by Helen Cullen
William’s patience couldn’t stand it. He decided to take a final stroll through the village instead of waiting. In the morning sunlight, his jumper felt hot, scratchy and restrictive as he walked; he tied it in a loose knot around his shoulders and relished the fresh air settling on his bare arms. He stopped at the corner shop, bought a Lucozade energy drink, the Guardian and a white-paper twist of peppermints. On a low stone wall that hugged the harbour, he stretched out and inhaled the saltiness in the damp air as he gulped back the sticky orange elixir.
With every passing moment, as he flicked through the newspaper, he felt more revived. On page eleven, he was startled to see a familiar face peering out at him. Where did he know that little girl from? He scanned the article quickly for a name and laughed out loud. The Geology Rocks girl! Penelope Bernadine Foxcroft had made the news with her whale vomit.
Dr Rosamund O’Reilly cited Penelope’s discovery and recognition of the value of the ambergris as a remarkable feat and commended her sound judgement. The young geologist has been handsomely rewarded for her achievement as the ambergris is valued at £10,000. When asked what she would do with her windfall, Penelope replied, ‘I will invest it in my education, of course.’
William folded the newspaper in two and smiled at the photograph of Penelope and Dr O’Reilly holding the specimen somewhat awkwardly between them. He was a little disappointed that the article hadn’t mentioned the depot, but it didn’t take away from the huge satisfaction he felt at the outcome. What a victorious forty-eight hours in the life of a letter detective. He leaned back on the wall and turned his face towards the sun.
The good news carried him along the cobbled street, away from the harbour and towards the hotel. Should he bring something back for Clare? He paused outside Clovelly Fudge, admiring the towers of delectable treats covered in winking cellophane, like delicious chunks of edible Lego. Perhaps her sweet tooth would appreciate that. Across the street, a clapperboard sign advertised the Clovelly Gallery: ceramics and paintings inspired by the fishing village. Maybe he could find some new bowls to replace those that had been broken. He stepped into the whitewashed gallery and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the loss of sunlight. The room was cool and still, the stone walls hushed with secrets. He softened his tread to kill the echo of his footsteps pounding on the parquet flooring. As his eyes travelled over the walls, they rested for a second on each picture before skipping to the next. He was surprised to find not paintings of Clovelly but a series of photographs of flowers, indeed, a flower market. A strange sensation akin to déjà vu overcame him: had he seen these pictures before?
He picked up a photocopied leaflet that sat in a tidy pile on a tree-trunk table in the middle of the room.
Our visiting exhibition is a collection of works captured at Columbia Road Flower Market, East London, by the photographer W.W. The photographs will be on display until 1 May, when they will move to Shoreditch Town Hall, London. For sales enquiries, please contact Harry Prummel, Gallery Custodian, on 01237 422314.
Prummel! William found himself at the centre of some mysterious magic that he felt awaited his understanding before it revealed its intentions. Columbia Road Flower Market; he recognized it from the descriptions in Winter’s letters. W.W. Those were his initials. And half, at least, of Winter’s – assuming, of course, that Winter was her real name. A crawling awakening overcame him as he paced about the room; there was the Volkswagen Beetle filled with daffodils, sunflowers and daisies; the coffee trike with balloons floating high from the basket; the merchant in a pirate hat. He recalled the uneasy feeling that had soaked into him with the stormy rains: the woman on the cliff, the glow of wild scarlet, how the figure had tormented his dreams. Could this photographer truly be Winter? No. This was fanciful. He was letting himself get carried away. And yet, he had no explanation as to how Winter’s letters had reached him. Were the same forces at play here? Was this why he had felt compelled to come, now, after procrastinating for so many years?
Once the thought had crystallized in his mind, he became more convinced of the need to trust his instincts, that his heart understood what his head could not. He dithered on the spot, walking two steps forward, pausing to look at a black-and-white print of a woman wearing a full-length leather jacket belted tightly around her waist clutching armfuls of white roses. Circling the room, he felt his life fast-forward to meet its destiny without the need for his permission. There was nothing else for it: he would have to find this photographer and confront them, however irrational and ridiculous that may seem.
William clenched the leaflet in his hand and called out for assistance. A teenager, a coil of dreadlocks wound about her head, slunk from the back room and watched him with sulky suspicion with her kohl-rimmed eyes, a half-eaten banana in one hand.
‘Yeah? Do you need something?’ she asked. ‘I’m on my break.’
William strode towards her but tempered his tone when he saw her start and step back.
‘Could I please use your telephone? I’d like to speak to Harry Prummel about this exhibition.’ He waited. ‘I promise I’ll only be a moment.’
She sighed and beckoned for him to follow her with her banana peel through the heavy steel door she’d emerged from. The telephone was perched on an old wooden school desk with the seat still attached; a battered white leather-bound address book sat beside it, a string with a cracked biro taped to the outside. William attempted to wriggle into the seat but gave up in flustered shame when he heard the gallery assistant snort over his shoulder. He tried to ignore her inevitable eavesdropping and turned to face the wall as he listened to the ringing echoing down the line. Please pick up. Please pick up.
‘Prummel residence. Harry speaking.’
William gave an involuntary squeal of relief to hear his voice.
‘Harry! I’m so glad you’re home. This is William Woolf, from yesterday. I hope you don’t mind me calling but –’
‘William, your ears must have been burning – I was just talking about you! We’re still a bit overwhelmed here, but ever so pleased. Is there something I can do for you?’
The question threw him a little: what exactly was he hoping Harry could do for him?
‘Well, this might seem a little strange, but I’m in Clovelly Gallery at the moment and I’m just wondering if you might be able to tell me a little bit more about the photographer who’s currently exhibiting there?’
A second’s silence hung on the line before Harry answered.
‘Why, of course, she’s a client of mine who I met through some business in London. Long story. Bit hush hush. Would you like to buy something? I’m sure I could help negotiate a great price for you.’
William’s fingers traced the carvings in the lid of the desk – FC heart PD and a crooked star – while he considered this.
‘I actually just think I recognized some of the pictures … I wondered if I knew her. Could you tell me her name?’
William gripped the desk as he waited for a reply.
‘Alice-Ann Strout – why, do you know her?’
With those three little words, William was utterly deflated.
‘Oh, no. I don’t think I do, then, after all.’
He was about to close the call when a thought tugged him.
‘Sorry, Harry, but why does it say “W.W.” on all the photographs? Why not her real initials?’
‘Oh, that’s a pseudonym of sorts. I don’t know what it stands for – her artistic nom de plume, I believe. You can ask her yourself, if you like. She’s staying at Crazy Kate’s old cottage. Very lovely woman. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you popping over. Tell her I sent you! But good luck getting away without buying something …’
William’s mind was racing with the sudden onslaught of new information: there was still a chance. He refocused on Harry’s chatter. ‘Crazy Kate? Is that a real person?’ he asked.
‘It was once, God rest her. She was a poor woman who lived in what is now the oldest cottage in the village. She was driv
en demented by her husband drowning at sea and then, one day, she donned her wedding dress and followed him into his watery grave. Terribly sad. There but for the grace of God, as they say. You can’t miss her cottage; it’s the one overlooking the harbour with the long white balcony. If you call in, do send Alice-Ann my best.’
William retraced his steps back to the harbour; he could picture the cottage Harry had spoken of in his mind’s eye. Euphoria about his epiphany soon gave way to the panicky realization of what might happen next. Could it really be his Winter? Or had he finally lost his mind? And if it was her, how would he explain who he was? Hello, I’m your Great Love? Was he? She had probably never anticipated anyone reading her letters. Yet, she must have hoped someone would. Would she be disappointed that it was him? Should he mention straight away that he was married? Reality slapped him. He stopped on the pathway for a moment. What would Clare say if she knew where he was going? Shouldn’t he be chasing after her instead? She was the one who had left him, though; she was the one running away. If she hadn’t left for Wales, he wouldn’t even be in Clovelly. He tried to validate his behaviour by condemning hers, but it didn’t sit right with him to blame her for him being here. He knew that this choice was his alone.
Having reached the cottage, William paused outside; a planet of uncertainty spinning out of orbit. There was no point searching for a voice of reason now. If Winter was this close, he had to go to her. What if this was all meant to be? If he was Winter’s destiny and he was the only one who knew it? Maybe Clare leaving was all part of a grand design of which he knew nothing. Besides, it might amount to nothing at all, just an awkward conversation that ended with Winter fleeing back to London to throw her writing paper in the fire. If so, he could accept that, he presumed, but he knew he couldn’t live without knowing. William was unravelling like an old wool jumper with every passing second; he needed to tie a knot in this.
He had never anticipated approaching Winter so impulsively; this pleasure trip was fast becoming one of the least relaxing experiences he had ever subjected himself to. William’s resolution was fading rapidly as he climbed the wooden stairs to the front door of Crazy Kate’s, but he held his nerve as he lifted the brass knocker and let it drop in one loud clang against the lilac wood. From inside, he heard a squeal and claws scampering across floorboards, then footsteps. As the door peeled inwards, a snow-white cat brushed past his legs and scarpered over the veranda. William’s eyeline saw white tights first, inside black velvet ballet slippers, the ends of a purple-and-grey silk kimono, before looking up to find his question asked and answered in the same moment. Alice-Ann’s long red hair framed a face William thought must have adventured through eighty years or more. Silver streaks snaked from her temples through the tresses he knew must once have been a spectacular fiery mass. In a lilting Scottish accent, she asked him his business.
‘Your photos, Ms Strout,’ he answered. ‘I was hoping to buy the one of the Beetle, with the flowers.’
She gave him a long, hard look.
‘Are you sure that’s what you came here for?’
He found her gaze unnerving but held firm. ‘Yes. Harry Prummel told me you were here.’
She stepped back into the hallway and handed him a pad of stiff cream parchment paper and a well-sharpened pencil.
‘Here. Write down where we can contact you. Harry will organize something at the end of the exhibition. I’m not sure why he didn’t take your details himself.’
William smiled at her sheepishly. ‘I wanted to meet the artist,’ he replied.
She tore off the sheet of paper he had scribbled on and glanced at it before folding it in two and slipping it into the loose pocket of her kimono.
‘Did I see you last night, perhaps? On the Look-out?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps,’ she answered, with a shy smile of her own that touched the dove-grey pools of her eyes.
He fought the urge to tell her why he had really come; he felt, but rejected, the impulse under the scrutiny of her gaze. As he walked away from Alice-Ann and tried to shake off the strange feeling of loss that settled upon him, she called after him, ‘I hope you find what you’re looking for, Mr Woolf.’
He turned and gave her a little wave.
‘So do I, Ms Strout. So do I.’
XII
William sat on the edge of their marital bed, unmade, as he had left it when he departed for Clovelly. He pulled off his shoes and socks; grit escaped and vanished in the carpet fibres. It was a dispiriting memento of his excursion. He lay back on the crumpled duvet, turning his face to breathe in the familiar lavender smell that faded but never completely left their Egyptian cotton linen. He remembered arguing over buying such expensive sheets when they first married:
‘I just don’t think we should be spending money on luxuries when we are trying to save for our deposit.’
‘A good night’s sleep doesn’t count as a luxury. Just imagine rolling around naked under this soft cotton every night. If we had sheets this soft, I might never wear pyjamas to bed again.’
It was an argument easily won by Clare. He envied now the problems he once lost sleep over: adopting a puppy; parental visits; spring cleaning; plans for Bank Holiday weekends. He missed the normality of bickering without subtext, sulks trumped by tickling; the everyday debates over which movie, cereal or newspaper to buy. Those were the days before everything became contentious and the flat littered with landmines that they awkwardly danced around. He knew they could not sustain a marriage through memories of better times alone. William groaned and rolled over, squashing his face into a pillow. It was a never-ending cycle. If they were going to stay together, this couldn’t be the way they communicated – or failed to communicate – for much longer. Would Clare be throwing what he had done, or failed to do, back at him until he was eventually granted the sweet release of death? What a calamity his life had become. Clare had absconded to Wales and he was wasting time daydreaming about a woman he didn’t even know existed. He fell asleep, still fully dressed, with his dusty toes dangling over the side of the bed.
On the walk to the depot the following morning, William tried to imagine a life with someone new. Being with Clare was truly the first proper relationship he had ever experienced. Could he start again and learn how to love someone else? Would it just happen naturally, if it was the right person? He had married his first real girlfriend. Were they wrong to be so hasty? To marry their future selves together when they didn’t know who those people were yet? He knew so little when they met; he had acted purely on instinct and the lessons he had gleaned about love from music and books. Back then, there was no doubt in his mind that Clare was the one, and that such a person could exist.
At eighteen, he lost his virginity to one of his mother’s friends; she propositioned him after hiring him to paint her house the summer he left school. Gloria gave him a basic education in how to please a woman, but she was not a challenging taskmaster. William sensed that any young body, far removed from her husband Ron’s ageing bones and grey chest hair, was probably sufficient. In a moment of particular cruelty, Gloria once told him that sleeping with Ron was like hugging a big bag of yoghurt. Ron wasn’t a hard act to follow. He convinced himself at the time that he loved Gloria, but it was more of a childish crush and it faded as soon as he arrived at university. He still thought of her fondly occasionally, of her leopard-print tracksuit, the smell of hairspray on her sticky perm, the lines on her ankles where the fake tan stopped, and wondered what had become of her, although he never dared ask his mother.
It took longer than he had hoped to meet someone new, and in the years before Clare burst into his life there were only two other girls. Oona was an owly creature, with a long brown ponytail that reached the base of her spine. She was studying anthropology and William dated her for nine months without ever sleeping over. They had passionate kisses that steamed up her glasses, but she held his hands firmly by his side and he didn’t know how to either accelerate or terminate their relation
ship. She eventually broke it off with him after winning a scholarship to study in Bolivia.
Her successor, Leonora, was an entirely different species; she had inherited olive skin, jet-black eyes and wild ebony curls from her Greek mother and the long limbs and chiselled cheekbones of her Swedish father. She was the darling of the science department; men hovered around her, hoping for a secret smile or a soft word. William became obsessed with her and worked very hard to win her attention, accompanying her to evening lectures he did not understand, learning to cook vegetarian meals, allowing her to sketch him while he posed half naked, scorching with embarrassment. She told him she liked how kind he was; how he didn’t try to possess her like the other men on campus; how he bothered to listen to her properly when she talked – he wasn’t just waiting for her to finish so he could speak again. When she at last led him to her bed, he felt completely unprepared for it. The night of unbridled passion he had fantasized about proved a quiet affair in reality; she politely offered a moan or two while he tried, with an increasing sense of despair, to understand how her exquisite, voluptuous body worked. He was paralysed with fear and moved without much delay from undressing her to finishing.
A lot of vegetables slowly rotted in his cupboard before he could accept that Leonora would not be visiting again. When they bumped into each other on campus, she always offered him a sympathetic smile, which only compounded his humiliation. He had been offered the forbidden fruit but, instead of taking a delicious bite, had dropped the apple in a puddle.
After the Leonora debacle, William’s confidence ebbed away. He became a great friend to many interesting and attractive women, but never tried for anything more, until he met Clare; the fear of losing her far outweighed the fear of trying to win her. Clare patiently taught him how to make love to her; helped him understand how she wanted to be made love to. He began to understand that there was a delicate and powerful point where a woman didn’t want to be asked for approval to continue but instead wants the man to proceed with confidence because he understands what she wants. What would it be like to sleep with someone else after all these years of knowing only one woman?