The Lost Letters of William Woolf

by Helen Cullen

She dropped the soggy bag of pastries on the kitchen table as he slowly shook his head. Crouching beside him at the table, she asked again. ‘William! You’re scaring me. Please tell me. What’s happened?’

  And so the story unravelled. For eighteen months, no words had come to complete the novel he had promised to deliver. The short stories that had secured him the contract remained the only work completed. It wasn’t that he hadn’t finished the book; he had never even really begun. Before he had secured the publishing success he coveted, with its advances, opportunity and obligations, the blank page had held no fear for him. He had attacked it with vigour and Clare had marvelled at how effortlessly the streams of consciousness flowed from him. ‘Like turning on a tap,’ she used to say. ‘More like rain running down a drainpipe,’ he would joke in response. Now, though, the weight of expectation had flattened him, he explained. Squashed his inspiration. It was as if, by consciously trying, he could no longer access his subconscious. He had scared away his voice.

  ‘Nonsense!’ Clare shouted. ‘You just need some discipline, hard graft, perseverance.’

  She didn’t understand, he insisted. ‘It’s not something I can force myself to do, it’s not like building bricks or working in a factory. The harder I push, the further away it pulls.’

  Clare dashed into the living room, grabbed the file she believed held his manuscript, the great novel she’d sworn not to read until it was ready, and shook its contents out across the kitchen table in impatient disbelief. Reams of white paper scattered; some had one or two lines typed, others haphazard diagrams, scribbles and crossed-out handwriting. Most were blank. He had been methodically filling the file every day with faux progression; it grew fatter with his lie and the mounting pressure.

  ‘I kept hoping I would have a breakthrough, that I could salvage something,’ he whispered. ‘I couldn’t admit to you what was happening, or to myself. I was sure I could claw it back.’

  ‘And now?’ she asked.

  ‘The publishers won’t wait any longer. I’ve missed the deadline for a first draft too many times. The editor demanded to see the work in progress. That’s why Olivia was here. It’s over. And they want their money back.’

  Writing a cheque to repay his advance from their savings was the least painful part of the process. She tried to have some empathy for what he must have suffered while nursing his secret but was floored by the daily deceit. How could he lie to her day after day for all that time? She had learned to accept his explanation, but never to understand it. Who would throw away such a chance? And hide their failure from their wife? Why was he so scared to be vulnerable in her eyes? She remembered tossing the pastries the next evening, stale and conjoined now with the brown paper that had wrapped them. She hadn’t brought William doughnuts home for afternoon tea since.

  Clare drained the dregs of her wine and walked out of the hotel without a clear idea of where she was going. She followed the lane towards the village, enjoying how the drivers of passing cars waved in acknowledgement, regardless of not knowing her. St Gerard’s consisted of just one square with a church, a pub and a school commandeering three of its sides. On the fourth, there was a tea room with striped deckchairs in clusters of twos and threes arranged around suitcases set as tables outside, and an antique shop selling furniture and bric-a-brac. Looking through the window at the paraphernalia, fixtures and fittings, it reminded her of the terraced house where she grew up and she felt a chill. Clare’s mother had always told her she had an over-active imagination and threatened to ban her from the library if she didn’t get her feet back on the ground. She looked at the heavy spiral wallpaper adorning the walls of the shop and remembered how, in her half-sleep, the ivory flock pattern on the rose-red wallpaper of her childhood bedroom had danced. She lay under pink ticklish blankets, fingers stroking the white silk ribbon around the edge, and tried to trick the dancers into staying until she called her papa, but as soon as she blinked, they were gone. The ghosts from the wall had haunted her nighttimes for years, until she turned twelve and paint became more fashionable than wallpaper and the paper with its dancers was stripped away. Her mother painted the walls oatmeal, a flat, dull non-colour that Clare later covered with the artefacts of her adolescence: black-and-white posters of John Lennon, a giant print of Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust album cover and framed pictures of Greta Garbo, Ginger Rogers and Judy Garland. She missed the dancers sometimes after they were gone, when she no longer had to fear absorbing their strange, shadowy presence into her mind. They had been long forgotten by the time she found herself looking in that dusty window in the village square when they fluttered back into her consciousness.

  The hem of her long-suffering sky-blue jumper snagged on a window box and a strand of wool unravelled. Clare released it, cursing another fray, for she could never part with it, no matter how mangled it became. She loved the white stars as big as her hands that her mother had clumsily knitted into the pattern. There weren’t many happy memories from her childhood that she clung to, but the day she unwrapped that jumper was one of them and she didn’t want to let it go. As she tied a knot in the loose strand, she watched through the window as little glass balloons bobbed from an oak bough perched on a mantelpiece: orange red and powder blue. Something about the light, how they danced in it, stirred an old feeling. She was eleven and her ghosts were dancing.

  Clare shuddered, despite the brilliant white sunshine that illuminated the square, casting shadows and dispersing fragments of dust. She hurried next door, to a newsagent’s that promised to sell ‘all essentials and even some extras’. She decided to hunt for a novel to read in this newly acquired time for herself; the door jangled a dream-catcher constructed of seashells to announce her arrival. The back wall of the shop consisted of rows of paperbacks, and she made her way to it, past the ice-cream fridge, the carousel of postcards, the shelves of sweets in glass jars. As she crouched down to read the titles on the bottom shelf, a pile of clumsily stacked sketch pads in the corner caught her eye. She mooched closer and shuffled through them until she found an A5 version with thick ivory paper inside a soft mulberry leather cover. It surprised her to find something so exquisite in this little rural shop. Before she could change her mind, she grabbed it and marched to the counter, where she picked up a handful of pencils, an eraser and a sharpener. At the last moment, she threw a sherbet Dip-Dab and a Fry’s Turkish Delight on top, too. She was on holiday, after all, of a fashion. She felt a rush of excitement as she tucked the striped lemon-and-white paper bag containing her treasure under her arm and clattered the shop door closed behind her.

  Back in her hotel room, Clare opened the sketch pad on the first page and laid it carefully on her dressing table underneath a freshly pared pencil. She backed away from it for a moment, wary about discovering if she could still use these tools with any flair. She paced back and forth, poured herself a miniature gin and tonic from the mini-bar, and sat down; rolled the pencil between her fingers, feeling its weight, before making a few tentative, wispy strokes across the paper. Quickly, she tore the page from the spiral spine, scrunched it into a ball and tossed it on the floor. A memory of her art teacher in school came back to her. ‘Leave everything on the page,’ Miss Forde had said as she strode around in the room in black leather trousers. ‘Be bold or be nothing.’

  Clare swallowed the alcohol in two mouthfuls, wiped her mouth on a paper serviette and stared at herself in the mirror where she sat. She sketched out the long, oval shape of her face, drew a line from her forehead to where her chin would be, marked lines for the shape of her cheeks, nose and jaw and then began to define her eyes, mouth and ears. Her work was silent and steady until the natural light left the room, forcing her to turn on the lamp beside her.

  She continued working as the drawing became more and more detailed, but her eyes grew weary. When she woke up a few hours later, she had fallen asleep at the dressing table, head slumped forward, pencil in hand. She held up her drawing and saw her own face staring back at her. Clare had
to admit it was good. She closed the cover of the sketch pad, held it against her chest for a moment then crawled under the blankets of her bed. Reflecting on the day as she savoured the weight of the blankets engulfing her, she was surprised at how it was ending, despite its horrific beginning. It was a blessed relief to have no anticipation of human or alarm to wake her; to fall asleep with thoughts of herself alone and not the torment that had plagued her so. As she slipped away into a slumber, a small smile rested on her face.

  IX

  In the three days since Clare had left, William heard from her only once, via a message on their answering machine giving the number of her hotel in Wales. In case of emergency only. What was she doing there? Was she alone? William sat in the Dead Letters Depot, listening to Marjorie gossip about him through the partition walls: ‘I’m just sayin’, ’e looks desperate. I bet she’s left ’im, she always thought she was too good for ’im.’

  He leaned back in his creaking leather chair and contemplated escaping to the Supernatural Division as he scanned the postal debris strewn across his desk. A long cylinder wrapped in newspaper caught his eye, an irregular shape amid the pile of impatient homeless post awaiting him. He dragged it closer with a wooden ruler, bulldozing over the other parcels in its wake. The newspaper print was tattered and smudged, the name and address smeared into long streams of blue, a dirty mess conjuring up a damp smell of soggy paper that curled up William’s nostrils. He gently tore the now tissue-like newspaper away, flinching as it caught under his fingernails. He edged carefully around the smudged address in case any of it could be deciphered. Ten sheets of newspaper peeled away. A final layer of protection – cardboard from a cornflakes cereal box – before a thin oak case with a copper clasp was revealed. William peeled a grey envelope from the cardboard where it had been secured carefully with Sellotape on all four edges. It was addressed to Mr Harry Prummel; the name was written in small, neat capital letters with a fine-tipped blue pen. William opened the case first. Inside lay a gleaming silver medal in the shape of a cross with an image of St George and the dragon at the centre; it hung from a navy-blue ribbon threaded through a silver ring. The inscription ‘Francis Sillitoe’, the date 26.07.42 and ‘For Gallantry’ were engraved around the centrepiece. William felt the cool weight in the palm of his hand, fingered the silk ribbon between his fingers. It reminded him of how Clare’s skirt had felt against his face the morning she left, and he blushed. He laid the medal back in its case and opened the letter that accompanied it.

  Dear Mr Prummel,

  I call you Mister, although in my mind’s eye you will always be the little chap of seven that I held in my arms. I don’t know if you remember my name, or ever knew it at all, in fact, but I have no doubt you remember the day we met; some days are burned in our memories for ever, even those of a seven-year-old.

  I was the man who climbed into your window and carried you from the fire on that last godforsaken night of bombings. We had been fighting the flames for fifty-seven days. I was exempt from active military service because I was a civil engineer but hated feeling like I was dodging my duty as my friends and brothers all did theirs. When the bombing began, I volunteered as an ARP and felt as though I was finally doing my bit, although my bit proved more than I ever could have imagined. When the first bombs started dropping, I coordinated a rescue team and, through the nights and days that followed, we did manage to save a great number of lives, including your own. I will always be proud of that. It was for these rescue missions that I was awarded the George Medal you find enclosed here. It was my greatest honour to receive it and I have held it dear all these years.

  What you may or may not know is that on that last night of bombings, my own house was struck, and burned down. My wife, Dorothy, and my little boy, Charlie, didn’t make it out. He was seven years old, too. I have regretted every day since that I was not there to save them, but I will never regret that I was there to save you.

  I’m not long past my ninety-fifth birthday and I won’t see another. I hope that I find Dorothy and Charlie in the next life, and that they’ve forgiven me for what happened. What worldly possessions I have will all go where they should, but my medal, I would like you to have. I will never forget your face when I picked you up; how your little hands gripped the back of my neck as though you would never let me go. I have never let the memory go.

  You may be wondering how I have found you after all these years. Well, after the war, your mother and I stayed in touch. She was very distressed about Charlie and always sent me a letter on his birthday and filled me in on how well you were doing. It has been a joy to read of your successes all these years, and it has helped me to place what Charlie might have been doing if he was still with us. I was very saddened to hear of your mother’s passing. She was a wonderful woman, as you know. Please accept this medal with my very best wishes for a long life, full of happiness.

  If you do say some prayers, say one for me, if you think of me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Frank Sillitoe

  William picked up the medal again and said a little prayer of his own for an old man who had lost his son while saving another. He gently spread the address label flat under the light of his desk lamp and scrutinized the diluted letters. The first two lines were completely illegible but he was sure the next read ‘Clovelly’ and, unless he was mistaken, there was only one Clovelly in the United Kingdom and this parcel had been destined for Devon. Without a doubt, this delivery qualified for special treatment. He reclined in his chair while an idea percolated; maybe he would take a road trip and deliver it himself. He dreaded his evenings alone in the flat and everywhere he went he was haunted by memories of Clare and apparitions of Winter. Every time a red-headed girl passed him, he wondered whether it could be Winter; convinced that she was close. Was that her walking ahead of him, reading a book on the opposite train platform, or looking out of the window as a bus whizzed past him? The city was shrinking around his shoulders. He needed some relief from the constant battle that raged inside him as he flitted from despair at the loss of Clare to hope at the thought of Winter. Thoughts of the two women pulled him back and forth. He still loved Clare, so why was he not impervious to thoughts of someone else? Even if it was something of a fantasy. Winter’s appeal for folk to find strength in their own person lay heavily on his mind. He would travel to Clovelly, track down Harry Prummel and deliver the parcel himself. It would be good to focus on something tangible and real; he needed to accomplish something.

  The following morning dawned crisp and clean. The sky looked as if it were painted by a child with only one blue in his paint box and no time for clouds. William donned the official postmaster blazer he was supposed to wear every day but seldom did and loaded up his beloved Ford Corsair. He willed it, first of all, to start, and then, ultimately, to survive the five-hour drive to North Devon. William had inherited this old motor from Uncle Archie and would never be able to let her go, even as ‘Corina’ grew more and more exhausted and begged for retirement. It was foolish to risk such a long journey in that jalopy, but William needed to feel the power of really driving, to breathe in the history of the leather seats, to surround himself with the safe cocoon of happier times. He was confident that Corina was on his side and would chug through. He packed chocolate peanuts, a bottle of apple juice and a Tupperware box of dried prunes into a Marks and Spencer plastic bag. In his overnight case, he crammed pyjamas, fresh clothing, a pair of binoculars for exploring and The Woman in White. The War of the Worlds on cassette would keep him company as the miles rolled under his wheels. He considered calling Clare’s hotel to tell her where he was going but decided against it and left a note on the kitchen table instead.

  Dear Clare,

  I hope that you find this note, because that means you are home. I am sorry I was not there to see you walk through the door. Work has taken me to Clovelly. (Can you believe it!!?) I’ll be home soon and I hope more than anything that you will be here waiting for me.


  Love,

  William

  William felt the universe had granted him a little reprieve in placing Harry Prummel in Clovelly, of all places. He had wanted to visit ever since he was a little boy but, somehow, had never made it. As a child, he was obsessed with the legend of King Arthur and the great wizard, Merlin. He worked Merlin into every school project he could and, from as young as eight, had acquired quite an exhaustive knowledge of all the myths related to him. When people spoke about the Troubles in Northern Ireland, he loved to tell them that it was all Merlin’s fault, really: ‘You see, Merlin had advised King Ambrosius to build Stonehenge to honour the dead, but they didn’t have enough stone to do it justice and so they invaded Ireland to gather the resources.’ It was a theory that usually provoked some strong reactions.

  Legend suggested that there was a waterfall in Clovelly where Merlin was born. William had always nursed a dream to hunt Merlin across the country, visiting all the places that he was associated with and retracing his steps. It felt a foolish pursuit for a grown man, however, and remained an inner-voice whimsy that was seldom vocalized when planning the annual fortnight’s holiday with Clare. He was tickled to tick one destination off his list, though, and relished the idea of a night away from the loneliest bed in London.

  It was almost six hours later that William proudly parked at the visitor centre on the edge of Clovelly. Corina had taken a little longer than he’d hoped but had not let him down; he felt vindicated. He hadn’t realized that the fishing village was a private estate, but he imagined that was how such a famous idyll had managed to retain its old-world charm. He was pleased to see they had prevented the tumbling, four-hundred-feet-long cobbled high street from becoming festooned with tourist traps and souvenir shops. William stretched his arms over his head and shook away the driving cramps that had settled in his legs.