LETTER 97: TO BETTY, 2 OCTOBER 1965
Dear Betty,
I must write. An eternity has passed since I saw you. Saturday was a complete non-success. It rained all the time, but I hardly noticed it, and as the day dragged endlessly on it began to sit my mood. Silly me, I looked for you on the bus. I walked the streets of Keswick looking for you, although I knew you would not be there. I walked the streets of Cockermouth looking for you, although I knew you would not be there. I went on to Loweswater for no better reason than that you said you had once been there. I walked by the lake; there was not a soul about. I stood under a tree and listened to the rain on the leaves above. I was wretched. For the first time I was not merely alone, but lonely. Desperately lonely. What folly, to have put so much distance between us when every instinct urged me to get closer to you! I wanted you. I needed you. I thought of you all day with such tenderness that I felt I was melting away. As for sorting myself out, I couldn’t: I need your help to do that. I sighed the three words ‘oh Betty please’ a hundred times that day, not quite knowing what I was asking of you. Perhaps simply that you should not forget me. Only hours had passed, by the clock, but it seemed to me that an age had gone by without word or sign from you.
I want so much to be with you again.
Forgive me if I should not have written. But I badly need some reassurance that I have not been dreaming, that I was not wrong in feeling some response from you. You seem worlds away at this moment. How cruel a silence can be when it is not explained or understood! You may have disliked my book and be now disliking me. I know I suggested no contact for a month, but that idea has proved a complete non-success too, except perhaps as an exquisite torture. How can I know what a silence means? I want to hear you whisper that you have not forgotten me.
Alfred (to you)
It is an hour since you rang, and I have spent it gazing out of the window. Thank you for letting me hear your sweet voice again and for being so wonderfully kind to me. Now I know you have not changed. And I am very very happy.
Betty, in her letter back to him, said that she had decided to call him Red from now on, thinking of the red hairs she had noticed on the back of his hand and also as a diminutive of Alfred – which of course he never used or liked.
LETTER 98: TO BETTY, 5 OCTOBER 1965
On Saturday I had coffee at my usual place at Keswick: a nice quiet place of shaded lights and soft music. A lady asked if she could share my table. I said yes, of course. She had a kindly face; she was rather older than I. The background music switched to ‘Rose of Tralee’, a haunting melody that I first heard John McCormick sing and which always brings me close to tears. I would like this to be our song. I wanted to tell the lady that I had found the most wonderful girl in the world. I wanted to tell everybody, even the man sweeping the street. I can tell only you.
I didn’t get to the top of Gable. The weather was glorious and I was infinitely happier than last Saturday, but I had your last letter with me for company, and halfway up I thought I would turn aside from the path and find a quiet hollow in the heather and read it yet again. So I did, and then I felt to dreaming and trying to recall every word you said to me last Wednesday. After which it was much too late to go on and I wandered slowly down to Seatoller in a happy trance
Yesterday I spend on my book, as I always do on Sundays. Sunday is my best opportunity – I can get 10 or 12 hours at it. All day I wondered what you were doing, and ached for your touch again. I have so many ideas for you, for us. In the evening I watched a film on TV, attracted by the title ‘Magnificent Obsession’, which seemed singularly appropriate. I enjoyed it. The story, a sad one, would hardly bear analysis, but there were nice sentiments in it. It ended happily, as I wanted it to do. Please, B, I want to buy you a TV for Christmas. It would be one way of sharing experiences while apart.
The word I was searching for was not therapy. It was telepathy.
I have ringed two dates in the diary – first anniversaries. But I hope the whole year will record only pleasant events and incidents. You deserve so much to be entirely happy. I like the name you have given me. So simple and so appropriate, yet nobody thought of ‘Red’ before. Yes, I do like it. Sounds tough! I always fancied myself as a cowboy riding the lonely ranges, and Red is just right for a man who sits tall in the saddle. And this is exactly how I have felt since last Wednesday. Tall in the saddle. On top of the world. A world that has turned upside down in three amazing weeks. And I like it so much better the way you have changed it for me!
Take very good care of yourself in Dublin, love. Remember all the time you are away that there is someone here waiting for you to come back, and wanting you.
Red
Betty was going to Dublin to see her husband, to discuss divorce arrangements, which had been planned, long before AW appeared. While she was away, AW climbed Great Gable with Harry Firth, the printing manager of the Westmorland Gazette, who had been charge of the production of AW’s books since the beginning. Cindy was AW’s dog.
LETTER 99: TO BETTY, 19 OCTOBER 1965
Monday,
Betty dear, I am missing you awfully. We are separated by distance, with only your sweet letter, received this morning, linking us together. It is a frail bridge across space, your letter, but a comfort in my loneliness. It tells me you are safe, and well, and coming back to me.
The wonderful experiences of last Thursday evening, when for a blissful hour you took me into another world, a world with only the two of us in it, I shall never forget and I shall never try to forget. Everything was just perfect, as I have long dreamed it would be, as I have long known it would be, if ever I found you. It was wonderful, like being on an island away from everything and everybody else. I was conscious of you, and only you. I have lived in a cocoon of happy thoughts ever since. The warmth of your embrace is ever in my mind, somehow protecting me against the unkindnesses and irritations of life, the little niggling things that happen every day. These things don’t matter any more. What is important is that when you hold me close, I feel safe. I suppose I am a big baby, really. I want just to snuggle up to you and let you deal with the world outside me. I know you would handle everything competently as you do the car. I want only to hold your sweet body, and cling and cling and cling, while you look after me and kiss me often.
Great Gable was duly climbed last Saturday by an all-British expedition consisting of Mr Firth and myself, our combined ages being 107. I was not an attentive companion, I’m afraid, my thoughts being very much elsewhere, and in fact once, in the car, I found myself gently stroking his knee. However we got to the top all right, and down again. A thick mist hid everything. On the summit I found a place to sit facing Ireland (which Mr F must have thought a bit mad because it was exposed to a drizzling rain and there were better shelters nearby), but visibility was down to 30 yards and never improved. But it was a good day. I was happy, and back in form. Mr F greatly enjoyed it – mist on the mountains was a new experience for him – and asked to go with me again and do the same walk in clear weather. OK, I said. And could he bring his son? OK, I said. Oh how I wished he had said could he bring Betty McNally. OK, I would have said, quite casually, but my heart would have been racing. We have fixed November 6th for a repeat. I have another and much more important engagement on the 30th.
Ten hours on my book on Sunday was enough to finish it, except for revision. I was alone with Cindy all day. I must thank you for understanding so well last Thursday. Telling you my story was the oddest thing! I had been dreading bringing back the old memories, yet you made it so easy for me. You sat quietly listening, so quietly that I felt I was talking to myself. It was a strange feeling, to be talking of things I had always tried to hide, and it could not possibly have happened with anyone else. You gave me your legs to caress, and it was lovely to do this: they were a link between us in the darkness. Today’s letter tells me you did understand. Bless you, for this and for everything.
I have found a delightful place in Keswick fo
r coffee on the 30th, and next Saturday I shall make a tour of all the ladies lavatories so that I can be the perfect guide. Nothing must be left to chance on the 30th. I want this to be happiest day of my life. I want to feel you are mine, and only mine. For twelve blessed hours, in surroundings I have come to love. All this, and heaven, too!
Tuesday
I have saved the postscript until I can feel you are really on your way back to me. Such a lovely day for your flight, and such a lovely feeling for me!
Red
LETTER 100: TO BETTY, 25 OCTOBER 1965
Thursday
Better dear,
Before last night I had reason enough to be grateful to you – for being so delightfully friendly, for taking an interest in me, for seeming to understand.
After last night’s overwhelming kindnesses I cannot even begin to speak my thanks. The car ride was lovely (I wasn’t a bit frightened by your driving); and the coffee (with nothing forgotten) was an inspiration. But these were kindnesses others might have shown me. No, it is of the very special kindnesses that I write, the kindnesses that only you could have shown me. The interlinking of fingers when I tried to start to tell you my story and couldn’t go on; the sympathy that seemed well enough expressed by a clasping of hands; and, later, your utter sweetness, your caresses, the touch of your lips, the whispered words of close embrace. There was mystery and magic enough in the night itself, although this would have passed with the morning, but what happened between us cast over me a spell that will be with me forever. Betty dear, I want last night to happen again and again. I wish all nights could be like that.
Monday
Today I came down to work with an eagerness not usually associated with Mondays. There was your letter, shy and forlorn amongst fifty others paying bills, wanting Council houses, and so on. I fondled the envelope and put it to one side to be read quietly when my tea was brought in. Alas for another resolve! By ten past nine I had read it over and over again. All day I have been taking peeps at it. Betty dear, what can I say in reply? Every word in it is charming. I am half-swooning at my desk for love of you. I am afraid the ratepayers are not getting value for money out of me these days at all, at all. How I wish these last few months of service were fled! I am in chains here. This is no place to be, with you in my thoughts all the time … I can only answer your letter with my arms around you.
My new Monday-morning habit is to scatter all the mail that is brought to me in an impatient search for your now-familiar writing, and read first of all what you have to say. The rest is unimportant, and can wait. For a few moments I can feel you are with me again, and am suffused in a warm glow. I am all tenderness for you.
Thank you for telling me about your weekend. I had been wondering. I am always wondering. How crowded your life is, really! You have the house to look after, a two-acre garden, the children, the car, your friends, you have lectures, meetings, concerts to attend. Is there really room in it for me, too? Am I intruding in the pattern of life you have chosen for yourself? A fear is creeping into my mind, and I want you to kiss it away!
Tonight I have meetings to attend, but my thoughts are all of tomorrow. Another day of waiting and then we shall be together gain, really together, in the quiet of the evening. I think of the other nights there have been, of the moments of tenderness, of kisses in the dark, of your heart lying against mine. There is still so much to be said, so much to learn about you – but first twelve days of waiting must be rewarded, twelve days of stored-up affection must be expressed, twelve days of hunger must be satisfied. I want to hold you close. It is five weeks since you called to see me – five weeks today, at just about this hour. It is five weeks today since I fell in love with you. Five wonderful, amazing weeks. I try to think what life was like before. I thought it was a full life, and I was content with it. Only now am I beginning to realise how much better it could have been.
Trying to write to you in the office is very difficult. Every few minutes something happens to bring me back to earth with a bump. Visitors, telephone calls, letters to sign, staff enquiries, meetings to prepare for. My time is divided between my desk and White Moss Common; my thoughts flit from one to the other bewilderingly. But now I am going to steal across to the Fleece with your letter, and read it yet again, and then try to read what is written between the lines. It was delightful to see you at midday: you disturb me but re-assure me at the same time.
Until tomorrow, love. I cannot wait, but wait I must. I leave the agenda to you, but first you must be held close. I must go now. When you get this letter tomorrow will have become today. Our meeting will be only a matter of hours, our kiss only a few hundred heartbeats away.
Red
The big meeting took place in Keswick, a favourite spot for their secret meetings as there was less chance of people from Kendal spotting the Borough Treasurer doing any sort of canoodling. Betty arrived in her car. AW came on the bus, as usual.
LETTER 101: TO BETTY, 1 NOVEMBER 1965
Sunday evening
Betty my love,
Yesterday was the most wonderful day ever, and although 24 hours have gone by since we kissed goodnight I am still utterly under the spell. There never was another day like it, from the moment you appeared – or even earlier, when there was the excitement of knowing you would come for me. In terms of geography, our journey covered ground I have covered many times before, but never like this, never like yesterday. How much I prefer your company to my own! How much I admire your competence in every situation, when my own thoughts are floundering in dreams, and your many accomplishments! How I like to hear your sweet voice talking to me – about anything! What delight and comfort there is for me in your lovely little body! Betty dear, thank you a thousand times for making yesterday possible and giving me a memory I shall never forget.
It was all too wonderful to be happening to me, and if I seemed a little quiet and sad on the way home it was only because a perfect day was coming to an end. But you have promised me other days, and much more even than that, you have promised yourself to me, that you will come to me for always if even I can ask you. Oh Betty, if only that could happen! Oh my darling that would be the greatest kindness of all … So today I am not less happy although you are not with me. My dream of a future together may be proved idle, but it is so very pleasant to think about!
I can hardly believe the good fortune that brought our widely-different paths side by side. I am still completely bewildered by the happenings of the past few weeks. If I try to think rationally, nothing makes sense. Why should you have taken this interest in me, of all people? Why should the sweetest, liveliest creature I have even seen prefer to eat fish and chips with me out of a newspaper sat in a car in a scruffy side street, than to attend a social banquet as a special guest with the nobility? This is the sort of thing that happens on the pictures, but I am no film star. Why should it happen to me? Why me?
And the incidents in the car, the trembling ecstasies of nearness, the gentleness of your touch, the softness of your lips. Why, of all men, should I be the one so privileged? Not even the gods fared better. But these are questions only you can answer.
Today has been happy, too. I have been studying my maps for a visit to Wuthering Heights, and, from what I remember of the story, our walk across the moor should be done on a wild and stormy winter’s day – soon, please? But most of the day I have been doing a drawing for you, because I want you to have something of me in your home that others may see, something that has not be secretly locked away. I like drawing better than writing because the mind can wander, and today it has wandered over every incident of yesterday, and returned to each one time and again – and nothing happened that was not altogether delightful. We talked over coffee, and there was positively not another person in the whole world except yourself – yet when it was time to go I found the room crowded, even our table being shared. I liked shopping with you. I liked the rain. I liked the little walk we had, the plans we made, in our secret valley. I liked you
changing your clothes in the back of the car, because this gave me confidence to feel someone rather special. I was glad you were with me to help me out with the conversation at Badger Hill. Everything was just right yesterday. Even the unkind weather didn’t matter one little bit, as you said earlier it wouldn’t. My plan for giving you a scrumptious meal that would have made your little tummy as tight as a drum went awry, but that didn’t matter either, and I wouldn’t have missed the interlude outside Ambleside Police Station for worlds. Oh, Betty!! Please let’s go on, and on, and on. I love you so very much, and I need you more with every passing day
Red
Monday:
I dared not expect a letter from you today, but there was one for me as usual, and as kind and charming as usual, telling me what I love to hear you whisper, thrilling me, making me want to hold you close for ever. Yes, dear, there will be other days, other meetings, other kisses. There must be. Yes, dear, we will go again to Badger Hill, and write our novel, and snuggle up close in bed. Somehow, we must. And yes, dear, I will come to Fowl Ing. I must. I am riding on the crest of good fortune, and I have a most wonderful feeling that heaven is opening its gates for me, or that you have opened them for me. I stand on the threshold, eagerly – yet a little fearfully because I know I cannot enter, and will never enter, unless you are by my side and holding my hand.
You must never leave me, Betty
Red
AW had taken to wandering past Betty’s house, Fowl Ing, even when he knew she would not be at home, or hoping to spot her car in the street. Apart from sweet nothings, they had also been discussing animals, which they both loved, and charity work. He had told her about his RSPCA plan (see Letter 82) which Betty encouraged him to do.
The Wainwright Letters Page 18