by Karen Osman
By the tenth day, Alison was not just depressed, she was angry. How dare he do this to her? But what if something had happened? Maybe he’d had an accident and was in hospital? Maybe she should contact him and check? The idea took hold – anything had to be better than this constant wondering and waiting. Typing and retyping, it took her a whole thirty minutes to get the message right. She wanted to come across as bright and breezy and not in the least like she had been waiting by the phone for the last ten days. Nor did she want to sound pushy. In the end, she typed:
Hey, how are you? Haven’t heard from you, so just thought I would check in.
Pressing ‘send’, she waited apprehensively. Whenever Alison met him, he usually had his phone with him, so she expected him to respond fairly quickly. However, several hours later, she was still waiting. She felt like she was going slightly mad.
Finally, as she was getting ready for bed, her phone beeped and she frantically grabbed it. Opening the message, it read:
Sorry, got caught up with work, all good, see you soon.
That was it.
Furious and frustrated, Alison threw the phone against her books and, tears streaming, she flung herself on her bed. She knew she was acting like a child but she couldn’t seem to help herself. Angry with him, but most of all with herself for wasting so much time at the expense of her studies, she had no idea how she had gone from being an A-grade student with an exciting future to such a desperate wreck. She was painfully aware of just how much time she had spent waiting for him to contact her when she should have been doing more to prepare for next term. Why had she let him do that? It was like she wasn’t in control of her own mind.
Over the next few days, Alison became more and more sullen and by the time the Easter holidays were over and she was preparing to head back for the third term, she was barely talking. Her mother tentatively broached the subject, two days before she was due to leave.
‘Alison, is everything OK?’
‘Yes, Mum, everything’s fine – why?’
‘Well, I’m just a little worried about you – you’ve been a bit quiet the last few days,’ her mother responded, trying to play it down.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just the work. With third term coming up and the exams, there’s a lot to prepare for.’
‘I know, love, but you’re going to pass with flying colours. You always have.’
Alison tried to smile to reassure her mother, but somehow her words made her feel worse.
‘I’m sure I will – I’ll just be glad when the exams are over, that’s all.’
‘Of course you will. But don’t worry about anything. If you need to come home at any time, just call us, and your dad and I will come and pick you up.’
Alison gulped. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
The next day Alison’s phone beeped.
Hey, sorry I’ve been AWOL – fancy a coffee this afternoon?
Having stared at the text in disbelief, Alison put the phone under her pillow, determined to make a point by not responding. Five minutes later, unable to resist, she had typed out her message:
Where and what time?
*
That afternoon was one of the most amazing times of her life. He had told her how sorry he was that he hadn’t been in touch but his mum had been ill and he’d spent the holidays taking her to various medical appointments. In between, he had had a lot of research work to do, which had needed to be submitted by a certain deadline and he’d only just managed it in time.
‘I shouldn’t have left it so late in the first place,’ he laughed. ‘But as you may have noticed, a certain someone was distracting me last term!’
Alison’s heart soared. So, there was a proper explanation after all. She should never have doubted him. The cosy meeting she’d interrupted with the pretty post-graduate student flickered across her mind, but it quickly dissolved with his reassurances.
As they left the coffee shop, The Professor reached for her hand. Alison felt her heart explode at his touch. Apart from the odd peck on the cheek, which didn’t count in her opinion, this was the first time he had made such an intimate gesture. There could be no doubt now of his intention and as they walked through the quiet cobbled lanes of the city, Alison had never felt happier. As the afternoon sunlight gave way to dusk, they continued walking, their fingers still interlinked. By unspoken agreement, they ended up on the bridge overlooking the river. As the darkness shrouded them, and the last of the ripples of the river disappeared, The Professor gently turned Alison to face him.
Caressing her cheek, he looked into her eyes. ‘What is it about you, Alison?’ he whispered.
Alison didn’t know what to say. Struggling to maintain eye contact, she leant into his chest, her heart pounding with anticipation. With one arm around her, he used his free hand to lift her chin so that their eyes locked once more. It was at that moment, as their lips met, Alison knew, without a doubt, she had fallen deeply in love.
Chapter 15
Kate
Despite Kate’s initial concern that she was one of the youngest on the writing course, she had found – if not friendship, then something close to it – in her classmates. Mr Barnes included a time for discussion in each of the sessions, and as the weeks went on, everyone began to open up a little bit and share parts of their lives. There were eight of them in total: herself; Jan; Irene; Harry and Joan, who were married and looking for a shared hobby to enjoy together; Patrick, who worked in a bank during the day but pursued his dream of becoming an author at night; and Elizabeth and Mary, two spinster sisters who were so close they were able to finish each other’s sentences.
‘So I hope you’ve all prepared for our discussion today, the topic of which is regret. Now I know what you’re thinking, Jan,’ said Mr Barnes, cutting her off before she could comment. ‘I can hear the wheels of your brain turning as I speak – “ making the class laugh with his impersonation of her. Jan grinned. As the laughter died down, he continued, ‘Perhaps. But it’s such experiences that can really inspire us in our writing.’
Nobody said a word. Kate looked around. Even at the tender age of twenty-three, she still held on to the long-held Northern tradition of keeping your feelings to yourself, so goodness knows what the older members of the class were thinking. There’s no need to air your dirty laundry in public, pet, her mother would say to her.
As if he realised what she was thinking, Mr Barnes said, ‘Now, I know it may be difficult to explore and share some of these feelings on such a personal topic and of course, you’re more than welcome to sit this one out if you’re not comfortable. However,’ he paused and cleared his throat, ‘it’s our greatest challenges and regrets in life that have the power to unearth our deepest emotions.’
He let his words sink in to the circle of students around him, who started to shift uncomfortably in their chairs. When no one responded, he said, ‘Why don’t I start?’
As Kate listened to him talk about a time of regret when he was a teenager and had spent six months bullying a younger boy, she looked around the group. They were all listening intently. Slowly, like flowers unfurling their petals, each member took his or her turn to share a story of regret. Kate had been planning to talk about not staying in touch more often with her parents. She still called them once a week and visited with the children when she could but she didn’t spend nearly enough time checking in on them, especially as they were getting older. Instead, when her turn came, Kate found herself sharing her regret over not taking up her university place. ‘It was difficult, really,’ she told the class. ‘I had a baby on the way and a new marriage, and at the time it just didn’t seem important.’
‘And you regret not going?’ Mr Barnes asked.
‘Yes, I do. I could have made it work even with a baby. My parents offered to help but at the time I was too loved up and naive to see it.’
‘Well, it’s still not too late,’ commented Jan. ‘You’re still young, love, and, let me tell you, that makes all the difference!’ Th
e murmurs and nods of heads from around the room told Kate they all agreed with Jan.
‘Thank you, Kate. This brings me nicely on to the next part of tonight’s session,’ said Mr Barnes. ‘And you’ll be relieved to know that you don’t have to share it with the class,’ he added, winking. ‘So, just on your own, for a few minutes, think if there is anything you can do today about that regret. Of course, you can’t go back in time and change it but perhaps there’s something you could do on a smaller scale. For some of you,’ nodding at Kate, ‘this course may be the start. For you, Harry, it may be writing a letter to the children or the grandchildren of the soldier you couldn’t save in the war. For you, Patrick, it may be just a case of calling that girl who you let slip through your fingers. Whatever it might be, you don’t have to do it, you just have to think about it and let the thoughts settle in your mind. How can you incorporate these ideas into your writing? How can you leverage the power of emotion that such actions may bring to the surface?’
*
Walking home with Jan after class, Kate let the thought of regret float around in her mind as her friend chattered on. It was an interesting proposition that while you may not be able to undo the regret, there was the possibility to fix it. She didn’t think she would be able to go to university now, but what if there were some other night classes available? Perhaps she could invest in a couple and see if she could get a few qualifications. Kate examined her emotions: excitement, nervousness, and apprehension. She made a mental note to see how she could include these in her writing.
‘I quite liked the homework today,’ said Jan, interrupting her thoughts.
‘I’m sure you did. Is that because it doesn’t involve writing anything?’ Kate quipped cheekily.
‘Ha-ha, yes, maybe! My Trevor will be relieved, that’s for sure. He keeps saying his tea is burnt because I’m so distracted by all the homework we have to do!’
‘Still,’ said Kate, ‘it was weird, wasn’t it, having to share our feelings like that? I was planning on saying something completely different.’
‘Really?’ replied Jan. ‘I think everyone enjoyed it. Mind you, I used to hear all sorts in the hospital. I kept telling the supervisor, “I just work in admin, Mr Drake,” but it made no difference to him. “Get out there, Jan,” he used to say. “And cheer some of them up.” I have to admit, I did like to go around and have a chat with some of the patients, especially the long-staying ones. It’s surprising what comes out of people when they’re at death’s door.’
Realising the turn the conversation had taken, Jan announced, ‘Honestly, that Mr Barnes! He’s a good-looking chap, isn’t he, but he hasn’t half got into my head with his depressing talk tonight!’
Kate laughed. ‘Don’t worry, Jan. By the time you get home, you will have forgotten all about it. Isn’t Trevor baby-sitting the grandkids tonight?’
‘He is that. I’d better scoot. I’ll see you next week, pet.’
‘Bye!’
Walking the last half a mile to her own home, Kate was pretty certain she wouldn’t be able to forget. She felt more motivated than she had in a long time. In fact, she may just have a look at the newspaper and see what courses were available. Perhaps Jan was right. Perhaps it wasn’t too late after all?
Chapter 16
Catherine
30 October 2010
Dear Catherine,
It sounds like you’re very busy in the run-up to Christmas! It was never my favourite time of year, to be honest, even before I came here. The cold weather, the busy last-minute shopping. In fact, most of the time I used to spend the Christmas holidays working. I didn’t really have family close by to visit – I had friends who I would go out and socialise with in the pub but that was about the extent of it. There was never a girlfriend special enough around at that time or if there was she was busy with her family. Well, there was one particular girl who I could have seen myself with, but that’s all over now. I didn’t even used to bother putting up a tree. In hindsight, perhaps I would have made more of an effort if I’d known I would end up in here. Your family celebrations sound lovely, and the home-made pudding I’m sure will be delicious. There is an opportunity here to volunteer in the kitchens, and a few years ago we had an inmate who was a chef. We bribed him heavily to volunteer during Christmas so we would get a half-decent meal on the day! He’s gone now, released a couple of years ago and from what I hear, lucky enough to be working again as a cook. He’s working in a homeless shelter as opposed to a fancy five-star hotel, but it’s better than nothing.
If I do get released on parole, I’m not sure what I would do. Probably just try and keep my head down and stay out of the way. Durham, as you know, is a small city, and an unforgiving one at that. I’m not under any impression that life on the outside is going to be easy. If I’m lucky enough to be released, it will be another journey that I have to survive. Sorry to sound so philosophical. As you can imagine, we have a lot of time to think and sometimes it’s not always a good thing. Many inmates who are released have very little support with the exception of their old crowd, who often tend to be criminals themselves and so the vicious circle begins. Of course, my situation is a little different but I believe this is why the letter-writing programme exists to help convicts have a more moral form of support. I have to say I can see why you have been approved for the job. It’s not an easy one, and not one many would do so willingly and voluntarily. If I haven’t said it before, thank you for reaching out.
Michael
Catherine reread the letter. She had a sense that it was different from the others. There was a rawness to it that made her pause, an honesty that she hadn’t quite anticipated. And there it was again – Michael’s reference that he wasn’t the same as his inmates, almost as if they were beneath him. She had a feeling that this was a critical point in their correspondence and her response would either make or break the trust so carefully nurtured between them. Catherine checked the time. It was just after 10 a.m. She was supposed to be popping over to Ruth’s for coffee in half an hour but this seemed so much more important. Making a snap decision, she picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Hi, Ruth, it’s Catherine.’
‘Hello there, how are you?’
‘I’m fine thanks but I just wanted to let you know that I can’t make it this morning. An urgent request has come in from the school to put together a report so I need to work on it and send it to them today.’
‘That’s fine, Catherine, I’m around tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Ruth. Sorry about the late notice.’
‘No problem. You do so much for the school – I hope they appreciate you!’
Laughing, Catherine said her goodbyes, eager to get off the phone before Ruth pulled her into a long, gossipy conversation.
As Catherine put the kettle on, she felt a mild sense of discomfort at the white lie she had told her friend. Pushing it aside, she took her coffee, sat down at her desk and reread Michael’s letter again. Taking some scrap paper, she decided to draft the letter first. It took several attempts before she was happy with it. This required her best writing paper, she decided, as she pulled the rich, thick, creamy paper from its box. Clearing her desk, she began to write.
2 November 2010
Dear Michael,
I received your letter this morning and felt compelled to write back immediately. I’m so glad to hear that I’m helping by reaching out to you, even if it’s only slightly. After so long in prison, it must be daunting to try to come to terms with your upcoming parole and the prospect of release. You’re right – this volunteer role is part of a bigger rehabilitation programme and the centre has a lot more to offer, so I feel sure when the time comes they will help you as much as possible.
I have always been a big letter writer so writing to you is something I enjoy. I’m sure that there are many people who would be reluctant to write to a Category B prisoner, but for me I saw it as a challenge because I truly believe that I can make a real difference in y
our life both now and when you’re released.
Of course, I’m aware of your conviction for murder and I would be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. I can imagine what the victim’s parents would think of me being in regular contact with you. As a mother myself, I can easily empathise with how much they would struggle to understand, but I honestly believe that by reaching out to prisoners, people can start to put things behind them and move on. I don’t mean ‘to forget’ – one could never forget, of course – but at least start the process of overcoming the grief and dealing with it. Although it would be painful, I feel sure they would understand and that it’s all for the greater cause. Ultimately, each of us lives with what we have done or what we are about to do and we bear those consequences for the rest of our lives. Nobody is perfect and we can only do the best we can, with what we know.
I do hope these words offer some kind of comfort and reassurance to you. I believe that you have overcome the most difficult part and while the future is still unknown for all of us, I feel optimistic that you will find closure very soon.