The Lost Letters of William Woolf
Page 18
William interrupted her thoughts.
‘I missed you so much, Clare. I hate this, us sitting here like strangers.’
She sighed and wriggled down further into the chair.
‘How could you miss me when things have been so difficult between us?’ she asked. ‘It must have been a relief to get a break from the way things have been.’
He left his roost on the ridge of the mantelpiece and pulled up a footstool to sit close to her.
‘I wasn’t relieved that you left, but you’re right, we couldn’t continue in the way we have been. It’s time we started being honest with each other, don’t you think?’
Clare looked at the blanket on her knees and smoothed away a wrinkle in the fabric before she spoke.
‘Okay, then. Let’s hear it … the ugly truth, if we must.’
He topped up her wine glass, which was noticeably depleted after such a short space of time.
‘You have to just give me a chance to speak, though, without shouting me down or getting defensive. Can you do that? Otherwise, it’s pointless … and I promise I’ll do the same for you when it’s your turn. You’re not in court now, remember?’
‘What do you mean, shout you … Okay, okay, I’m listening. Tell me.’
She caught herself biting her thumbnail and quickly withdrew her hand.
He exhaled a deep breath before the words came tumbling out.
‘My main worry is that you still seem to be punishing me for what happened with the book. I’ve apologized so many times, but it doesn’t change anything. If I thought it was helping at all, I’d suffer it, but it doesn’t help. You still seem to think I was some kind of fraud, deliberately making a fool of you, but it wasn’t like that … No, stop, I can see you waiting to jump in, but hear me out. I hated lying to you, but I kept telling myself that all I needed was to find a way into the novel again, and then I could pull it back and you’d never need to know. It’s not like I did nothing – I wrote the first twenty thousand words what feels like twenty thousand times, but I just couldn’t move it on. I’m so sorry. I wish I could have. It completely broke my heart walking away from it, and disappointing you crushed me, but I can’t change the fact that I failed.’
Clare threw her hands up in the air. A little wine sloshed on her legs, where she held the glass between her knees. She wiped it with her sleeve as she studied him.
‘That’s the bit you never seemed to get, William. I wasn’t disappointed because you failed. It was the deception. You were lying to me for years, and I had no clue. How could I trust myself to ever know the difference again?’
He reached out to her.
‘But you do know, Clare. You do know. Are you really telling me you didn’t notice anything wrong during that time? That you couldn’t see it wasn’t working, that I wasn’t myself?’
‘So it was my fault? I should have somehow noticed and saved you from your own self? The neglectful wife who never bothered to notice that you had changed.’
William stood up and paced the floorboards as he tried to douse cold water on the heat in the room, which was escalating rapidly.
‘Clare, please don’t fight me. That’s not what I’m saying at all. I’m just trying to make the point that you’ve watched me telling the truth a million times longer than you’ve watched me hide it, and I think, if I am telling you the truth now, you’ll recognize it. That’s all. I wasn’t … the words, they just withered inside me … I was empty.’
Seeing him so upset, Clare’s protests caught in her throat. She watched William’s hands shaking as he spoke; his hands were the first thing she had noticed about him. Long, piano fingers. Deep creases in his palms. She wondered what a fortune-teller would say about those heavy lines and what they would mean for her. The wine softened her a little and gave her eyes something to focus on while William paced the room again. He paused in front of the mantelpiece and took another deep breath.
‘I also just want to say I have never stopped loving you, but it is very hard to cope with how you blame me for everything imperfect in your life. Any disappointment you feel in your own lot, you trace back to me, and I don’t think that’s fair.’
He saw her bristle but continued speaking before she could interrupt.
‘I completely accept that I’ve let you down and appreciate that you stayed loyal to us, even though you were disappointed in me … but if this is to work, Clare, we need to let go of what’s happened and the idea of who we should be and just go into this accepting who we are right now.’
‘You mean settle? What if I don’t want to just give in and let go of who I think we could be? What if I think there could be more for us?’
He stopped pacing and stood in front of her where she sat. ‘I don’t mean “settle” at all,’ he said. ‘I mean letting go of the past to start fresh. You want more for yourself, and I do, too … I’ve had some breakthroughs with the writing recently, and great developments at work. I can’t promise you roaring success, but what I do know is there is a much better chance of either of those things happening if I think you’re behind me and haven’t given up on me.’
She tugged on the end of his T-shirt. A small smile made a shy appearance.
‘How many times have you rehearsed that little speech in your head?’
‘Many. It’s all I’ve been thinking about.’
William sat down on the sofa and focused his attention on her feet. That was mostly what he had been thinking about – except for the minutes stolen by Winter, of course. He quickly chased that thought away.
Clare swirled the dark red liquid around in her glass and watched William’s reflection on the windowpane. She had underestimated how relieved she would be to hear that he still wanted her. He was going to fight for her, for them, for the little world they had built in these four rooms. The question was, how hard? And was it too late? If they were going to try, she had to tell him the truth. After reprimanding him for so long about keeping secrets, she couldn’t in good conscience live with the guilt of hiding her own bad behaviour. It was needling away at her constantly.
‘Well, now it’s my turn, and I’m afraid there’s something you need to know that may change how you feel. Considerably.’
She avoided his eye as he watched her from across the room.
‘This isn’t easy for me to say, William, but I want to be honest with you, too, so please try to stay calm.’
He held his head in his hands and emitted a low groan. ‘Those must be the least calming words ever spoken,’ he said. ‘What else has happened?’
‘What else?’ She looked confused, but carried on. ‘Not much, I promise, but something. The day of the fundraising benefit at the depot.’ She paused. ‘I was stressed about the trial and dreading going to that stupid party, and everything just built up in me and I sat in my Mini at the courtroom and I just couldn’t stop crying.’
He looked at her, aghast.
‘Oh, Clare. Why didn’t you tell me? Is that why you were so mad at –’
‘Wait. I’m not finished. Maxi saw me there and got into the car to talk to me.’
‘No, no, no. Not Maxi. Please don’t tell me all of this has anything to do with him.’
‘He just put his arms around me to comfort me and, well, we sort of, ended up kissing. That’s it. Nothing more than that, but I know it was wrong, so I just had to tell you. It was stupid, I know, so stupid, and I’m sorry.’
She saw the colour in his face change to deep red; he was angry, but trying to control it. She felt tears welling and held her breath in anticipation of him blowing.
‘And you had the nerve to accuse me of something happening with Sally? After you had already been with him? That’s a staggering act of deflection, Clare. Are you serious? You let me stand here, beating myself up about what’s happened between us, and all the time, you’ve been nursing that secret?’
She rushed over and crouched before him but was afraid to reach out and touch him in case he brushed her away.
The words swarmed between them like angry bees. A haze of you and me, he and she, why, how, where, when … Questions. Accusations. Positioning. Remembering. Pausing. Coaxing. Suggesting. Bargaining. Pleading. Threatening. Blaming. Surrendering. Offering. Rejecting. Shouting. Crying. Rage. Silence.
The curtains were drawn and lamps lit. William started the fire and Clare pulled the blanket from her knees up to her shoulders. The wine bottles were drained, the gin bottle followed and, eventually, the pot whistled for coffee. William stretched out on the couch, his feet resting on the arm of Clare’s chair. It was the closest he had come to touching her since her confession. She nudged his feet into her lap, and he was too exhausted to resist. The glow from the streetlight outside crept in around the window frame and cast strange shadows over the tableau. Their conversation was disconnected now, as each of them drifted in and out of dozing, remembered a point from earlier that must be refuted, or was struck by something new. All thoughts soaked in liquor.
Clare’s voice was drifting now.
‘It’s strange seeing the living room at this time, when, normally, we’d be sleeping. It reminds me of being a child; I always wondered what our house was like when me and Flora were at school. I couldn’t imagine what my mother did all day when we weren’t there.’
‘I always tried to picture you at work – bustling about being busy and important, who you are when I’m not there. I used to worry about all the men who would try and sweep you off your feet.’
‘None of them ever did, though, William. I swear. Not really. You know this was just a blip, a symptom of everything else that was going on. You believe me, don’t you?’
Clare went to the bathroom and released her hair from a messy bun that had all but come undone. Her face was flushed and blotchy; she splashed it with cold water in an effort to cool down. She brushed her teeth and sat on the edge of the tub, enjoying the feel of the chilly tiles underneath her bare feet.
William remained downstairs, body and soul weak and tired. The thought of Clare in Maxi’s arms nauseated him, but he knew that this was not the hill his marriage would die on. There was hope for them now, he could feel it, but he would need to dig deep and push past her stupid indiscretion, difficult though it was. He knew he was right to be furious at her about what had happened, but he also felt a blessed relief that things hadn’t gone any further. He followed Clare into the bathroom and pulled her upright. She leaned against him, her head finding its old familiar spot in the groove beside his left shoulder as she breathed in the smell of him. He stroked the back of her neck, smoothing her hair up from her skin and letting it fall slowly between his fingers.
‘Let’s get some sleep,’ she whispered.
‘Okay. The bed is freshly made. I’ll sleep on the couch.’
‘Will you sleep in the bed with me? I know a lot has happened, but I just can’t face being alone, thinking of you downstairs alone, too. Let’s just be together.’
He hesitated but didn’t want to argue any more. He led her into their bedroom, pulled back the duvet and turned on her bedside lamp. She stepped out of her dress and pulled on an old white cotton nightdress before slipping under the covers. William removed his clothes and awkwardly climbed in beside her; he felt more nervous than he had the first time she had invited him into her bed. He doused the light and lay flat on his back, afraid to touch her, although he longed to. He listened to her breathing, waiting for it to grow heavy and slow, but he could hear how awake she was, could imagine all the thoughts driving around the streets of her mind. It was a city he feared to tread through in the dark. She wriggled and turned to lay her head on his chest. He stroked her back, startled by how much weight she had lost. He could trace the lines of her ribs where, before, she had always been so soft. He held her as tightly as he could, afraid to wipe away the hot tears that ran down his face in case she noticed. Tried not to sniffle.
Clare heard his breath catching, slid on top of him and brushed the tears away with her hands. She leaned over him and kissed a line from the corner of his eye, over his cheek, past his ear and down his neck to where she had rested her head. It was such a comfort to lie on top of him and feel him respond beneath her as she moved over him in the darkness, swallowing the guilt of a story not fully told. She buried her full confession deep down, where it couldn’t accidentally slip from her. So far, no one knew, and she hoped it could remain that way. That this was not the last night she would sleep in his arms.
William followed each movement of Clare’s with his breath held. He was afraid a sudden move would scare her away. Was this the first thaw? Their first steps towards a new start?
When they eventually fell into a heavy sleep, mixed emotions crowded the air around them. William had been struggling to reconcile the horror of the thought of Clare in Maxi’s arms with the odd absolution it gave him for the emotional infidelity he knew he was guilty of. He slipped out from under the covers and let the moonlight guide him from their bedroom. He tiptoed down the stairs and sat in the darkness of the living room, surveying in the ambient light from the street the detritus of the night they had spent together. He fumbled in the dark to remove Winter’s letter from his satchel. He knew he had to let Winter and her letters go. He settled on the windowsill in the living room and strained to read her last letter again in the dim light. Where was she tonight while her words kept him company?
My Great Love, hola,
I write to you from under the Andalucían sun; your Winter is baking in an untimely heat, for I find myself on holiday. I have swapped the dreary, blank London skies so this hot light can drench me instead of showers. I came completely underprepared. My lightest dresses are too heavy here and my underexposed skin too white. My legs remind me of bottles of milk sitting on the doorstep, winking in the dawn light. A little child pointed at me in the street this morning, and I’m sure it was shock at my pallor. Maybe she thought I was a ghost.
At night, I lie under a rotating fan attached to the ceiling, the sheet clammy beneath me, air smothering above. I try to bargain with the gods for a breeze that will blow me to sleep, but I’m always disappointed. If you were here, I can’t imagine two hot bodies could like squirming in these clammy sheets together. Maybe you would surrender and sleep downstairs in the hammock on the porch. Maybe we would just sit up and not struggle against it at all. I wish you were here to wade through the close night air with me. I’d suffer the extra heat of your heavy arm around me if you could tolerate my hot cheek against your chest. Instead, I sit on my own, listening to the songs of the sea, worrying that dark shadows moving across the horizon are sinister figures looking for me. I used to think I would be a fighter if someone attacked me. Here, on the rural coast, I am scared of the night without electric lights. Maybe I’m braver in the city. Here, I would surely flee, if my feet were not sinking in the sand.
This holiday wasn’t planned, my love. It wasn’t a date circled on the calendar for months. No new dresses or swimsuits were bought. Sadly, I came to recover from the passing of my grandfather – as if bereavement is so easily managed that I can allocate a period of time for it to do its worst to me and send me back to the living. I’m not sure that my head and heart have even fully signed up to try. They refuse to connect to the reality of it all and alter the reasons why am I here; make the funeral that of a stranger, change the identity of the old gentleman lying in the coffin. I’ve never known anyone who died before – not anyone close to me, anyway. I’ve witnessed grief, but not felt it beyond a vicarious sadness for other people’s suffering. For a moment, you are acutely aware of their pain, maybe even feel the sting of tears, but then, you hug them goodbye and leave the house shrouded in black and your life is exactly the same as it was before you visited. Isn’t that the bleakest part of all? The lover or sister or friend goes home after the burial to a coat hanging in the hall like a ghost, spectacles perched lop-sided on the bedside table. There is
silence where their words should be. A plate, knife and fork left sitting in the drawer. And the rest of the world carries on regardless.
They laid him out in the parlour of his cottage. It was hard to fathom why his sons and daughters had to watch that beloved man be carried into his home in a wooden box. There was nothing poetic about it. His grandsons struggled to bear the weight. The coffin was too long to turn in the little hallway and they talked of pushing it through the living-room window or carrying it in through the back door. My Auntie May despaired that the back garden was too unkempt to take him in that way. My Uncle Jimmy surveyed the window to see how long it would take to remove. And all the while, neighbours gathered in twos and threes, and children cycled laps on bikes and trikes. His old neighbours hobbled closer on walking sticks if they could, or watched from behind net curtains if they couldn’t.
My father stood with his hand resting on the side of the coffin. He is too old now himself to bear the weight on his shoulder, but he said he just wanted to be close to him. It almost broke my heart. I had never seen him cry before. An ice-cream van rollicked past, playing its regular, sunny Saturday siren, before spotting the hearse and dashing away. My sisters and I stood side by side in that little front garden. We didn’t touch. Black daffodils standing still, no breeze. No one comforted the other, for we all felt the same. We were broken, watching our father breaking. How proud I was of him that he could show his grief. I saw my mother holding him up and felt so relieved for him that he had her there. How much harder it must be to bear these things alone. I don’t want that to be me. I want you to meet my lovely father. Soon. I will miss my grandad terribly: my fiercest critic and my greatest advocate. I’m sorry he never saw me achieve something wonderful, but I know he was sure that I would. Maybe that’s just as good. He was a man ahead of his time, encouraged my feminist grandma to pursue all her passions, to become a photographer too, shared the burden at home so she could work. He inspired his children to follow their dreams, and his grandchildren in turn. He gave me my first camera, and the very first picture I took was of my grandparents sitting on the wall outside their house. It sits beside my bedside, a daily reminder that I must not lose faith. ‘Have heart, my dear,’ my grandmother always tells me. ‘Only dreamers find dreams come true.’ I know how blessed I am to have had this family to love me; I know their love will be a buffer around me, no matter what this wretched world sends me.