Don’t you think it would be sad if nobody ever wrote each other love letters any more? I was just sitting here, thinking about all those letters which were written from the trenches to wives and sweethearts. About loyal, hareshotten Prue Sarn, pouring into the letters she wrote to Jancis for Gideon all her tenderness for Kester Woodseaves, the weaver. And about Héloïse writing to her Abelard, and dear Captain Wentworth dropping his pen in his flurry to scribble to Anne Elliot the words of agony and hope that he dared not voice. I would love it if you would write to me next time we are apart, Richard. It is partly about having the letter to go over again (like Gran always says, you can’t re-read a phone call). But it isn’t just that, because you can save an e-mail and open it up again whenever you want, or even print it out and keep it. It’s also the idea of having the paper that you touched, that you looked at while you thought of the words – and then the writing itself, telling me how you were feeling by whether the words are flowing along smoothly, or scrawled in a great rush, or uneven and halting.
I’ve e-mailed it to you once, and I’ve whispered it against your chest, but you’ve never seen it in my handwriting before: I love you.
Margaret x
From: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Sent: 11/9/05 23:55
To: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Dear Becs,
What’s new? Still alphabetically back-sliding into another dalliance with Declan?
Scenes of carnage here on Saturday morning. Snuffy has recently developed an inconvenient habit, never previously displayed, of intercepting the post. A set of model dinosaurs arrived, which I had ordered for use in some work on prehistory later in the term, and Snuffy was through the parcel tape and bubble wrap before Cora heard the joyful snarling and interrupted her. I think she smelt the seductive new plastic aroma, and mistook the contents of the package for new chew toys. By the time I came upon the scene Stegosaurus and Velociraptor had been buried under the forsythia, Pteranodon was in a condition making it well-nigh impossible that it would ever have heralded the evolution of birdkind by leaving the earth in flight, while Triceratops had suffered considerable ravages, and will now have to be passed off as its little known and lopsided cousin, Uniceratops (which probably died out long before the onset of cataclysmic climate change, due to its peculiar vulnerability to any predator approaching from the right). Even the mighty Tyrannosaurus Rex is a shadow of its former self, with its neck now bent into a submissive position somewhere around its knees, its head hanging low in slack-jawed servitude.
Richard arrived back from Minsk this evening. His suitcase was crammed with mysterious objects wrapped in newspaper, including a thickset cast-iron ballerina with a body builder’s muscles under her tights, and what looked like a ceramic sugar-beet, very similar to the one he used to have on his desk at work. It’s funny, though, he seemed a little ashamed of it all, and he says he’s going to take the lot to the Oxfam shop (but in London, not the Ipswich one). I went over to his flat and cooked him my very best River Café ribollita. I even peeled the outside skin off the broad beans, you know, the papery bit – an occupation which I would normally rank, as a constructive use of time, somewhere alongside picking oakum or darning laddered tights. Oh, Becs, I know it’s quite shockingly drippy of me, but it is wonderful to have him back!
Love,
Margaret xx
From: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Sent: 12/9/05 08:05
To: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
You should be grateful that he has apparently been converted to your own herbivorous persuasion. (T Rex, that is, not Richard.)
Hugs,
Becs xxx
42 Gledhill Street
Ipswich
14 September 2005
Dear Gran,
The enclosed parcel is just a few more books for you to borrow, plus another pot of Cora’s herbal ointment for your ankle. She says that even if the stroke has taken some of the feeling away, you still need to keep on treating the sprain. I told her that the inflammation was pretty much gone by now, but she said to tell you that her stuff also works for any general rheumatic pain, and even headaches, if you rub it on your temples. If you are prepared to put the stuff that near to your eyes, you are a braver woman than I am, Gran!
How have you been, anyway, since I saw you on Saturday? You seemed so much brighter, and it was great to see you getting to the bathroom now, on the frame. I’m determined we’ll have you back home in The Hollies before I come at half term.
Things have been busy at the hostel this week, with the two new residents I told you about. Emily and I have been helping Rosemary to sort out her disability benefit – we both went on a course about it in the spring, which helped. And Rrezja, the Kosovo Albanian girl from London, has made her formal application for leave to remain in Britain. My lawyer friend, Caroline, came up on Monday evening to help with it. Richard and I took Caro for a drink afterwards to say thank you, before she caught the last train back to London. Rrezja is already as thick as thieves with Lauren. Pat T. and Emily have had to read them the Riot Act a couple of times about boyfriends hanging about outside, but Della is brilliant at going out and getting rid of any rowdy or unwanted ones.
Oh, and about Richard and me . . . You were too polite to enquire on Saturday, and I was too embarrassed to say anything. But to quote Lizzy Bennet back to your Aunt Gardiner, you may now suppose as much as you choose. Give a loose to your fancy – unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err.
Lots of love,
Margaret xx
Flat 6
14 Charterhouse Square
London EC1 9BL
20 September 2005
Dear Margaret,
You are right, of course, about love letters. Not only am I a bloke, but a middle-class white bloke from the southern half of England into the bargain, and as such there are things that if we live to be an old married couple of eighty I could never say to you face to face. (Though of course you would only be sixty-three, and still full of queenly beauty.) So I shall write them down instead, and you can read them tomorrow at Cora’s (if the first class post can be relied upon), and you’ll have to laugh off, as best you can over the breakfast table, the possessiveness of a madman who writes to you when he’s just sleeping back in London for two nights in an attempt to get some much-neglected work done.
Such as how much I miss the taste of your mouth, which eleven weeks ago had never touched mine, and which only five weeks ago I thought I might never kiss, or see, again. That the shifting colour of your eyes, so difficult to describe or discern, has always enthralled me, and does so all the more now, when gazed at from too close for focus. How, when I first slipped open the buttons of your rosebud dress, my fingertips could not believe the impossible pale softness of your skin. And that you were – you are – literally the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. How the delicate fragility of the secret places of your body is all of a piece with you, with who you are, your tender-heartedness, your precious untainted zeal. And how when we are lying together, with your body gloving mine, the little sounds you make, of pleasure and need, are not only the most erotic, but also the most deeply moving thing I have ever experienced, concussing me with an overwhelming heady sweetness I did not know existed.
And above all how much I love you, my Margaret.
Richard x
From: Richard Slater
[[email protected]]
Sent: 20/9/05 22:48
To: Michael Carragan [[email protected]]
Michael, hi, and terribly sorry for the long air silence, not to mention the unforgivable failure to join you on the crowded pavement outside the Grapevine for a few long cool ones to toast the lingering autumn haze of the tail end of the parliamentary recess.
But life is sweet. Last Thursday I was called into the Inner Sanctum, shaking with trepidation as to what delphic pronouncement wou
ld be uttered by The Oracle. Against all the odds, the Rottweiler told me (in a short breather between phone calls) that I ‘feature in his plans’ – words which were dulcet music to my ears. Upon hearing them, I would willingly have offered to have his babies. Though (probably wisely) I did not.
That apart, events seem to have conspired, somehow, to keep me away from London more than is good for me, visible-presence-in-the-office-wise. What events would these be, you ask? Well, the return leg of the Ipswich-Minsk sugar factory twinning for one thing. I managed to wangle a departmental jaunt beneath which to cloak it. A visit to mark the official merger of the State Ballet of Belarus with its long-standing rival, the Belarus State Ballet. The history and repertoire of neither illustrious corps (nor indeed of any other ballet company) exactly forms a central part of my mental furniture. In fact, I’m not at all sure I could spot a pas de chat if it waltzed in through the cat flap. Hence, although the impediment of translation may have masked my ineptitude to some extent from our hosts, the trip provided limitless opportunities for me to look inadequate in front of my staff.
And for another thing – well, to be honest, Mike, Margaret. Putting in the shade even the splendours of the rolling beetfields of Belarus, and reducing me (even more in the fruition than in the heated imagination) to a state of love-crazed incapacity. And no, not that kind of incapacity, in case you were wondering; in fact in that arena I seem to have rediscovered hidden reserves of youthful stamina. Frankly, it has proved quite tough to tear myself away from her. So, all in all, when I have been here in London I have had my head buried eyebrow deep in CM&S briefings, like a guilt-ridden student behind schedule with his exam revisions – in the vain hope of sounding as though I know what I’m talking about when my staff occasionally allow me to open my mouth in public. I actually don’t care, though. Let them think what they wish – nothing can touch me. I feature in Tim’s plans – and seemingly, for the moment, in Margaret’s too. I stand impervious to their scorn.
Does the Home Office keep your shoulder to the creaking wagon right through the recess, or are you taking the chance to get away and spend some time in West Brom before the madhouse reopens? We must converge soon for that drink. Maybe I’ll bring Margaret, so that you can join me in paeans of praise to her beauty.
Richard.
PS. Margaret, in her unflagging campaign to convince me that the small stuff matters as much as the big, today played what she clearly regards as her trump card, in response to some throwaway remark of mine about dog poo. Jack Caulfield (you know, the blind kid in her class) turns out to be living in his own personal darkness because of toxocariasis, following exposure to roundworm eggs in dog faeces. It’s a chance in a million! Well, two cases per million per year, to be precise. I’m still sure that she’s wrong, but I just couldn’t argue in the face of odds like that.
Appartamento 7
Via San Giuliano 84
20146 Milano
Italia
3 October 2005
Dear Margaret and every one,
I am very sorry that I am not writing to you before, to tell you where I go. It is being very long time, I know. Gjergj is phoning me when I am in Ipswich, to say he is OK and he is escaping in Italia. I am not wanting to tell you then, because I am frightened to tell anyone that he is speaking to me. I get out to Italia too, so now we are being safe here together.
In Italia we both are being decided as refugees, so we can stay here, and never going back. Gjergj is already having his work permission. He is doing a job building a factory. There are three other Albanian boys building it, with Italian boys also. Gjergj is asking me to marry him. In Italia we are having both Muslim and Christian wedding. In Milano they have some mosques, and we are also finding an Albanian Orthodox priest, the friend of one of the builder boys.
I am wanting to say thank you again for every thing you are doing for me in England. Gjergj and me are just getting a flat, the address is writing on this letter. So if Margaret or Lauren or any one wants to come and visiting us, we are being very happy to be seeing our good friends.
Nasreen xx
From: Rebecca Prichard [[email protected]]
Sent: 11/10/05 19:15
To: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Hi, Margaret,
I’ve found out something about Declan.
It was Zoe who let it slip, actually, because last year I noticed she kept transposing the letters of her name, and I was keeping an eye out (thinking about possible dyslexia, you know), but it was the only word she ever did it with. And it was striking, because usually of course their own name is very strongly imprinted from early on. Well, yesterday she had drawn an alarmingly maculose pink-and-purple self-portrait (I’ll spare you the trouble, hon: ‘maculose’ is a 7.5). She came up to show me it in the playground at lunchtime, and her name, on the bottom, was misspelt again. I happened to say, ‘Your name’s not Zeo, is it?’ and she laughed and said, ‘No, that’s my daddy!’ It’s his middle name. It seems his parents just liked it – and in some respects were therefore unlucky, since their choice predated both the Power Rangers’ crystal and the hangover prevention pills. Zoe’s subsequent naming was a rather sweetly anagrammatic gesture. So you see, it seems he may just be my Zorba after all!
Of course it does mean that at family gatherings – Christmas and Easter – I’ll always risk running into a brother I’ve snogged in a lift. But maybe the minions of Mephistopheles aren’t that big on the major Christian festivals anyway.
Big hugs,
Becs xx
From: Ellen Reed [[email protected]]
Sent: 26/10/05 19:24
To: Margaret Hayton [[email protected]]
Dear Margaret,
This seems like the most appropriate way to say thank you properly to you both for the wonderful gift of the portable computer. (What is it you call it, dear, a laptop, isn’t it? I think I heard Richard referring to it as his notebook, too, though to me that’s something with spiral binding that you keep by the phone or write your shopping list in.) I know you said that it is only Richard’s old one, and that he doesn’t use it very often, but still, it is so generous of him to think of me. I must admit, it’s still easier for me to hit the keys than to grip a pen and write without wobbling. And then you went to all that trouble to set up the e-mail connection for me while you were here, too. First it was the mobile phone, and now this – you are certainly turning me into a very twenty-first-century grandmother! Maybe your mum will have time to e-mail me sometimes – I’ve given her the address. It does seem to be so much quicker to dash off than a letter – or I feel certain it will be once I’ve got the hang of it. And you can tell Richard I’ve been practising my chess, against the machine. I shall be able to give him a much better game next time he comes to visit!
I also want to say again how much I enjoyed having you and Richard to stay these last few days. Wasn’t it funny, Richard insisting upon going back to the New Forest to play Pooh sticks? I’m not sure I am supposed to tell you this, but he whispered to me that it was because last time he had been longing to take hold of your hand while you leaned over the railing, so he wanted to go again, so that he could hold hands with you this time. And what a lovely dinner Richard cooked for us on Sunday! Your grandad always used to expect a roast dinner on a Sunday, beef or lamb or chicken with roast potatoes and two or three different vegetables. I sometimes felt as though I spent all morning on a Sunday, after church, peeling and chopping and basting. What Richard produced took half the time, and was just as tasty. I didn’t even notice there was no meat in it until you pointed it out. I must ask Kirsty if she can get some of that balsamic vinegar for me, next time she goes into Winchester. Really, Richard is as good as one of those television chefs – and a lot less bossy and rude than some of them seem to be!
Well, I shall press the ‘send’ button now, like you showed me, and hope that I’ve got it right!
With love from Gran xx
Fro
m: Margaret Hayton
[[email protected]]
Sent: 26/10/05 20:20
To: Ellen Reed [[email protected]]
Dear Gran,
I’m so glad that you are using the computer! I wasn’t sure that you would want it really – I wondered if you were just being polite, earlier, when you said how pleased you were. And we both had a lovely time with you, so ‘thank you for having us’, as Mum always taught me to say when I was a little girl.
It was just so satisfying to see you back in your own home again, Gran. With Kirsty coming on Sundays as well for a while, I’m sure you’ll be able to cope. I thought you were getting about better than I’ve seen you for ages, since before you sprained your ankle, in fact. Did you manage to make it to the post office on the frame by yourself to get your pension today, like you said you might?
And don’t worry, Gran, I shall still keep writing you proper letters as well as sending you e-mails.
Lots of love,
More Than Love Letters Page 24