Doris has been making some discreet enquiries from a local tailor about the correct wear for my visit to London. She reports ‘black hat, morning coat, striped trousers;. The tailor will fix me up if I want, for three pounds ten shillings (hire, not purchase). She says she would consider it a proud privilege to go with me. So there, you see.
Peter confirms his arrival on leave on September 7th. He is hiring a car again, and will therefore be able to help me with that final and ill-starred walk up Knock Fell from Dufton. Later that month I must go down south and get Bleaklow and the Peak done. (Something has gone wrong with the typewriter: the ribbon has stuck – it should jump up and down when you hit the keys).
I always read your letters over and over again, squeezing every ray of hope out of them but without gaining much comfort these days. Now you promise soon to explain your ‘rather complex feelings’. There you go again, hurting me! Have I become a problem? See, love, the issue is dead simple, not complex at all. Either you do or you don’t. That’s all you have to decide, and you don’t have to do it right now. It’s nothing to get all mixed up in your mind about. It isn’t, anyway, a matter for the mind to work out; it isn’t a matter of cold calculation, it’s an affair of the heart. If there are complexities, there are doubts. If there are doubts, commit yourself to nothing. That makes sense, doesn’t it? Anyway, forget I asked. We drifted together and we can drift apart if you want it that way. It’s just up to you. You have a very full life now, lots to do, lots of friends. If your new life, besides being full, is also happy with things as they are, well then, why take on a bad risk? Spare me an explanation of your rather complex feelings, please: it could only make me unhappy.
I’m sorry if I seem peevish. I have just been reading that last bit again. It sounds like sour grapes. Maybe it is. I am not rebuking you, or being unkind, not intentionally. Oh Betty, please understand! I am deprived. I am sick of an old passion. I have grown used to you and miss you terribly. I, for one, still do. I, for one, always will. Kirkcarrion has no double meaning, for me. The turn of events distresses me. Change the subject! In the garden, the philadelphus (mock orange) has blossomed and faded since you were last here. The hydrangeas are putting on a fine show; they must have heard you say you didn’t like them. The lavender is in bloom, and the first nasturtium is in full flower. But the garden is a wilderness, and the Virginia creeper is climbing up the windows and even coming through the slates on the roof. Reminds me of the old neglected house in ‘Rebecca’. Next year I really must get down to tidying up. Too late now for this year.
Thursday evening.
Miss B___t called to see me at the museum this morning, full of her Scandinavian tour and very bright and cheerful. Quite obviously she has no idea that her name is being taken in vain, the bastards! I hope she never finds out.
As there had been no word from the solicitor, not even an acknowledgment of my Homeric effort, I rang him up from the museum. He says (a) everything is in hand, (b) he has filed a ‘blanket’ denial, i.e. a complete denial of all complaints, (c) he has consulted the barrister, who has expressed the view that the complaints are too thin to be supported; we are all to meet in September, (d) that the Courts are now in summer recess, and he does not expect the case to be heard until around Christmas, and (e) that I have no cause to be despondent about the outcome. Christmas! Five months!
I was never adamant about not seeing each other; or if I was, I am weakening every day. No, my concern was, and is, that you should not become involved in my troubles. If I cared for you less, I should concern myself less. If you were involved, you would never forgive me and I would never forgive myself. I would not have you hurt for anything. I would rather sacrifice your friendship altogether than have you (and Jane and Anne) made unhappy because of me.
I have worked hard this week and am now some miles north of Bellingham. Tomorrow I’ll take a day off, and go to Morecambe to do some shopping (soap, of all things, not records) and see ‘The Sound of Music’. I’ll work Saturday and Sunday, unless Saturday happens to be a beautiful day in which case I’ll explore new routes up the Calf.
The privations of these past months are taking their toll on my tummy. I’ll be lean and slender and more distinguished-looking that ever when you see me again. And hungrier!
Funny thing about the typewriter. I shall miss it. Buggar, buggar, buggar.
R
Miss B___t was Mary Burkett, Director of Abbot Hall, and an old friend of AW’s – who was not aware that there were rumours circulating round Kendal, heard apparently by Ruth, that she was the woman AW had been having an affair with.
The reason for visiting a tailor was that he had heard that Harold Wilson’s Labour Government had awarded him an MBE and he was planning to go London to receive it later in the year.
LETTER 130: TO BETTY, 3 AUGUST 1967
Friday evening.
Dear B,
Today I have been to Morecambe, a place that depresses me, especially when crowded with visitors. To escape the glare of the promenade, which hurt my eyes, and get away from the Lancashire dialect, which offended my ears, I took a ride on the Sand Trail Express, a daring thing for me to do – this is an open wagon with seats, driven by a tractor dressed up as a train engine with a long funnel like Stevenson’s Rocket. Do you know, I enjoyed it, just as I enjoyed the pillion ride. I was taken on a two-mile ride across the sands, for 1s 6d; and from way out in the bay, Morecambe doesn’t look too bad, while the view across to Lakeland, on this day at least, was very good indeed.
Then I went to see ‘The Sound of Music’ and was no longer depressed but quite wonderfully uplifted. There were only two other people in the balcony, and nothing to distract attention from a very beautiful, very happy and yet very moving film. It was fab. If I could make a film like that I would consider it my life’s work. At times the screen went misty and tears rolled down my face, and it didn’t matter because there was nobody to see; but mostly I was enthralled by the wonderful happiness of the story and the glorious scenery. Julie was magnificent: she was you, when I have seen you happy. I enjoyed it tremendously. I sat transfixed. It did me a power of good. I felt a heel for having written to you as I did. I knew now that I had said things that were hurtful, and if I had not already posted my letter, I would now not.
Red
LETTER 131: TO BETTY, AUGUST 1967?
It is a habit of mine to watch for your car whenever I am out, even in the most unlikely and impossible places. I remember sitting on the parapet of the bridge at Bellingham, for instance, watching the traffic as intently as if I had a rendezvous with you. And the times my heart has missed a beat at the approach of a car that looks, at a distance, like yours!
Today I have worked hard on the book since 9 a.m., and slowly my hand is catching up with my boots. When it does I am resolved to clean the house thoroughly, so that when my cousin arrives next week he will not feel sorry for me. I have no appetite for this coming holiday at all. I have said not a word to anybody about my domestic affairs, apart from yourself and recently, briefly, to the solicitor in the thesis you saw, but it seems inevitable that my cousin will have a few questions to ask, and I am not disposed to say anything.
It has been a cheerless day, with the rain lashing the windows and the hills obscured in a pall of wet mist. I have badly wanted you to call; I listen for the gate opening, but it never does. On a miserable day like this, when I am housebound and rather lonely, the Pennine Way is a blessing: without it to pass the time I should feel completely lost. Where is my life drifting? What aims have I left? What is to be the end of it all? These are the questions I ask myself. I do not know the answers. Bedtime now. The electric blanket is operational again.
Betty then informed AW that it looked as if she would not complete her three-year nursing course in Kendal, as she had expected, but would have to continue it in London, at Whipps Cross Hospital – another reason to make AW alarmed.
LETTER 132: TO BETTY, UNDATED
Monday evening.
Not much has happened today. At the museum two boys called to have books autographed and then Mr Firth appeared with my cheque for royalties for the first six months of the year (562 pounds) and discussed details for printing ‘Pennine Way Companion’: in particular the colour of the Rexine cover. This I had intended to ask you to select, but I think you will approve my choice of turquoise. It is your colour. It will match. You will be able to sit in your turquoise car, wearing your turquoise dress and turquoise earrings (inter alia) with a turquoise book on your lap, and you will look right bonny.
This afternoon I did a full page of drawings in 3 and a half hours, which is good fast progress, and am now only six miles short of Byrness.
Tuesday evening
Your letter arrived this morning, and was more welcome than a cheque for a fortune. It was Magna Carta: it freed me from my worse fears. Not only that, it transported me, made me feel good again. Oh B, it was sweet, and charming. I had deserved reproach, but reproach there was none – only kindness.
Yes, I understand now, perfectly. I will not ask again for too much, to have you wholly; but you will not mind if I go on dreaming my favourite dream, without ever mentioning it again? Yes, love, we will have it the way you want it, for as long as you want it. You put your case with sweet reasonableness and I have no counter-argument. You win. Your intention to work for your own security is admirable, and, because there is really no compulsion to do so, noble – but please don’t ever again suggest that your life up to now has been wasted or unfulfilled. It is a fine thing to be independent, but it is also a fine thing to have others dependent on you, knowing they can rely on you, and this has been your position these past 19 years. This is really the fundamental role of a woman and a mother, and surely there is more fulfilment of life in this than in being concerned only with a career? Don’t be too humble and penitent. You have made a lovely and intelligent woman out of the little frightened girl who went to Casterton School; you have made a charming and devoted mother; you have failed in nothing. Feel proud of your accomplishments, as you ought.
Yes, love, we will do anything you say and everything you want. See each other, be loving companions, walk together. We must. Your letter inspired me, and I have worked today like a man possessed. I am trying to get up-to-date so that I can send you all the pages you haven’t seen – Cross Fell to Byrness – before I go away. I will post them to you next Wednesday, then you needn’t rush and could return them when you call. When you call! How nice to be writing that! I will enjoy my holiday but look forward eagerly to coming back, not to an empty house and an empty life, but to you, my sweetheart.
Wednesday evening.
More good progress today; am now within 2 miles of Byrness. This is going to be a splendid book, the sort I would have wanted for my own as a boy.
I have been studying the map of the Yorkshire Dales National Park and find the area too big – it is a big as Lakeland – to be dealt with in a single volume, so have reverted to my original idea, the Craven district only. The difficulty of having no boundary to work within can be overcome by a change of title: ‘The Limestone Hills of Craven’, so that I can confine myself to my favourites (north of the Kirkby L–Settle road: Casterton Fell, Gragareth, Whernside, Ingleborough, Penyghent and a few more), which are, better still, easily accessible – and omit the soggy peat moors I like much less. This will be a fascinating task.
Apart from the usual explorations and ascents, there are some 300 caves and potholes to be discovered and plotted exactly; and, as you know, the whole area is delightful walking country. Envy me the next two years. This book will give me tremendous pleasure. And it will be good because I shall enjoy doing it. Yes, love, come when you can, and help me. I will save the best walks for the days you can come along. The area is so handy that half-days would be OK, and so convenient that even the short days of winter can be put to good use. It will be great to have you with me. Mrs Newsome, here we come! Oh, no, we daren’t – they’ll ask about the children. Many, then, at Goat Gap? No, not until we have our divorces. Never mind, chick, I’ll go this very Saturday* and look for a new place. Oh Betty love, aren’t you excited? It will be wunderbar (pron. Vunderbar).
Of course Doris is not going to London with me, silly.
Now will you please let me know if you two working girls, plus Diddy, can manage a night out to see ‘The Sound of Music’? I know it won’t be too easy for you. The evening performance starts at 7.15 prompt, and so does the picture (nothing else is shown) and the opening shots must NOT be missed, so you would have to be there at 7.10. Do try, please. I could go down for the tickets next Tuesday, otherwise after I return from Scotland.
* more probably Friday, Ingleton gets so crowded on Saturdays
No misunderstanding – I shall not be in the next seat. I shall weary you if I write more, but gosh! How nice it is to write to you and have you in my thoughts now that we are good pals again!
So do I!! as if you didn’t know!
R
LETTER 133: TO BETTY, AUGUST 1967?
NEW READERS START HERE
Red, a rather distinguished-looking local government officer, and Eric, who beggars description, are engaged on a tour of the Scottish Highlands. Although beset by difficulties of travel, they are pushing on with their programme and contriving to live elegantly en route. In our last instalment they had reached Oban and were about to start the hazardous voyage to Mull.
NOW READ ON
OBAN
Saturday night (in bed)
I have enjoyed today.
The weather could not have been better for a first visit to Tobermory, and the place lived up to expectations. This quaint village (capital of Mull) lies around the curve of a land-locked harbour in a single line of clean and colourful shops and cottages facing the bay, with a background of steep wooded slopes. I think we’ll have a fortnight here. My honeymoon plans now cover nine weeks.
I have a lovely room at the front, with the quaint white church on the left and the river curving round on the right. Before I pulled the curtains there was a sickle of moon over the hills. Your letter was handed to me as I came in. Thank you for being so faithful to my wishes. I loved it – except for the pencilled postscript, which disturbed me with its reference to domestic crisis. I hope this is over whatever it was. Don’t worry, love. What you need is a man in the house. Me. This must end my news from Scotland, Betty. I will be on my way back to you when you get it. Please come to Tebay, and please be just as I remember you.
It seems so long
Red
LETTER 134: TO BETTY, UNDATED
KIRK YETHOLM, six o’clock in the morning. Tuesday.
Have super holiday, you said.
I am simply fed up to the teeth. The weather is awful. It rained all the way down from Aviemore (where we had a look round the Sports Centre (brochure enclosed), opened since your visit last year). It was raining when we arrived at Kirk Yetholm, and now 12 hours later, it still is. The mist is down to the fields around the village and the hills are invisible.
I do not like the Border Hotel, where we are staying. The building itself is charming, raftered externally in Tudor style, part of the roof being thatched, and it is well furnished in oak and brass inside, but mine host is inane and inefficient, an ex-Squadron Leader complete, after the fashion of his kind, with widespread moustachios. I was half-expecting trouble, his letter in reply to mine about accommodation (for which he kept me waiting three weeks) caused misgivings by its untidy and illiterate style; and I was not really surprised on arrival when he disclaimed all knowledge of the booking, saying he had never received my confirmation (which I had sent by return post). The woman who waits on the table told me afterwards that she had no doubt he had blundered again, as he was always doing. You will understand the mentality of the man from the card (enclosed) that greets visitors in their bedrooms. However, the room was available and we could have it.
I am unhappy here. After the spaciousness of the Coylumbrid
ge this place gives me claustrophobia. The rooms are small and overcrowded with furniture, and there is no privacy at all. There are nine people staying here and the tiny lounge is congested. The others talk endlessly of their homes, their cars, their families, their holidays, each trying to better the others, while Eric sleeps and I creep further and further into my shell. Worse, there is only one lavatory.
LETTER 135: TO BETTY, 2 OCTOBER 1967
NOT TO BE READ IN A HURRY.
SAVE IT UNTIL BEDTIME.
Sunday morning.
Dear Betty,
You must have known I would have to write again, after last night. My purpose is not to try to revive anything that we agreed should be buried, and I am not going to be petulant. I want this to be the nicest letter I have ever written.
Something went wrong around midnight. I did not want our friendly association to end in tears. It had always been such a happy affair. Together we built up a little heaven for ourselves that nobody ever knew about. It was ours, yours and mine, and nobody else could have shared it or even understood. I cannot think that any woman was ever loved more. You were an angel to me. I had never known such wonderful happiness as you brought me, and I had never thought that a woman could mean so much to a man. You made bright for me a period when, without you, I would have been sunk in black despair. Your smile and your kiss chased away the shadows. You were always a rainbow of hope for the future. In our own little world, together, we could forget the tragic past and the present held no secrets. We understood each other well. As we said so often, we were just right for each other. I am sure you felt as I did, until changed circumstances changed you too. You began to be restless in my arms and started peeping over my shoulder at the world we had left. You began to feel you must play a part in it. You had a longer future to look forward to then I had and your life might be uncertain and troubled unless you equipped yourself to meet it. I was selfish and didn’t want you to go, but I had nothing to offer and could see the sense in your new intentions. Yet I am convinced that, for a blessed interval in time, you were happy with me, and that, if only other considerations had not pressed so cruelly, we could have built together a life of mutual tenderness and affection.
The Wainwright Letters Page 23