A Passionate Love Affair with a Total Stranger

by Lucy Robinson

  I opened the envelope, excited at the prospect of seeing my grandfather. But, rather than photographs, I found myself pulling out a tightly folded bundle of papers.

  I didn’t need to open them to know they were letters.

  The first was written in a spidery hand that I’d never seen before, a sweet contrast to Granny Helen’s aggressive scrawl. I paused, frowning. Was it OK to read your dead grandparents’ correspondence? I asked Malcolm but got only an idle tail thump. After a few minutes’ reflection I decided to go ahead. Wasn’t this how people discovered amazing things about their ancestry?

  ‘Anyone would do this,’ I told Malcolm, unfolding the papers as carefully as I could.

  In the centre was a letter that had been carefully wrapped in three different envelopes. It was special. I knew that before I even unfolded it. It was weighted with some strong emotional force that seemed to warm the room before I’d even started reading.

  My sweet one, it began, in a neat, sloping hand. I smiled to think of Granny Helen being anyone’s Sweet One.

  Thank you a thousand times for writing to me, and for the package of Yardley’s soap! What a wonderful treat, the lads were so jealous.

  I have your letter in my pocket and I feel it there all day and all night, glowing warmly through my confoundedly scratchy vest and into my side. It brings me such comfort, my dear! It keeps me strong in the stillness of night when the noises about me seem hostile and fearful and I find myself longing for the familiar chink of your teacup on a saucer. It calms me when those around me turn to anger and fear and talk to each other unkindly.

  I am sorry it has taken me so long to reply to you but sadly we have very little time for sleep, let alone relaxation. My lapse does not indicate a diminution in my feelings for you, Helen darling. You are on my mind when I wake up, you stay with me all day and you are there, a benign and beautiful presence, when I collapse wearily in my bed. I dream of our walks by the sea in April and our summer picnics on the downs.

  Oh I do so long to get back to our life together, darling. I must go, Tompkins is calling me.

  I love you and I miss you with all my heart.

  Yours, for ever,

  Jack

  I put the letter down, moved beyond all measure. I’d never really given much thought to what it meant to be in love if you were anyone older than Mum and Dad. Somewhere along the line I’d decided that relationships in older generations were formal arrangements based on fondness and regard. How very short-sighted I’d been! I sat staring into the distance for several minutes, quite stunned, then dug around for Granny Helen’s reply.

  It jolted me out of my reverie pretty quickly.

  You didn’t bloody write that last letter, Jack, Granny Helen wrote, on 1 December 1941. I was a little bit scandalized: even for Granny Helen this was fairly abrupt. Think I’m stupid? The letter was pure poetry and you, my dear, are no poet. But you’re still pretty dashing and a bit wonderful so I’ll let it go. You’re my lovable fool.

  I relaxed. This must just be how it worked: Granny Helen sent out a missile but then shot it down before it could cause any harm. I loved the thought of her telling someone they were dashing and wonderful. It was a side of her I’d never seen.

  It was nice to hear from you Jack, whoever wrote the letter. I do miss you and think about you every day. It’s even more quiet here than usual; most of the women in the town are out in Dunbar helping in some warehouse so I’m stuck here on my tod most of the time. Been designing a machine for making mashed potato though; got to keep the mind sharp. Too many pregnant women become useless jellies.

  My sickness has passed and I’m now just eating like that fat horse that the Duries keep.

  Last night I had a dream that you were standing in the kitchen playing the harp. How I laughed! I was sad to wake up and remember you were so far away. I’m counting the days to your return. No, I’m counting the hours! Come back safe, my handsome soldier. Your girl, Helen

  Looking down at the letter I felt tears pricking my eyes. It had never occurred to me that my grandmother’s acerbic tongue could have been capable of such unguarded affection.

  But the accusation she’d levelled – that Jack had got someone else to write his love letter – had surprised me. Why had she said it? Had she actually meant it?

  A thought was beginning to develop. Suddenly excited, I began to search for Granddad Jack’s reply.

  Darling Helen, of course I wrote it! Doubting Thomas! As it goes I write letters for just about everyone in my squadron. Would be lunatic to let the lads write their own letters, they’d lose their sweethearts in days. No, my dear Helen, I may not be the smartest man on this parade – I had all manner of trouble for the state of my boots this morning – but I write a damn good love letter.

  I gasped. It was only a bloody family talent! Not sure if I was about to start laughing or crying, I made a strange noise. It was almost too good to be true. My grandfather had been in the same line of business as me! I dug back into the box, keener than ever to see a photo of him.

  I was rewarded soon after. In an envelope entitled ‘HELEN/JACK WEDDING’ there were photographs of the two happiest people I’d ever seen. Mesmerized, I stared at my grandfather. Granny Helen’s handsome soldier obviously loved his young wife more than anything in the world. There was no 1930s reserve here: Granddad Jack had his arm clasped tightly round his bride and was kissing the side of her face in almost all of the photographs. Granny Helen had been unable to disguise her own delight; her smile seemed to infect all of the smartly turned-out people around them.

  ‘Hello,’ I whispered to them, a tear sliding silently down on to Dad’s old jumper. I turned back to the letter with a large lump in my throat.

  Why am I so good at writing, you might wonder. What sort of a veterinary surgeon writes verse, eh?

  The answer, my dear girl, is that I can write like I do because of you. It’s you who’s turned me into this lily-livered slop bucket. It’s you who’s turned my clumsy ramblings into poetry. Because I love you, my girl. You consume me! It’s not very convenient to love you, I can’t deny it. If I were to dream up my perfect girl she probably wouldn’t be you. She’d be a bit more bloody respectful for a start! But it doesn’t matter, my Helen. You’re the only girl for me. And, my darling, leave starts the day after tomorrow! I’m coming to find you!

  Tears now flowing freely down my face, I turned the paper back over to see the date: 13 December 1941. Granddad Jack had been killed the next day. He’d been flying over the Mediterranean shortly after nightfall, looking for aircraft in need of help and – during this act of goodwill – he’d been shot down himself.

  I tried to comprehend the extent of this tragedy, knowing now how deeply in love they’d been with each other. No wonder Granny Helen had never remarried. No wonder she had become such a cantankerous old bugger.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Granny Helen,’ I whispered. ‘You poor, poor thing.’

  Next in the pile was a letter from Squadron Leader Tommy Derbyshire, explaining what had happened and enclosing Granny Helen’s letters to her husband. He said Granddad Jack had been a brave pilot who had made the ultimate sacrifice for his country. Then he added, in a more personal tone, that Jack had been popular among the boys in 238 Squadron for his help with their love letters. She had many reasons to be proud of him.

  I put the letters down to save them from my tears and sobbed. I couldn’t bear the tragedy, the timing, the loss. My poor Granny Helen, six months pregnant and madly in love, had never got her handsome young man back. She’d let down her defences and given herself over to Jack Lambert – only to lose him in a flash of light that disappeared into nothingness above the dark Mediterranean. A whole person gone, just like that.

  Malcolm gazed at me uneasily as I wept.

  I looked back at the wedding photos, at her infectious smile. ‘Thank God you knew how much he cared about you,’ I whispered. There was some relief in that.

  My tears were interrupted by
the sound of a text message arriving in my phone. Mopping my face on the sleeve of my jumper with one hand, I opened it with the other.

  It was Sam. I sniffed, trying to concentrate: Just wanted to reiterate how sad I am that you’re not coming tonight. You’d love the play, I look like a knob throughout most of it. Speaking of knobs, you’re a knob for not coming. I miss you. XXX

  ‘Leave me alone,’ I said aloud miserably. ‘Throwing me crumbs from your nice big designer table where you eat stupid Londony breakfasts with Katia stupid Slagface.’

  I plunged my hand into the box of photographs, desperate to take my mind off the situation, just as my phone exploded into life once again.

  ‘PISS OFF,’ I cried at it. ‘I’M IN HIDING!’ Then, of course, I picked it up to check it wasn’t Sam.

  It was Hailey.

  I wasn’t convinced I wanted to talk to her. She and Ness had gone down to London yesterday morning to do some Christmas shopping before putting on their glad rags for Sam’s opening night and I rather feared she was calling to tell me about Sam’s new girlfriend.

  But, just in case she had some more welcome news, I answered. ‘Tits?’

  ‘Hello!’ she yelled excitedly. I could hear a busker’s interpretation of ‘Winter Wonderland’ on the street near her and the sound of Londoners being noisily festive. My parents’ empty sitting room suddenly felt somewhat remote.

  ‘Um, how’s it going down there? You two having a nice time?’

  Hailey ignored me. ‘Chas,’ she said. ‘I’m calling because I’m very cross with you. You should bloody well be here! It’s really exciting! And Sam’s gutted you’re not coming!’

  I stiffened. The crap excuse I’d given Sam was not the same one I’d given Hailey and Ness. I hoped they hadn’t compared notes.

  ‘Just one of those things.’ I sighed, trying to sound regretful.

  ‘Oh, you’re fucking annoying you are. Remind me why you can’t come?’

  I changed the subject. ‘How’s Sam?’ I asked. ‘Nervous?’

  ‘Oh, bricking it,’ Hailey confirmed. ‘We had lunch with him yesterday and he had to run off for a shit about twenty times. Poor thing!’

  My heart melted a bit. ‘William and Shelley came to lunch too,’ Hailey added. ‘They’re a right frigging pair!’

  NO! Hailey and Ness had been on the cosy couples’ lunch too! Urgh. Shelley and William, Sam and Katia Slagface … all being jolly with my twin sister and best friend. That was disgusting. And too cruel for words.

  ‘Right,’ I said vacantly. ‘How were William and Shelley?’

  Hailey sniggered. ‘Fucking weird,’ she said. ‘Noisy, confident, bit like a pair of steam-trains although I’d say Shelley’s definitely the boss. What a combo! You did well to get them together.’

  I started to ask her about Katia and Sam but she interrupted. ‘Shelley kept asking about you,’ she said. ‘Does she want to lez you up, do you reckon? She didn’t bloody stop!’

  ‘No, she’s just a bit odd and direct.’ I braced myself. ‘And, um, how was Katia?’

  ‘OK,’ Hailey said doubtfully, ‘but she’s a right fucking doughnut, Chas. Can’t imagine how her husband puts up with her.’

  The busker in the background switched to ‘Santa Claus Is Coming To Town’ and drowned me out as I yelled, ‘Her WHAT?’

  Hailey moved off down the street a little, cursing good-naturedly at the singer. ‘Eh?’ she said.

  ‘Hailey, did you just say that she’s married? KATIA SLAGFACE?’

  Hailey burst out laughing. ‘Oh, now, there’s a good name. Yes, she’s married. Somehow.’

  ‘She’s not shagging Sam?’

  ‘NO!’ Hailey cried, genuinely disgusted. ‘What are you on?’

  ‘There was an article Shelley mentioned,’ I faltered. ‘In the Stage. About them being the hottest couple in the West End or something.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Bowes showed me that. But it was talking about onstage, not off! He’d never shag her. She’s an absolute prat, Chas! Even the Bowes has limits!’

  ‘Right,’ I said, dazed.

  Hailey continued, ‘In fact, Bowes is having some sort of drought at the moment. He hasn’t had sex with anyone in three months apparently. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, he –’

  I stopped listening. I’d heard all I needed to hear. Sam was single! Sam was single! I ended the call as soon as I could and commenced some serious brooding. Sam was single. Shouldn’t I at least try to do something? I glanced at my watch, which suggested that I could probably make it to London in time, should I be willing to do a mad dash and pay a huge amount of money for a last-minute plane ticket.

  No, I thought crossly. I can’t!

  But why not? I stared at the pile of letters between Granny Helen and Granddad Jack. Granny Helen had lost the love of her life but at least she’d been brave enough to start a relationship with him in the first place. Somewhere along the line she’d decided to take a risk, put herself on the line. Was I so pathetic that I was going to spend the rest of my days wondering how Sam felt?

  No, I insisted. This is not a Granny Helen and Granddad Jack situation. Sam likes girls he can throw around the bedroom! He’d have a prolapse if he tried to pick me up!

  But to my intense irritation I couldn’t get Granny Helen out of my mind. I pictured her sitting in this very room seventy years ago, reading a telegram telling her that her husband was dead. And how devastated and furious and alone she must have felt, knowing that the man she loved more than anyone else in the world had been taken from her the day before he was meant to return. It was a tragedy that I could barely even comprehend.

  But she knew that he loved her.

  Which was why, I saw – with a very sharp stab of fear – I was going to have to go to London and tell Sam I loved him. What if I fell off a cliff today? Or Malcolm ate me? I’d die not knowing!

  ‘Hello, Charleypops,’ Hailey chirped, when I called her back a few seconds later. ‘Have you changed your mind?’

  ‘YES,’ I bellowed. ‘I’M COMING TO LONDON!’

  ‘Wow, you sound enthusiastic,’ she said, obviously taken aback. ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘NO! I’M IN LOVE WITH SAM AND I’M COMING DOWN TO TELL HIM. I’M SHITTING MYSELF.’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Hailey asked. ‘Did you just –’

  ‘YES. I’m in love with Bowes. Sorry, Hails. Should have mentioned. But, yes, I have to tell him.’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Hailey said weakly. ‘I think I need to sit down.’

  Why the hell shouldn’t he love me back? I asked myself, charging up the stairs to get my handbag. Look at Mum and Dad. They’re each other’s worst nightmare! Do they love each other? Damn straight they do! They’ve been together thirty-five years!

  ‘I’m going to London,’ I told Malcolm. ‘Be good. I’ll get the Joneses to come and rescue you.’

  But as I sprinted out of the front door, grabbing Mum’s old anorak, I suddenly had a brainwave. A brainwave of the truly ingenious variety. ‘Good thinking, Lambert,’ I muttered, turning round and running back upstairs where I crammed two very important things into a handbag.

  Malcolm watched me go for the second time with his usual kindly smile. ‘Stay off the Christmas tree chocolate,’ I told him. I ran out of the door and up to the square to get my car.

  ‘Fuck!’ I shouted. I didn’t have a car. (Almost two months on it still hadn’t sunk in.) But without hesitation I turned left and ran up to the high street, making a beeline for the town’s taxi office, which boasted one very unreliable Austin Maestro.

  ‘MRS GILBERT,’ I yelled, as I ran into the tiny office. ‘I need your help! Can you drive me to Edinburgh airport?’

  ‘Ye can piss off, Charley,’ she began moodily. ‘I need two hours’ warning.’

  I shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Mrs Gilbert,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you understand. There’s a boy. He picks his nose and eats junk food but I love him. I have to go
and tell him before it’s too late.’

  Mrs Gilbert looked up irritably from her sudoku puzzle and appraised me.

  ‘He’s capering around on a Shakespearean island in six and a half hours,’ I cried, as if this would somehow help. ‘I have to be there for him! I have to let him know how I feel!’ I stared at her beseechingly.

  ‘God’s sake,’ she muttered. She looked back down at her sudoku puzzle, as if searching for inspiration. After a few seconds, the puzzle apparently delivered. ‘As if anyone from your bloody family would go for someone normal.’ She sighed, picking up her car keys from under the counter.

  ‘ALFIE!’ she screamed. ‘TAKE OVER. ANOTHER BLOODY DRAMA AT THE LAMBERTS’!’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I arrived at the Garrick Theatre with less than ten minutes to spare. A small gaggle of paparazzi smoked by the doorway, presumably waiting for the handful of famous actors that Sam had told me were coming. I felt a great surge of pride to think that real-life famous actors were going to watch Sam tonight. My Bowes!

  Many people had taken their seats but the bar was still bright and busy with chattering, smiling, well-dressed audience members.

  I scanned for Hailey and Ness, who had my ticket, and found a lot of confused faces staring at me. Oh, fuck, I thought suddenly. Oh, triple fuck! I looked down at myself for the first time in five hours and gasped. I was still wearing my old dog-walking jeans with bright pink socks and muddy walking shoes. Worst of all was Dad’s baggy old jumper, which hung down my thighs and looked like half of Malcolm was stuck to it. Mum’s winter mac, so grubby and ancient that she’d long since stopped using it herself, completed the picture.

  I looked like a farmhand! I began to back out of the door but then heard Hailey shouting my name. I cringed. She was striding towards me on high heels, looking very beautiful in the dress we’d chosen last week. Hailey was still pretty traumatized by her experience with Matty but she did seem to have got over the comfort eating. She looked like Hailey again: curvy, titty and delicious.