How could you leave me? I am half of a whole. A mere fraction of the person I was. Incomplete forever. An orphan. A lonely orphan. Twinless. Hopeless. I blame Mother and Father, but mainly Mother. She wanted you close because you were ill. Why couldn’t she just have put you on the train with me? I’d have looked after you. Why? Why you? Why them? Why me? Why?
I am jealous. Jealous that you are dead and that I am still here. People might think I am ungrateful. I am jealous of Mother and Father that they got to die with you. I am jealous of you that you got to die with Mother and Father. I am angry that I am left here alone. And then I am consumed by guilt. Guilt about my anger. Guilt about my jealousy. Guilt I have survived. And I miss you. More than when you were in London and there was the promise of your arrival. More than when I first left, and I expected to see you again soon. I miss you with the cold, stark reality that I will never see you again. The “if onlys” will drive me crazy in the forthcoming days, weeks and months.
Years will have to pass before I can think of you without tears. And even then, a black hole will open and swallow me at times. ‘Life goes on,’ people will say, and I will want to slap them. Why couldn’t the war end earlier? Why did it have to take you and Mother and Father? Why leave me?
Yours,
Alice
Letter number sixteen:
1st January, 1949
Dear Michael,
I know you’ll never read this, but who else can I write to? Who else will listen? I hear the Missus and Mister arguing about me. He’s telling her I need to be watched.
‘Have you seen her?’ he says. ‘Boys stare when we go to town. I’m telling you there’ll be trouble.’
‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘I’ve got it sorted.’ I have no idea what they mean, but it doesn’t sound good.
Yours,
Alice
Letter number seventeen:
5th January, 1951
Dear Bertie,
Thank you for your kind invitation to walk out with you. The Mister and Missus are very strict, and I am sure if I were to ask their permission, they would not grant it, so I must say no, but it was a kind offer and one I am grateful for.
Yours sincerely,
Alice
Letter number eighteen:
8th March, 1951
Dear Bertie,
I can see why you might be disappointed in my decision not to ask them, but I fear that they might keep me under lock and key to ensure that I do not sneak out to meet you. You may think I am being histrionic, but you do not know them. I can assure you they will not grant me permission to go out with you.
Yours sincerely,
Alice
Letter number nineteen:
10th May, 1951
Dear Bertie,
While I can understand why you felt the need to visit the Mister and Missus to ask their permission to take me out, I fear that it has made matters worse for me. My stepsisters mock me, and my guardians berate me. Would you do me the kindness of never repeating the experiment?
Respectfully yours,
Alice
Letter number twenty
20th October, 1951
Dear Bertie,
I will meet you by the entrance to the churchyard at midnight. I will sneak out when they are all fast asleep. The sisters sleep soundly and snore like dragons. The Mister and Missus sleep less soundly, but are in another room so I should be able to make my escape.
Yours,
Alice
Letter number twenty-one
10th November, 1951
Dear Bertie,
“We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” I had the most amazing night. Thank you for your chivalry. Yes, I would like to do it again soon.
Yours,
Alice
Letter number twenty-two
21st March, 1952
Dear Bertie,
I had an amazing time. You are such a gentleman. In every way. My parents would have approved of you. No, I do not think it is premature of you to declare your love for me. If I was not a shy girl and decent, I would most certainly do the same and declare my love for you.
Yours,
Alice
Letter number twenty-three
15th June, 1952
My Darling Bertie,
You are the first thing I think about when I wake each morning and the last thing I think about before I am “rounded with sleep”.
Yours forever,
Alice
Letter number twenty-four
11th July, 1952
Dearest Darling Bertie,
We have been discovered. One of the sisters saw me leaving the house and followed me. She threatens to tell the Mister and Missus, unless I tell you I can never see you again. I have promised her that I will. My promises to her are like dust. We must be more careful in future. I know I am of an age where I could do as I wish, but I have nowhere to go, no money and the Mister threatens to kill any man I step out with. This is a very real threat. I worry for you.
All my love forever,
Alice
Letter number twenty-five
5th August, 1952
My Dearest Darling Bertie,
Thank you, thank you, a million times thank you. The answer to your question is yes.
Get thee to church on Thursday where I shall be proud to make thee “a joyful bride”. Once we are married, there is nothing they can do about it. It will be legal and above board. I’m sure they will come around then and maybe find it in their hearts to be happy for me. Or at least to let me go.
Yours forever,
Alice
Letter number twenty-six
21st August, 1952
My Dearest Darling Bertie,
I cannot tell you how sorry I am. Wicked sisters found out about our plan to marry and locked me in the coal cellar. Had the circumstances been different, you would have laughed to see me covered head to toe in black dust looking every inch a coal man. “Screw your courage to the sticking place, and we will not fail”, next time.
All my love forever,
Alice
Letter number twenty-seven
12th November, 1952
My Dearest Darling Bertie,
This is probably the hardest thing I have ever had to write. Much as I’d like to, and you know this to be true, I cannot be with you. They are forcing me to marry against my will. They have threatened that if I run away, they will hunt me down, and they will kill you. “Hang, beg, starve, die in the streets” – I cannot risk you being hurt and must make this sacrifice in your honour. I think money has exchanged hands. I know him to be a cruel and heartless man, and I don’t expect to have a happy marriage or a fulfilling life, but the moments spent with you will last me forever. I will remember your smile, your face, your touch until the end of time. Much love always. Try to bear the loss as I must.
Your only love,
Alice
Letter number twenty-eight
June 1953
My Dearest Darling Bertie,
We must be secretive if we are to continue to see each other. I have a husband in name only. He will never be my love. We will be unable to meet very often, but I shall be as pleased to see you once a year, if that is all I am to be allowed.
All my love forever,
Alice
Letter number twenty-nine
17th June, 1967
My Dearest Darling Bertie,
I understand that you can no longer stomach our arrangement. I understand how difficult it must be for you to go home alone and to imagine me here with him. But know that every minute I spend with him, I am wishing I was with you.
I don’t quite know how to tell you this, but I’m having your baby. It makes no difference to our situation, but I know the child is yours. This child is made from love, not from his tired, messy and brutal fumblings in the dark. I will love her (for I’m sure it is a girl) enough for both of us.
Yours forever,
Alice
I’m
in shock. I didn’t know that Mother was a Shakespeare fan. Not once did I see her pick up a book. How romantic she once was. Was my father not my father? Who was this Bertie? I can’t read on. I replace the letters in their envelope and close the drawer.
14
#waterbabe #giantcondom
The doctor has recommended swimming as a way to release tension and exercise without aggravating joint pain. I decide to use the pool at Lloyds, rather than my local swimming pool to prevent being ducked by delinquent teens or splashed by the “turtle-time” brigade. I’m trying to keep my mind off Mother’s revelation. I remember the conversation in the hospital before she died. ‘It wasn’t your dad’s watch. Well, it was. But not the man you thought was your dad.’ My mind is reeling. Who was my father? Where do I really come from?
The only swimming hat left to purchase is luminous green, so I look like a giant condom. I pray I don’t see anyone I know.
#newbossblow
Today is the worst day ever. Not only have I been made to apologise to the prat from payroll, but an announcement has been made that our lines of reporting are to change as from today. Our new line manager is to be…I can’t even type it without being a little bit sick in my mouth…Mick the Dick.
He’s sitting there in his new suit, sporting a goatee and smirking.
‘Good news, eh, Bob?’
‘The best,’ I say sarcastically. ‘Now, show me how to get up on the roof terrace.’ His eyebrows meet in the middle. ‘So, I can jump off,’ I enlighten him.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he says, feigning a hurt look. ‘We make a great team.’
‘So did Bonnie and Clyde.’
‘Now, now, Bob.’
‘Will you stop calling me that?’
‘Well, it’s better than your nickname.’
‘What nickname? I don’t have a nickname.’
‘Oh, yes, you do.’
‘I don’t.’
‘You do. No one knows their own nickname. I bet you have one for me. Probably something unoriginal…’
‘No, I wouldn’t be so childish.’
‘Like Mick the Prick.’
‘So, what’s mine?’ I ask.
‘It’s not for me to say. It might upset you.’
‘As if I give a stuff what you lot think of me.’
‘Let’s just leave it, shall we. Can you have the Booker report on my desk by close of play today?’ I hate that phrase, “close of play”. Tosser.
‘Bellissmo,’ I say, then retire to the ladies’ to bang my head off the walls.
#resigned
I take a selfie on the bus with the barking mad.
I take it back. Monday was not the worst day ever. Today is the worst day ever! The heightened sense of smell is back, and I have to sit next to dog-breath woman on the bus. A whippet chews the bow on my new shoes, and his drunken owner says he’s going to sue me if his dog is sick.
‘Never mind the bloody dog. Those shoes cost four hundred quid.’ (That’s a lie. They cost me sixty quid on eBay, excellent condition, worn once.) Of course, the marauding hordes are only concerned about the dog and not my Jimmy Choos, so I have to walk in to work bowless.
‘Personal grooming,’ Mick says as I sweep in, windblown and worrisome.
‘I had an altercation with an animal,’ I say, then mutter, ‘not for the first time.’
‘Let’s not have excuses,’ he says.
‘Let’s not talk to us as though we’re three years old,’ I say.
‘My office please, Roberta.’ Ooh, things are looking up. My full name. ‘Take a seat.’
‘I’d rather stand.’
‘As you wish.’
‘It has come to my attention, Ms Gallbreath…’
‘Are you kidding me? Ms Gallbreath?’
‘Let’s just keep this as professional as possible under the circumstances. It has come to my attention that you have been upsetting a number of our employees with your comments and criticisms.’
‘What the…’
‘Furthermore, your use of pejoratives…’
‘Are you fucking kidding me?’
‘Roberta, please. You’re not making this easy.’
‘Oh sorry, beg your pardon, I’m making things difficult for you. That’s rich, that is.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’
‘I mean that since you set foot in this company, you have done nothing but make my life a misery.’
He looks shocked. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’ He looks genuinely sorry. Bloody good actor. ‘Perhaps we should do this another time.’
‘Perhaps we should. Do what? Are you sacking me? Are you? Tell you what, you can’t sack me, cos I quit.’ There’s that shocked expression again. Give this lad a BAFTA. I stand up, swipe the papers from his desk onto the floor, storm out and try to slam the door, but my foot is caught in it, and I only succeed in bruising my shin.
I’m now at home crying into a cheeky Vimto and wondering how I’m going to get another job at my age. Me and my bloody big mouth.
#popidle
I take a selfie in the unemployment office with Newcastle’s answer to Stevie Wonder.
I sign on the dole for the first time in thirty years. It’s a humiliating experience, and they don’t call it dole anymore. The woman’s expression suggests she has a dead kipper under her nose.
‘So, you left of your own accord?’
‘Yes.’
‘They didn’t sack you?’
‘No, they were about to, but I got in first. I didn’t want that on my record.’
‘You won’t be entitled to benefits.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you had a job, and you left of your own accord.’
‘But they were going to sack me anyway.’
‘It doesn’t matter, they didn’t. Next.’ She looks beyond me to the man with the Labrador standing behind me. ‘No dogs allowed.’
‘It’s a guide dog,’ he says.
‘No dogs,’ she says. ‘Can’t you read?’
‘He can’t see, you daft cow, so how’s he supposed to read the sign?’
‘You’ll have to take him outside.’
‘But I need to sign on.’
‘I’ll hold him for you,’ I say.
‘I can’t come down the stairs without him.’
‘He can’t come down the stairs without him,’ I say.
‘He isn’t blind. He’s lying,’ she says. ‘If you don’t leave, I’ll call security.’
‘Don’t move,’ I say to the man. ‘She can’t do a thing.’
So, that’s how I end up in a police cell next door to a drunken butcher and a pretend blind man. It seems he won’t leave his dog tied up outside, in case it gets stolen, so he pretends to be visually impaired. You couldn’t make this stuff up.
#probonio
Police Cellfie! (See what I did there?)
Luckily, I still have the number of Shoni’s friend’s dad, and he arrives with his briefcase and a stern expression minutes after I’m allowed to make my phone call. He tells the police to charge me or release me, otherwise he’ll be claiming wrongful arrest and harassment. Not only that, but he’ll be contacting his cousin who works for the Daily Mirror and giving him a story of inhuman DSS workers and police brutality.
When I get home, there’s a message on the answerphone from Mick. ‘Roberta, would you please call me. You have my number.’ Is this a dig? Or does he just want me to collect my things from the office. There’s no way I’m showing my face in there. They can keep my “Office Bitch” mug and the photos of my kids.
I receive another weird email from the same address with the subject line: “So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted”.
WTF?
#situationvacant
My hunt for a new job started today. It was a sobering business. For all the experience I have, on paper, I’m not that attractive. Having worked for the same company for the majority of my adult life and working my way up fro
m being a glorified tea girl, I have plenty of skills and knowledge but not so many formal qualifications. I’m looking in the situations vacant section at the positions I’m qualified for. I’m almost ready to go cap in hand to Mick and beg his forgiveness. I say almost. Hell doesn’t have snowmen just yet.
Letter number thirty
October 1967
My Dearest Bertie,
The doctor thinks I am having twins. He says I am far too big, and he can feel two heads. At first, I was afraid I was giving birth to a monster, but now, I am sure that he is right, and I am to have two babies. I hope it will be a boy and a girl. The boy will look like you and the girl like me. I’m reminded of my own dear twin. The brother I lost. He would have loved you so much, as you would have loved him. How sad I am that the two of you never got to meet. How sad I am that he will never share in the pleasure of our twins.
You are, and always will be, in my thoughts daily. My love for you will never be diminished, even though he tries to beat it from me. The floggings only serve to make it stronger. He complains about everything. The way I look, the way I eat, the way I speak. Nothing is good enough for him. He accuses me of having a mouth full of marbles and of thinking I’m better than everyone up here. He beats me if he hears a trace of my “pretentious southern drawl”. I’ve all but lost my accent, and I’ve lost myself.
Yours forever,
Alice
Letter number thirty-one
April 1968
Dearest Bertie,
The twins are born, and they are the most beautiful children in the whole world. Michaela is the most delicate and sweet little girl you ever did see. Robert (he forced me to name him for him) is imperfect but perfect to me. He has something called a cleft palate and harelip. It will require surgery, but I’m sure he will recover and be fine. I have never felt so happy, and I never thought I could be happy without you. The children are a piece of you that I’ll carry with me every day. You would be a perfect father to them, and when they are old enough, I will tell them all about you, and I will tell them about their hero uncle who bravely saved a family during the war, but then lost his own life before he could escape to the country.
The M Word Page 9