for Helen’s funeral.

  Love,

  Margaret x

  From: Richard Slater [rpslater@hc.parliament.uk]

  Sent: 12/7/05 10:55

  To: Michael Carragan [mmcarragan@hc.parliament.uk]

  Mike,

  Thanks for the drink and the listening ear last night, and sorry if I was bleating on even more than usual. The weekend with Margaret was wonderful, but seventy-two solid hours of keeping my hands off her did take quite a toll. And then back to the office again on Monday, where you could still ignite the air of disapproval with a match, it’s so volatile. A month into my new post, and the holy grail I’ve been pursuing all these years is yielding a pretty bitter draught so far. I’m still at the stage of needing to be briefed from page one on everything, so that I already feel like a schoolboy receiving remedial tuition in the lunch-hours, and now I also have to face silent, unswerving hostility from all the staff (especially the female ones). One of the junior assistants looked at me with such distaste just now that I had to stop myself from ducking into the gents to check that I don’t have ‘Abductor of Young Women’ branded across my forehead. Can’t exactly see myself having the loyal backing of my team here if I come under pressure to resign again, or if there are soundings from On High about how I’m shaping up. Half of them clearly see me as an extremely temporary hindrance to getting on with their jobs.

  This morning the team from the 2012 London Olympic bid did leave behind some good merchandise. I’ve got a nifty desk jotter featuring a different British gold medallist on every page (OK, yes, it’s quite a slim jotter). But even this seems to have lost some of its former glitter for me at the moment.

  I may be in need of a second dose of beer and sympathy tonight – do you think you can stand it?

  Richard.

  Richard Slater (Labour)

  Member of Parliament for Ipswich

  From: Michael Carragan

  [mmcarragan@hc.parliament.uk]

  Sent: 12/7/05 11:17

  To: Richard Slater [rpslater@hc.parliament.uk]

  ‘Bleating’ doesn’t really do justice to it. Sheep are far too mellow an image for the state you were in. More like an over-agitated spider monkey on the way to its first ulcer. You knocked over two perfectly good pints. What’s the matter with you? You’ve got the job (for the moment, at least), you’ve got the girl . . . What you need, in my opinion, is to get laid, mate, and soon.

  Meanwhile, the whisper on the Corridor of Power (which, OK, I pass through occasionally on the way to the water cooler from my own humble boxroom) is that you are under surveillance. The Stasi from the Private Office are watching your every move – so you’d better come up with some pretty smart ones, if you want to convince them to keep you in post much beyond the start of the next session. It’s not just about your performance at CM&S – it’s the all-round Slater brand that’s under scrutiny. Every constituency issue that arises, you need to pedal the Party line, and pedal it visibly and with conviction. Show them that you can handle the press: seize the whip hand, after being the tabloids’ whipping boy.

  And yes, I’ll stand you another round or two of liquid solace tonight – just so long as you promise not to mention Margaret’s breasts.

  Michael.

  Michael Carragan (Labour)

  Member of Parliament for West Bromwich West

  WITCH

  Women of Ipswich Together Combating Homelessness

  Extract from minutes of meeting at Alison’s house, 14 July 2005, 8 p.m.

  Witch House: current occupancy

  Room 1: Carole

  Room 2: Lauren

  Room 3: [held for Nasreen]

  Room 4: Joyce

  Room 5: [void]

  Referrals for Helen’s old room (room 5) were considered.

  The possibilities were (i) Rosemary, aged 56, who has recently had to give up a long-term live-in job as housekeeper at a private nursing home, due to worsening arthritis (she is currently awaiting a hip operation); and (ii) Rrezja, a 19-year-old Kosovo Albanian whom Margaret met in London. There was some discussion about the problems of housing someone from out of area, but Margaret pointed out that the borough council funding does not give them any referral rights, and there is no actual obligation to accommodate only local women. It might be very beneficial, moreover, to get Rrezja away from London. There are potential problems about Rrezja’s immigration status (at present she is an illegal over-stayer) but it may be possible to resolve this situation once she is in Witch House. In the end it was agreed, regretfully, that the time has come to stop holding Nasreen’s room for her. Therefore Rosemary would be offered room 3 (it being on the ground floor), and Rrezja would
be offered room 5.

  Any other business

  Helen’s mother phoned Witch House on Monday and asked Pat T. and Emily to pack up Helen’s things, and to bring them over to her house. She did not wish to come to the hostel herself to collect them. The family have arranged Helen’s funeral for 11 a.m. tomorrow (Friday), at the crematorium.

  42 Gledhill Street

  Ipswich

  15 July 2005

  My darling Pete

  I’m on my own tonight, writing this in Aunt Alice’s armchair, and Snuffy is on my knee which is why the handwriting is a bit bumpy. It’s been a dreadful couple of weeks. Nasreen is still missing, and then there was this nasty story in the papers about poor Margaret and Richard (Mr Slater, you know). They had photos of them together having a hug, and they were making out that Margaret was a prostitute, and poor Richard nearly had to give up his job – well, not his seat in Parliament, I don’t mean, just his new job in the government – but he managed to persuade the Prime Minister to let him stay. Only they aren’t allowed to tell everyone the truth; Richard has just had to ignore all the lies that have been printed. And then last week we had the real bombshell. Helen – the young girl from the hostel whose father abused her, you remember, and she has been so depressed – well, she killed herself while she was in hospital.

  It was the funeral today. Of course, the family organised it, even though she hardly saw them any more, but we all went along. The other residents from the hostel were there, and the staff and all the support group. Richard drove Margaret and me there in his car. He’d just got it back from the garage, having the speedo fixed or something. It was the first time I had been back to the crem since . . . well, you know, so it felt a bit peculiar, but everyone was so upset anyway about Helen that I don’t think anyone noticed. Apart from all of us, there were just Helen’s parents there, and an elderly couple and another older lady who looked like the grandparents, but very few friends – just two girls of about Helen’s age that I didn’t recognise from the hostel. It was the usual sort of thing. They played that song ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’ at the beginning when we were walking in, and that set me off crying, and Margaret was sniffing, too. I noticed Richard take hold of her hand, and she held mine with her other one. The vicar lady made a little speech. I don’t suppose she knew much about Helen or who she was – it was just a fairly general thing about what a sad event it was, and Helen being with God now, and at peace. But it did strike a chord of sorts – I thought how little peace the poor thing had had in her short life, and how her being at rest was maybe something we could be thankful for.

  And then the father stood up and read out this poem. I really don’t know how he can have had the gall. This is the man who messed about with Helen from when she was a little girl of eight, the man who is the reason for all that misery – misery so unbearable that in the end she couldn’t stand it any more and took her own life. As he began to read, I could feel Margaret stiffen beside me. Her fingers in mine went all rigid – they actually seemed to get suddenly colder, if that’s possible. They’d printed the poem that he read on the Order of Service, so I can tell you exactly how it went: You were my foundation in all things.

  Your arms first encircled me, circumference of my world;

  your hand guided my infant steps

  and held me up from falling.

  You were my moon, the rudder of my tides;

  my sun, warming me along my way;

  my stars, guiding my path in darkness;

  my harbour, you held me safe against the wind’s rage;

  my rock, my earth – my growing was rooted in your love.

  Now that I have passed into another realm

  and have no need for anchorage

  do not mourn my going.

  I shall still shimmer in your moonlight,

  dance in your sunshine, walk tall under your stars

  and whisper through the growing grass

  that I love you still.

  ‘Held her safe’, indeed! I don’t think I have ever seen Margaret angrier. She was even whiter than usual, her face looked sort of tense and pinched, and she didn’t speak at all until we got home. There was another reading, too, from one of the grandmothers, and it was also completely inappropriate. It was about dying young, but it was all sickly sweet, about how Helen had walked only in the golden morning and never known the shadows, when of course her life was almost nothing but shadow, poor thing.

  Persephone came back to our house, and two other women called Alison and Ding (I think I heard that right), only Ding couldn’t stay more than half an hour because she had to get back to check on her mother. Apparently she can’t be left too long on her own – last week Ding went shopping and came back to find her mother halfway up the street in her nightie. Richard produced a bottle of whisky and we all had a tot, and Alison asked me whether I might plant up a little patch in the garden of Witch House in Helen’s memory. Margaret said maybe we could get a tree, and Richard started to say that there isn’t space and its roots would get into the foundations, but then stopped and just said maybe a fruit tree on the fence. I said we could espalier it, but then I felt embarrassed because I’ve never been quite sure how to say that word, I’ve just read it in my gardening book, but it was OK because Margaret smiled and gave me a hug. Persephone said a peach would be nice, because when the blossom comes you can use the petals in healing, and she and I went to Margaret’s room to look it up. You would tease me about this I know, Pete, but Margaret has been teaching me to use the internet, and there are some really good websites about herbs and herbalism. It’s silly that I’ve never tried it before, the internet I mean. I use the computer all the time at work, but only the bank’s internal system, I’ve never been in chat rooms or done internet shopping or anything, like Sarah does. I might even do a beginner’s computer course. We were talking about it, and Alison said they do some good courses over the summer at Suffolk College.

  Well, I’d better stop now. Isn’t it odd, I have just realised what a long time it is since I last wrote to you, Petey. I can’t even remember, but it must be more than a month. But that is a good thing, isn’t it? I hope that you think so too.

  With all my love, sweetheart,

  Cora xxx

  From: Margaret Hayton

  [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Sent: 16/7/05 08:25

  To: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Dear Becs,

  Yesterday was Helen’s funeral, up at the crematorium. Richard came up from London, which meant a lot to me – just him being there with me when I was saying goodbye to Helen. I still can’t believe it, really. All that she was – all her pain, all her courage in breaking away from that cloying hell of abuse and smug denial – all reduced to a powdery nothing. Just a puff of smoke drifting over those over-trimmed lawns, and the clumps of clinically optimistic French marigolds.

  Everyone from WITCH was there, and Cora came along too, which was nice, because actually I realised she had never met Helen, because whenever Cora was at the hostel doing the garden it was the weekend and Helen was in hospital. But of course she had heard all about her from me, and she said she felt as if she knew her. Probably a sign that I do go on a bit too much sometimes – though Cora is so sweet, she would never say so.

  It felt odd to be outsiders at the funeral, there as guests of the family, whom most of us have never met. It made me angry to think of them taking over Helen’s life again, right at the end – claiming her back somehow. It’s hard to explain. And carrying on with that blind charade of theirs, pretending to be a normal family, suffering a normal bereavement. There was no mention of suicide, or of Helen’s overwhelming pain – even the vicar just made a brief euphemistic allusion to her ‘illness’ as if she had died of cancer or something – let alone the whole big unmentionable subject of what had caused it all. I kept looking at Helen’s father, and he looked so ordinary, Becs – like someone whose newspaper you might borrow if you were sitting nex
t to him on a train. And then he read out this poem. I hardly know how to tell you. It was meant to be Helen’s voice, saying how much she had loved him, and how he had been her harbour and kept her safe – when really the storm that battered her was him. And he didn’t read it in a falsely syrupy voice or anything, he just sounded like a dad really, choked up but brave, like any father would sound if he’d lost his little girl.

  I couldn’t wait to get away. We had a stiff drink back at Cora’s, a bottle of single malt that Richard had brought, and Alison, Ding and Persephone came too. I asked Alison how her family are, and she said the middle one, Edward, has been a bit better recently, not so many angry outbursts. She didn’t mention what’s-his-name, Derek, but the clear unspoken message was ‘no regrets’. I love all those women dearly, but I must admit I was relieved when Richard suggested we go back to his flat, because I wanted to be on our own. Not for the reason you think, although I must admit the idea did suggest itself to me quite strongly later, after we’d had something to eat and were cuddled up on the sofa. He kissed me then, but ever so gently, as if I were something fragile that might shatter into pieces if he applied any pressure, and when I tried being a little more . . . direct (shall we say), he went all noble on me again, talking about the strain of the funeral and me still being emotionally vulnerable. So it was another night in bed together but not together, and now I’m watching the cargo ships from his desk again, while he sleeps the sleep of the too damned virtuous.