The Lost Letters of William Woolf

by Helen Cullen

  The sooty night vanished into itself as a grey half-light swept in. William eventually fell asleep, muffled by the whiskey, a pillow squeezed tight against his naked chest. His dreams were wild visions of a woman with scarlet hair sitting on the distant rocks, calling him out to sea. Clare stood on the shore, growing smaller and smaller. The water around him turned blood red, thick and swampy, so his movements became slower and he struggled to wade waist-high through the tide. He looked over his shoulder at Clare. Her cries were keening in the wind around him, but she was static, a statue full of sounds who could not move. The sun seemed to shine straight through her, a blinding white light too harsh for him to stare at. William felt fingernails running through his damp hair, scratching down his spine, nibbling at his ears and neck, but there was no one there. He woke up at the wrong end of the bed, tangled in his sheets, a towel hot with sweat across his face. His eyes were glued closed by a salty crust and a little drummer boy pounded away in the darkest recesses of his mind. He staggered to the bathroom and sat in the shower, an ice-cold stream washing over him, shocking his body awake. He relished the cold tiles against his skin as he rested his forehead against the glass and waited for the dawn of a new day.

  X

  When Clare and Flora staggered into their hotel room in the early hours of Wednesday morning, several hours and too many drinks had passed since William’s telephone call had rung into the silence. The alcohol bullied Clare’s repressed feelings into reappearing, and she struggled to stay in control. It was harder than she had thought, asking for help, and it pained her to show Flora how much she was really hurting. Her first instinct was still to be the strong one; to protect her.

  On Tuesday morning, Clare had been awoken by Housekeeping knocking on her bedroom door; the sudden disruption disorientated her as she recalibrated once again to the hotel room, her singular status and the mild throbbing in her temples. She staggered to the door, opened it a crack and asked them to come back later. The heavy brocade curtains were drawn tight, creating the illusion of night. When she pulled them wide, she was momentarily blinded by the sunlight that flooded into the room. For each day of her trip, Clare had slept late in the morning, and her body thanked her for it. After she had showered, dressed and coffee-ed, Clare called Flora and asked her to join her. If Flora was surprised to receive a summons from her big sister to come and stay with her in Wales, she hid it with aplomb.

  In advance of her coming, Clare carefully packed away the sketch pad and pencils into her suitcase, evidence of the experiment she had continued to embrace in the last few days. They were the seeds of something very delicate; she didn’t want to scare what she had discovered and risk it dissolving in the light.

  It should have been a three-hour drive from Flora’s garden flat in Clerkenwell to the hotel, but she arrived more quickly than Clare had expected. Upon her arrival, the sisters met in reception with an awkward hug that was all elbows and chins. Clare noticed that Flora’s hair was longer now, and her own strawberry-blonde colour for once. She looked fresh in a white woollen dress with a butterfly brooch and wine cotton tights. Clare was surprised to see her little sister looking so put-together. They drank peppermint tea in the conservatory and shared little bits of small talk while they adjusted to being in each other’s company again.

  Flora rapped Clare’s knuckles with a silver teaspoon.

  ‘You’re not listening to me. Come back.’

  ‘What? Sorry. I’m here. You were talking about the china being like Nana’s.’

  Flora rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, yes, I was. About fifteen minutes ago. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on, instead of having me sit here talking to myself?’

  Clare poured more tea and gave her sister an exasperated sidelong glance.

  ‘Oh, don’t look so pained, Flora. You’re making me feel worse, just looking at you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I’m trying to keep my cool here, and it’s not easy. Can you please tell me what’s happened? You’re not sick, are you? Is William okay?’

  Clare picked up the teaspoon and let it hover over the sugar bowl for a moment before placing it back on her saucer.

  ‘We’re both fine, but’ – she hesitated – ‘our marriage isn’t. I haven’t left him … but I am taking some time away.’ She watched Flora’s expression remain unchanged. ‘You don’t look very surprised. I thought you’d be shocked.’

  ‘Well, things sound worse than I thought, but the last time I saw you both things seemed pretty tense. I guess I hoped I’d just caught you at a bad moment.’

  Clare paused to sip her tea. ‘It would have been hard to catch us at a good one recently,’ she replied. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to panic you by dragging you down here. I just didn’t want to be on my own. I feel a bit silly now. I hope you won’t get in trouble at work?’

  ‘No, you did the right thing. I’m glad you called.’

  Flora’s cheeks were flushed; it reminded Clare of the blush that had bloomed so easily from under the collar of her sister’s ivory school blouse when she teased her at school. She had relentlessly tortured her as punishment for the easier life nature had bestowed upon her; the copper curls so often complimented, the solos in the church choir, her easy facility for spelling, maths and exams. It was a long time before Clare realized the impact her casual cruelty had had on Flora’s development, the holes it had torn in her confidence. She had focused so much on protecting her from their mother’s mood swings and alcoholic episodes that it had never occurred to her that she herself had caused Flora to suffer. The past was a moth endlessly fluttering at a hidden mohair jumper in her closet, undetected until the damage was done. She shrugged the thought away; this was not the time to revisit it. Their mother was confined to a hospice now; it was more difficult than ever to discuss what went before.

  The teapot sat cold and abandoned on a tarnished brass tray; dirty tea stains ran in rings around the royal-blue-and white willow-patterned teacups. The crumbs of almond and raspberry slices stuck to a silver fork and clung to Flora’s dress like mice on a life raft. It was all Clare could do not to reach across to brush them away. She watched her sister in silence for a few moments as Flora squeezed her bitten, unpainted fingernails between her legs. She resisted the urge to comment on them.

  Flora jumped up. ‘I think we need something stronger.’

  Clare glanced at the porcelain clock hanging on the wall behind her and was surprised to see it was six in the evening already. She nodded her approval and followed her sister’s lead as they ambled to their room. Flora paused on the stairs and smoothed her hand along the art deco wallpaper.

  ‘Remember at Nana’s, the way the pattern never lined up? She was so awful at putting it up but refused to get someone in. She would have cracked up, trying to match up all these little circles.’

  They collected their coats from the bedroom and strolled up to the village inn, where they curled up beside each other on a rose-and-ivory brushed cotton couch in front of the stone fireplace. A large quantity of white wine spritzers operated as a conversational midwife. They spoke of Flora’s trip to Thailand, of Thatcher, of Nelson Mandela’s imprisonment and how soon they would start knocking down the Berlin Wall. Clare realized it had been a long time since her thoughts hadn’t been completely consumed by either the status of a case or the state of her marriage. Sitting with Flora, she felt on holiday from herself, but she knew she couldn’t avoid the headline news all evening. After a comfortable silence eventually settled between them, she braced herself to push the bruise.

  ‘I know I haven’t been very forthcoming, Flora, but I don’t know how to explain. There’s no one easy answer for what’s happened.’

  Flora waited a beat before she asked the question Clare had been expecting all evening.

  ‘Is there’ – she paused – ‘anyone else involved?’

  ‘No, not really,’ Clare answered. ‘I don’t think so, anyway. He has definitely been flirting with a silly girl in the office, but I don’t t
hink anything really happened. That’s never been something I worried about with William, I’ll give him that.’

  ‘And what about you? Have you –’

  ‘Of course not!’ Clare leaned further away from Flora and untucked her legs from beneath her. ‘How could you even … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped, but no, there’s no one else … but I can’t say that, sometimes, I don’t fantasize about the idea of someone new, or a different William, at least.’

  Flora leaned forward, eager to keep pulling the thread.

  ‘But why would you want anyone else? You guys gave me a template for a relationship I could believe in. You’ve no idea what that has meant to me, after the disaster of Mum and Dad. You always seemed so happy. I remember when you did that terrible karaoke on New Year’s Eve, I sat there wishing anyone would look at me the way William looked at you.’

  Clare felt an unwelcome sting behind her eyes as she remembered her and William’s atonal Sonny and Cher duet. The moment held a crystallized beauty, from a time when their love and life was much less complicated. She glanced around the bar, distracting herself by surveying the two middle-aged women dancing with great abandon to Culture Club in the corner of the room.

  ‘Things were different then,’ she answered. ‘Before the depot took on a life of its own and William basically gave up any hope of being a writer, of really making anything of himself.’

  ‘He loves it there, though, doesn’t he? And if it’s enough for him, why can’t it be enough for you? Are you ashamed of it or something?’

  ‘Of course not. I just can’t understand how it could be enough for him. It was only supposed to be temporary. I just feel like he gave up, and I think it’s cowardly. It’s really hard to respect that, especially when it means that I have to work twice as hard to support us and still can’t reap the rewards of a nicer home or what have you. And don’t forget, this was his dream, too. It’s not like I’ve pushed it on him.’

  Flora poured half of her almost full glass into Clare’s; the effects of the alcohol were making her sister’s features blur a little. She spilled some on the carpet as she rebalanced herself and rubbed it in with the sole of her shoe.

  ‘Wasn’t he putting a book together about the depot, though? He told me about it at Christmas and seemed really excited about it.’

  ‘Allegedly,’ Clare snorted. ‘But we’ve been down that road before.’

  Flora sat up straight. ‘Okay, don’t shout at me but … If you could let go of feeling disappointed and start imagining what a new future together could look like, you might feel better about everything and he might get his confidence back.’

  Clare buried her face in the houndstooth throw that lay across the back of the couch.

  ‘That’s enough, please, Flora. My head is going to explode.’

  Flora pulled the blanket away from her sister’s face. ‘Okay, I’ll drop it,’ she said, ‘but all I’ll say is, it can’t be easy living with someone who assumes the worst of you all of the time and has such low expectations. I mean, you organized your own surprise thirtieth-birthday party because you didn’t trust him to get it right.’

  ‘Well, that’s only because history has taught me what to expect from him.’

  Flora started nibbling on her thumbnail but Clare pulled her hand away. ‘Stop it! You look like a crazy person doing that.’ Flora snapped her hand back and sat on it before speaking again.

  ‘You still love him, don’t you?’

  Clare muffled a moan into the blanket.

  ‘Of course I do, but as I get older, I realize that love is not enough on its own. It’s the day-to-day reality of living with someone that really counts. What’s love got to do with it?’

  Flora’s horrified face triggered Clare’s funny bone and she collapsed forward in hysterical laughter. ‘I have an amazing idea,’ she whispered. ‘Let’s dance.’ She pulled Flora behind her as she weaved her way around the tables to join the two women who were still dancing with gusto, this time to a Madonna medley. When Clare shimmied up towards them, they threw their arms around her like a long-lost friend and she felt emotion well inside her once again. She was all talked out and wanted to throw herself into the rhythm of the music, to climb out of her own head and feel the beat pulsate through her.

  The hours slipped away as they danced to each and every song the DJ played. By the time they found themselves tiptoeing across the wooden floors of the hotel lobby, Flora looked exhausted. Clare had thought about booking a second room for her sister before she arrived but, in truth, she wanted the company during the night. They hadn’t shared a bedroom, let alone a bed, since they were children, but it felt less strange than it could have. An unfamiliar shape in the bed was better than no shape at all. For the first time, Clare began to understand the appeal of one-night stands. The need for the physicality of someone else. To hear someone breathing and moving in the night. To know that, if someone touched your arm or leg, you wouldn’t shatter into a million pieces. In the darkness of the room, Clare could sense that Flora was still awake. She sat up in bed and started furiously plumping the pillows.

  ‘Why do I feel so guilty? I haven’t done anything wrong, not really. I’m just trying to make a change, to get us out of this rut. If I thought there was a way back for us, I would take it. You believe me, don’t you, Flo?’

  Flora put her arms around her and held on tightly as she shook out angry little cries.

  ‘I just feel like I need to do something drastic. To wake myself up. Before it’s too late.’

  ‘Let’s try to get some sleep. Everything will be clearer in the morning.’

  Clare lay back down, and Flora stroked her hair until her breathing steadied. The touch untangled the knotting threads in her mind. More tears were rising up inside her, but she didn’t want to cry in front of her sister again. She rolled over and scrunched up her face against the pillow, wiping her nose on the silky rim of the pillow case. Where had all her self-control gone? She needed to button herself back up and make a plan. Tomorrow would be a new day.

  XI

  William’s craving for coffee superseded the urge to collapse back into bed, so he made his way gingerly to the breakfast room of the Red Lion Hotel. His bones ached from walking, weariness and worrying. He sat out on the patio, where a whisper of wind could reach him and dance away shyly with some of the lingering thoughts that haunted him from the night before. He poured one strong brew after another. The weather gods had made peace and blessed Clovelly with a clear turquoise sky. William felt his mind clearing. The matronly waitress placed a full English breakfast in front of him and gave him a quizzical look.

  ‘Are you all right there, mister? You look a little peaky.’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks. Just didn’t sleep very well. I think the storm unsettled me. Silly, really.’

  ‘Not at all. There’s plenty to be afear’d of in a storm like that one. Many that wasn’t have met unfortunate ends around these parts.’

  He nodded and nudged the sausage, bacon and eggs around his plate with a fork, his stomach churning at the thoughts of a runny egg mixing with the previous night’s intake of alcohol. He forced himself to eat two slices of buttery toast and half a sausage before his delicate insides called a halt. He walked slowly back to his room and braced himself for another call to see if Clare had returned to her room.

  ‘I’ll put you through now, sir.’

  One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

  ‘Hello?’ Her voice was cloudy with sleep and confusion when she answered.

  ‘Clare! It’s me. I just wanted to see if you were okay?’

  ‘William? Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘It’s just, I tried to reach you last night, late, and you weren’t in your room so … I was worried.’

  ‘You want to know where I was, more like it.’

  ‘No, honestly, Clare, I couldn’t think … why are you whispering?’

  He heard shuffling in the background and Clare’s voic
e rose.

  ‘You shouldn’t have been calling in the first place. I asked you not to.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s just I’m down in Devon and there was a storm and I wanted to tell you that –’

  ‘Devon? Why are you there? Look, actually, it doesn’t matter. I’m hanging up now.’

  ‘– that I missed you.’

  Clare’s voice softened.

  ‘I’ll be in touch soon, William. Okay?’

  Her change in tone gave him confidence, her defences lowered for a moment.

  ‘Clare, just wait a minute, before you go, would you tell me where you were last night?’

  The phone call disconnected with a slam.

  William cursed himself. Why had he pushed? Why couldn’t he have just left well enough alone and ended the call nicely? Wherever Clare had been last night, he knew she wouldn’t have been doing anything wrong, didn’t he? He repacked his satchel and decided it was time to say goodbye to Clovelly and point Corina towards London.

  In reception, a dozen American tourists were waiting to check in. He shuffled impatiently at the back of the queue; an elderly couple in matching salmon polo shirts, plaid shorts and white baseball caps were extracting every possible opportunity to bond with the hotel manager through their check-in experience; ‘My parents stayed here on their honeymoon many years ago … I love how “vintage” the look is, it’s so quaint … Are your family from Clovelly? Is the food you serve locally sourced produce? A real fountain pen, how lovely.’