by Helen Cullen
An elderly man with a white beard that twisted into a point at his knees sat watching him from a bench; he was methodically stringing multicoloured beads on to purple yarn to make long necklaces akin to the dozens he wore. William started when he caught his eye but the resemblance to Merlin felt like a good sign and he approached him to begin his hunt for Mr Prummel.
‘Hello there. I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
‘Not so far. I’m wonderin’ if the disturbin’ bit comes next.’
‘Oh, I hope not. I’m just looking for someone. Maybe you know him, a chap by the name of Harry Prummel? Would you know where I might find him?’
‘Is he hiding from you?’
‘No, no. We’ve never even met. I just have to deliver something to him.’
‘So you have his address, then? You look a bit long in the tooth for a delivery boy.’
‘I work for the post office, actually, and his address was missing on a parcel. I just know he lives in Clovelly somewhere, and I wanted to make sure it gets to him safely, you see.’
‘No, I don’t see. In my experience, people who want to be found usually present themselves in the end.’
‘But he doesn’t know I’m looking for him in order for him to be able to present himself.’
‘Well, you are in a pickle, then.’
‘And even if he did, he wouldn’t know where to find me.’
‘In my experience, people who want to be found –’
‘Yes, yes. They present themselves. I guess I’ll just go and stand in the middle of the town, shall I? And wait for Harry to guess I’m looking for him?’
‘You could. Or you could call into his office. Young Prummel is the only accountant in town. His rooms are at the foot of the hill, over Betty’s tea shop.’
‘Oh? Well, thank you, but you could have just said that.’
‘Now, where’s the fun in that? Enjoy your slow-down, Londoner.’
William walked to the turnstile and looked over his shoulder before he climbed through. His Merlin had vanished. He turned towards the village. His knees slowly adjusted to the bendy way of walking that kept him balanced as he began his descent of the steep cobbled hill. The city he had left that morning seemed to belong to another planet. The little whitewashed cottages, with their flower boxes and pretty patterned curtains, were straight from the lid of a biscuit tin. It looked as if only happiness could live there. Of course, he knew the opposite was probably true, as the inhabitants battled the elements and the private demons everyone faces. He was sorely tempted to stop halfway down for a cream tea in the shade. He longed to roll up his sleeves and drape his blazer over the back of a pastel-painted chair in one of the friendly-looking tea houses that lined the route but decided to complete his mission first. He found himself taking a surprising amount of pleasure at the unexpected sight of the donkeys passing by with their loads.
The entrance to Mr Prummel’s office sat to the side of Devon Delights, a café William now understood to be owned by someone named Betty. He rang the doorbell but, receiving no reply, gave the red wooden door a little push. It swung wide for him, revealing a narrow, winding staircase. His knee creaked as he climbed up two flights of stairs before emerging abruptly into a tiny reception room.
A bespectacled woman sat behind an expansive mahogany desk that could not dwarf her formidable presence with its might. Her back was straight as a lamp post, her silver hair wound in a tight coil upon her head. A lilac paisley dress wrapped in a neat crease across her kitten-like frame. Her face was lined, but her eyes sparkled green as they darted from her typewriter to meet William’s own. He wondered if Winter’s eyes were the same shade of apple.
‘Good afternoon. Can I help you?’
‘Hello! I hope so. I was wondering if I could pop in to see Harry Prummel for a moment?’
‘I should think not. People don’t “pop” in to see Mr Prummel. He is a very busy man, you know. Did you not think to make an appointment?’
‘No, unfortunately I didn’t, but it’s not for professional reasons I need to see him. I have a personal matter to discuss. Is he not free at all, just for a moment?’
She started busily squirting water from a spritzer on to a family of succulents on her desk.
‘If it’s a personal matter, I suggest you see him in his personal time. Otherwise, you’ll have to make an appointment.’
‘Fine. Could I just make one for later today, then, please?’
She continued squirting for a moment longer before flicking briskly through a desk calendar that could serve as a doorstop.
‘The next available appointment would be three weeks on Thursday, 8.45 a.m.’
‘But I’m only here until tomorrow. Could you not just pop in to him and tell him there is someone here to see him?’
‘Are we back to the popping? As I’ve said, no one –’
‘What time does the office close? I’ll wait outside, if you don’t mind.’
‘Please yourself. Mr Prummel usually leaves at five o’ clock, but he may leave earlier, maybe later. I’m not his keeper. I couldn’t possibly say.’
William decided to treat himself to some fish and chips on the seafront and find a spot where he could sit and watch for Harry leaving the office. He walked along the waterfront, across the pebbly beach, and squirmed to feel grains of gravel invading his shoes. The vinegar soaked through the newspaper on to his hand and the salty smell intoxicated him as he perched on a low stone wall and relished in his indulgence. As Harry’s finishing time drew closer, William began to worry that he had somehow missed him. Maybe he wasn’t even working that day and his security guard had slipped out while he was buying his fish supper. Of course, it couldn’t have turned out as easily as it had promised to; so little in his life ever did these days. He shuffled from one foot to the other, pulling up an unruly sock that slid under his heel. He rearranged the detritus in his pockets so left became items to keep (house keys, Polo mints, handkerchief) and right became things to throw away (stray button, toffee wrappers, pen lid). He tried for a moment to whistle a tune but lacked the puff and resorted instead to conjugating Latin verbs in his head. As the chapel bell chimed five, William became fixated on the red door. It hadn’t opened once in all the time he had been waiting. He strained his ears at every suggestion of a creak, until, after ten more torturous minutes, it slowly opened inward. A jolly-looking man with a retreating hairline of fuzzy ginger hair casually strolled out, as if the most impatient man in England weren’t feverishly awaiting him. William vaulted forward.
‘Harry! Mr Prummel, excuse me! I was hoping to catch you.’
Harry Prummel turned, the tails of his jaunty red blazer spinning behind him.
‘Oh, hello. I’ve actually finished for the day, but you can speak to Mrs Whisker about an appointment.’
William held up his hand in protest and shook his head.
‘No, please. I’ve already met Mrs Whisker and explained that I’m only here for the day and wanted to speak to you about a personal matter. I’ve been waiting all afternoon. Could I just walk with you wherever you are going? I promise it won’t take long.’
‘I see. Perhaps we’d better go back upstairs?’
‘That would be marvellous. Thank you. I’ll explain everything.’
William followed Harry back inside and up the winding staircase, past a surprised and embarrassed Mrs Whisker, who was applying a little rouge when they appeared, and into an office even smaller than the reception area. There were potted plants everywhere and, as William caught his foot on a fern near his seat, Harry explained his partner, Liam, was ‘going through a feng shui phase’. ‘I’m not sure he totally understands what it’s all about, but one unfortunate element he’s latched on to is that plants foster prosperity, so now I’m working in a greenhouse. Anyway, how can I help you, Mr …?’
‘Woolf. William Woolf. I work as a letter detective in the Dead Letters Depot in London, and I have a parcel for you that was lost in the post before reac
hing us.’
‘A letter detective? Well, that sounds fascinating. Does everyone get such a personal service, Mr Woolf?’
‘No, but some things aren’t worth risking losing twice, and I felt I should bring this to you myself, for my own peace of mind.’
‘Well, this is all very intriguing. Hand it over, then.’
William placed a padded brown envelope on Harry’s pristine emerald-green marble desktop and watched Harry survey it before nudging it closer to him.
‘Would you rather I left you alone, Mr Prummel?’
Harry looked more confused than ever but shook his head.
‘No, I think it’s better if you stay until we see what this is all about.’
Harry slid the contents of the envelope out on to the table and touched the surface of the oak case with his fingertips.
‘Can you tell me what’s inside, Mr Woolf? I must admit, this is all making me a little nervous.’
‘I think it’s best if you just read the letter, Mr Prummel. Please. There’s nothing to be afraid of.’
Harry swivelled his chair to the right to catch the last fading light from the window. William stared at the brown spirals in the rug beneath his feet to afford him what privacy he could. A shocked, wet gasp burst from Harry, and William looked up to see him holding one hand across his mouth as he read. Tears were gathering in his eyes as he turned back to face William.
‘Forgive me, Mr Woolf, for getting so emotional.’
He opened the oak case and laid the medal before him on the desk.
‘William, please. I know this must come as something of a shock.’
‘I owe you an enormous debt of gratitude, William. This letter releases me from a guilt that has clung to me my whole life.’
William sat up straighter in his chair, and asked, ‘So you knew about Frank Sillitoe?’
‘Yes, but I had no idea that he and my mother had communicated all these years. She’s passed away now. I don’t know why she didn’t tell me about him. I’ve always been afraid that he regretted saving me, resented me for surviving when his son had not. To think I have always had his blessing. I feel a great weight has been lifted from me. Maybe I can go and see him and thank him myself.’
William smiled at him. ‘I’m sure that he would be relieved to see you after all these years.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you. The work you do – you must witness so many people’s stories, eavesdrop on their private lives, so to speak. It’s a big responsibility.’
‘Well, sometimes remarkable things happen, like today. Others, we have to let go because we can’t find a way to help. That’s always hard, but we try to remember that lives continue long after the last words of a letter are written and hope people find some other way. Maybe the letters who need us the most find us.’ William blushed. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sure that sounds silly to you.’
‘Not at all. How could you believe anything else and do your job? I wish I could repay you somehow; you’ve come all this way. Will you at least join us for supper?’
William considered this for a moment. He was tempted, but wanted to spend some time alone, exploring the village, contemplating his next move. As he stood to leave, William leaned across the desk to shake Harry’s hand, but he was instead pulled into a great bear hug.
His feet danced past Mrs Whisker’s empty desk, skipped back down the stairs and into Clovelly at dusk. Once again, he was struck by the power of letters to change lives; the medium they offered those who couldn’t or wouldn’t communicate in person. How much would be left unsaid if people were devoid of the opportunity that pen and paper offered to speak from a safe distance? He would never underestimate it. This was the message he wanted to deliver in the Volume of Lost Letters he was compiling. It motivated him to keep working, despite the apathy he felt at home from Clare and in the depot from Ned. Wouldn’t Harry’s story be the perfect way to open the book? He was filled anew with the excitement of his project. People would want to hear these stories; he was sure of it.
He made his way to the Red Lion Hotel and was pleased to see that his room offered a panoramic view of the peninsula. He thought about how much Clare would love it here and decided to bring her home a postcard, if he could find one that did the little village justice. He had achieved his mission. Filled with renewed optimism, he set out to explore.
With a little map he picked up from the reception desk, William set off to climb the Look-out. The sun was setting in a blaze of blood orange. Dark clouds crept in from the west, charcoal snakes slithering across the sky and smearing it in blackness. He hurried to the waterfall that was hidden halfway up to the Look-out but, as he climbed through to the cave at the back of the crashing waters, the heavens opened. He huddled for cover from the downpour, cursing himself for not returning to the hotel when he first saw the gathering thunderclouds. The rain showed no signs of clearing, so he surrendered to the soaking and started pushing back towards the harbour, head bent against nature. A fork of lightning illuminated the sky; the world’s greatest photographer turning on the flash of her camera to capture the dark, dripping village. William’s eye was caught by a lone figure, dressed all in white, standing on the brink of the Look-out. A woman stood with her arms outstretched, staring down at the storm over the harbour. Her trailing dress was plastered wet against her body, blowing behind her like a forgotten sheet on a washing line. Her long red hair tangled in the sea spray, the tendrils dancing in the wind like serpents’ tails, ribbons of fire against the electric black sky. He was frozen in time, spellbound. She melted back into the shadows and disappeared into the night.
William staggered back to his lodgings and dried his prickling skin with fluffy white towels that smoothed away some of the corners of his jarred state of mind. Hastening to pull the blinds in his bedroom, he kept his eyes lowered as he drew closer to the window frame. A childhood fear had resurfaced and caught him by the heart; he couldn’t look directly at the glass or he would see someone looking in, or worse, another face reflected over his shoulder. ‘Get a grip, you old fool’, he mumbled. ‘You’re just winding yourself up.’
He decanted a hefty shot of Jameson’s from the mini-bar into a crystal tumbler and breathed in the aroma before he drank his first hot sip. He held the whiskey up to the light: pure amber swirls, no particles or imperfections. When things with Clare had started to unravel, he had made a decision never to drink alone in the evenings, although he sometimes found the urge to resist difficult in mornings and afternoons, too. He didn’t want to return to the months following his publishing failure, when most important occasions, and many inconsequential ones, were bookended by something to take the edge off in anticipation and something to savour in reflection.
He curled the liquor around in his mouth; a little ball of heat rolling over every tooth, dancing on his tongue. A slow swallow slid down his parched throat, along his spine, to tingle the tips of his toes. He turned on the radio and bristled at the screeching white noise of uncharted radio waves. The dial found him BBC Radio 3, and the comfort of the musical grace of Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight’ piano sonata descended upon him. He rummaged in his satchel for a notebook and pen and sat straight-backed at the little pine desk in his room. The Prummel encounter had struck a nerve; he knew he had stories to tell. Down the drainpipe, rusty water flowed once again. On and on he wrote, and the words rang true. It was effortless. Just before midnight, he stopped. Ended on just the right sentence. This was the second time the words had come in as many weeks. He sat back in the stiff wooden chair and nodded. Maybe the drought was over.
The electric light from the skies crackled around the perimeter of the window blinds. Occasionally, the laughter and squeals of his neighbours next door reminded him he was not alone in this weather-racked hotel by the sea. If Clare had been with him, he was sure they would be sitting up in bed, excitedly watching the storm vent her fury, clutching each other under the covers with each crash. How he longed for Clare that night; missing her fostered
tight pangs in his chest, fists beating the bones of his ribs, denting his heart-box. He desperately wanted to tell her about the writing; needed her acknowledgement. He unearthed the number of her hotel from his travelling bag and stretched to drag the telephone down from the locker on to the plush taupe carpet beside him.
After two short rings, a soft Welsh accent whispered into the phone.
‘Good evening. Harvest House, how may I help you?’
‘Hello, could you put me through to Clare Carpenter’s room, please?’
‘Are you sure you want to disturb her? It is after midnight.’
‘Yes, this is her husband. It’s fine.’
William counted the rings while he waited for Clare to answer. One. Two. She’ll be stirring. Oh God, I hope she isn’t too furious about me calling so late, or for calling at all. Three. It would be worse to hang up now. She’s probably blinking into the dark, looking for the phone. Four. Five. Six. Is she wondering who it is? Why isn’t she answering? Seven. Eight. Is she afraid to answer in case it’s me?
Click.
‘Oh, thank God. Clare, it’s me. I’m sorry for calling so late. I just really need to talk to you –’
‘Excuse me. I’m sorry. Mr Carpenter? You’ve come back through to reception.’
‘Oh.’ William paused, curling and releasing his toes in the carpet fibres. ‘Can you try her room again, please? And it’s Mr Woolf. My wife kept her maiden name.’
‘I’m afraid I can see now that your wife’s room is unoccupied at the moment. Her key is here in reception. Would you like me to give her a message upon her return?’
‘But it’s so late. Where could she be? Are you sure you have the right room?’
‘I’m quite sure, and I couldn’t hazard a guess. Shall I ask her to call you?’
‘Yes. No. Please don’t, it’s fine. Thanks, anyway.’
William fumbled the handset back into position and struggled to stand up; he could feel the effects of the whiskey in his knees now. The earlier euphoria drained from him. Where could Clare be? She didn’t know anyone in Wales. Not that he knew of. Was it better if she did have friends that he had never heard of, or if she had met someone new and struck up an acquaintance? Surely she wouldn’t just fall into conversation with a total stranger? That was really not like her, but she could hardly be out somewhere on her own? Maybe she’d had an accident. Oh God. If she were in trouble, no one would know for days that she was missing. Maybe he should call the hotel again and explain how out of character this was, see if the receptionist could check the hotel bar, enquire if anyone knew what time she had gone out, who she had left with. William paced the room, the storm raging once again inside him. The full force of Clare’s distance from him hit him hard, a screw twisting in every one of his soft spots. And there was nothing he could do but wait.