by Helen Cullen
I’m going to wait until I am back in London before I post this. For the rest of my time here, I will let the sun heat my pale skin. I hope my seventy-year-old self will forgive me the wrinkles, and I hope you will learn to love them. You should be here with me. Our time will come, won’t it, my love?
Until you find me,
Winter
William lay on the couch and pulled Clare’s Afghan blanket over him. The image of Winter as a black daffodil, mourning for her grandfather, her red hair harsh against the funeral clothes, caught him by the heart. He remembered the day of Clare’s father’s funeral; how distraught her mother and Flora had been, how frozen Clare was. It saddened him to think of Winter alone with her grief. It frightened him to imagine that for himself. Or for Clare.
He couldn’t help but compare Winter’s attitude about family to Clare’s in a manner unfavourable to his wife. She never wanted to hear about his childhood and seemed almost to resent him for the happy family he was born into. He had never been able to explain to her how his middle-class suburban upbringing could be a burden on him, the passive-aggressive expectation that he would build on his parents’ success with his own. The Woolfs had never wanted a writer for a son, although they weren’t confrontational enough to stand in his way. Deep down, he knew that’s what had triggered his writer’s block: the knowledge that, if the work was a failure, he would have fulfilled their worst fears for him. The irony of him achieving that by doing nothing at all was not lost on him.
He had never been able to explain that pressure to Clare; she couldn’t tolerate any complaints on his part about his childhood when she had endured proper suffering. He knew it couldn’t compare. In truth, he realized that his parents had always been a little too soft on him; they always solved any problem he presented as best they could. If he hadn’t studied for an exam, they paid for private lessons, and they had financially supported all his whims without ever expecting him to get a job to support himself. Perhaps that was why he had found it so easy to let Clare take care of him. She had spoiled him, too, and he had revelled in it for too long. Allowing him to enjoy a lifestyle he couldn’t afford, indulging him in expensive rare vinyl records and first editions of novels. It was time for him to take responsibility for his actions, late as he was to the realization.
He remembered a terrible row he once had with Clare when his mother went to hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Despite the relatively low-risk procedure, William’s father was beside himself with nerves and had burst into tears when he saw William and Clare arriving at the hospital. He would never forget how small Clare looked when she turned and ran from the waiting room. Later that night, they were sitting in the attic at a friend’s house party, drinking whiskey, when she tried to explain why it was so hard for her to witness that sort of unconditional love. She said it exposed to her so much that was lacking in her own understanding of what relationships could be, what she could expect from people.
Lying on the couch, agitated sleep washed over William with restless dreams of the sea lapping against the shore, black sails flapping on a boat on the horizon. He was shivering where he sat on the sand but could not move.
Upstairs, Clare had slept soundly, but she woke up to a sinking feeling. She reached out for William, but he was gone. Instead, guilt now filled the bed and smothered her where she lay. Images of her last day and night in Wales flashed in her mind: Maxi’s car crunching up the driveway, their empty glasses in the bar, his knock on the door. She fought them away and resisted the impulse to go to William for comfort; she didn’t trust herself to be silent. Instead, she lay diagonally across the bed as the light gathered momentum through the venetian blinds. The darkness she had felt before dawn slipped away in parallel increments until she felt calmer, stronger. Ready to start a new day. Relieved her secret was still safely tucked away, where it could do no more harm.
XV
William bent over his desk, sneaked a segment of chocolate orange from the pedestal drawer, and placed the whole piece in his mouth before straightening in his seat. It wasn’t greed that made him so secretive, or a reluctance to share the loot with his colleagues, but rather a desire to be left alone and avoid the jovial banter that shared confectionery always involved. With only the slightest excuse, Marjorie would circle him, like a bird of prey, desperate to indulge in the contraband. He cringed at the thought of the chocolate-orange mush swirling around in her mouth while she regaled him with snippets from the scandalous underbelly of community bingo. He couldn’t endure it. Not today. Instead, he closed his mouth firmly around the half-moon slice of sin and swallowed surreptitiously as it melted and folded upon itself. Chocolate orange was Clare’s favourite treat. Maybe that’s why he chose it. A little taste of happier times, when he was lucky to scavenge the tiniest bite from her: ‘I’ll buy you one of your own, if you want, but I’m not sharing mine. Take my soul, but you’ll never take my chocolate orange.’
She was always quite particular about having her own things, apart from everything they shared or bought together; her own bedside table with a little silver key to lock the drawer, a separate wardrobe for her clothes, shelves in the living room for her books alone, a chest in the attic for her keepsakes and childhood treasures. Once, in an argument about where they were going to spend New Year’s Eve, he had accused her of being so independent because it meant she could pack more conveniently if ever she wanted to flee. Her response – silence – was frightening; he hadn’t really thought it could be true until that moment. Maybe, in her heart of hearts, she had always carried a seed of doubt that they would stay together. Men had started wars over women they loved; women had moved mountains. Were those people suppressing little niggling doubts throughout? He doubted it.
In the weeks following Clare’s homecoming, however, William was relieved to see how much things had improved at home. They were not suddenly reconciled but the atmosphere at home was at least conciliatory. He thought the shock of Clare being in the danger zone of an affair had forced them both to re-evaluate their priorities. When he thought of Maxi, William’s jaw clenched, but really, in the scheme of things, it could have been worse. It would be too much to say that it had all been for the best, but he welcomed the sea change her indiscretion had heralded. Clare tried not to work so late in the evenings and they took it in turns to cook more at home: fresh salads and slow-roasted casseroles, Asian stir-fries and spicy curries. Less time was spent watching television and more was devoted to listening to each other. Clare cancelled a ceramics class she had been due to start and suggested they revive their old weekly cinema night instead. One evening, as they drained the dregs from a bottle of Riesling, she turned to him and said, ‘It’s a relief, isn’t it? I feel like I was trying to carry a tray of plates that was too heavy for me up a flight of stairs. Letting them fall was a shock, but something of a relief, too.’ William rinsed out the empty wine bottle and threw it in the recycling, flinched at the crash of glass on glass.
An ill wind had cleared the air, but there was still a ghost lingering in the corners of his mind. A question taunted him: if Clare had really left him for Maxi, if their marriage had truly been over, would he have tried to find Winter in earnest? And, if the idea was still tugging at his heart, was he right to be trying so hard to ignore it? He had made a conscious effort to banish Winter from his life but, sometimes, when he least expected it, her words whispered in his ear: Our time will come, won’t it, my love? … I’m saving my stories for you. He was determined, however, to let her go. He and Clare had, just, pulled their marriage back from the brink. He couldn’t be the one to run away now. How could he let Clare down like that, when she had always stood by him?
William spritzed furniture polish on to his desk and buffed the mahogany finish with a yellow duster. What a risk he had taken by allowing himself to be so seduced by Winter. All her letters were now sealed inside a brown padded envelope, buried beneath a telephone directory, an atlas and a heavy dictionary in his bottom desk drawer. He
knew that he should send them to the shredder but couldn’t quite bring himself to just yet. Would it be terrible to include one of Winter’s letters in his Volume of Lost Letters? He closed the door on that idea; he would be doing it only in the hope that she might present herself; he couldn’t allow anything to jeopardize the progress he and Clare had made. The letters were a distraction, reigniting the old belief in the one of his stubborn heart. He needed to let this foolish idea go: the letters weren’t meant for him and he wasn’t meant for Winter. Besides, it was weeks now since one had appeared, so perhaps she was done with him, too. The letters had stopped appearing after he had resigned himself to ignoring their call. That had to be a sign, hadn’t it?
He picked up a collection of different-sized envelopes that dribbled across the paisley-patterned carpet by his feet and shuffled them into a neater, but still unyielding, pile. Each letter should receive his undivided attention; each deserved every possible chance of finding its way. A squidgy manila envelope, creased and battered, wilfully refused to fall into line and toppled the tower. William’s superstitious mind had learned to trust his instincts and accept the letters as they fell. He stretched to reach for it; pulled it closer with his thumb and forefinger.
The address on the envelope had been written in blue colouring pencil, curling letters now bleeding across the page above the Isle of Man postmark. To Gordon? Gerard? Gregory, maybe? What was the surname? Davenport? That might help. The house number and street were smudged, but it seemed to be somewhere in Holland Park. William squeezed the parcel and gave it a little shake; lots of little pieces shuffled within. Was it a jigsaw? A puzzle? Something broken? He gently cracked the seal, and the contents scattered across the table, into his lap and on to the floor: hundreds of individual words cut from newspapers, magazines and goodness knew where else, each one glued to a piece of coloured card. He scooped the words up and gathered them into a little mound in the centre of the table.
Words jumped out at him in a kaleidoscope of so many different colours, typefaces and sizes: eleven, eucalyptus, lemon tree harvest, own goal, dirty washing, panda bear, summer drought, swarm of bees, Doc Marten boots, top hat, jealousy, silk, xylophone, blackbird, duke, nuclear attack, Mars, cellophane wrapping, letter box, penguin compound, snow, polka, paving stones, pumpkin pie, daffodils, anticipation, handwritten, chandelier, lost boys, library, cottage industry, racist attack, Juliet’s balcony, protest march, entrepreneur, witchcraft, umbrellas, scarlet, star-struck, soup kitchen, forgiveness, fern, Laurel and Hardy, salt of the earth, Electric Ballroom, warts, shrinking violet, whistle-blower, calligraphy, cymbals, resonate, lamplight, rocking chair, myxomatosis, peaches, float.
William’s fingers rifled through the randomness, separating, singling out and congregating the words together again. Why did some words disturb him? Crawl inside his mind and set up camp there? They flashed like neon against a jet-black night: blackbird, witchcraft, scarlet, lamplight, daffodils. He eased the remaining contents from the envelope, along with a sheet of squared paper from a mathematics copybook; it smelled of primary school. Doodles of flowers, butterflies and stars bordered the purple ink, and glitter clung to his fingers as he separated out the pages.
Hi Godfrey,
Thanks for your letter. It came on Tuesday and I managed to meet the postman on the corner, so no fear of my mam or stupid Tracy opening it first this time. Do you know it’s actually against the law to open someone else’s letters? I told my mam when I found that out, but she just said it was a bigger crime to give her cheek, so I’m not sure she’s that bothered. I’ll just try and get to the post first from now on, but maybe we can use some code words, just in case? Instead of saying you love me, maybe just say you love mashed potato or something, and I’ll know what you mean. Maybe not potatoes, though, but something else that makes you think of me.
You’re probably wondering what the bag of words is all about. Well, believe it or not, it’s your birthday present. I’m sorry I couldn’t get you a real present, but I’m not getting any shifts at the café now it’s only open part-time for the winter, and I didn’t want to ask Da; he’d only ask me too many questions. The thing is, I’m hoping you’ll like this, even though I made it myself. It’s to help you with your songs – I know you said that writing the words is the hardest part, and I heard David Bowie talking on the radio about how he writes his songs. He said he just cuts out loads of words and mixes them all together before picking different ones out like in a raffle to put together to make up sentences. It’s called a VERBALIZER!! Isn’t that the best idea ever?? So I made you one. And I know you said if I asked you to write a song about me you never would, but at least this way maybe I can inspire you, even if the song isn’t about me. I hope you like it. It took ages to stick all the bits of cereal box on the back, but I wanted it to last you more than the one song if you liked it.
I have to run to get this in the last post. Good luck with the gig in the social. I wish I could come and see the Mad Frogs’ debut gig. That’s a much better name than the Slow Turtles, by the way.
Lots of mashed potato,
Tina … x
William wondered if Godfrey ever did know how much trouble Tina had gone to. Did he think she had simply not replied to his last letter? He pulled down the telephone directory from the shelf above his desk and flicked quickly through the pages until he reached the Davenports; there were just two in Holland Park. He gave a silent prayer of thanks that Tina’s Godfrey wasn’t a Smith or a Jones and dialled the first number. It rang and rang until a row of beeps disconnected him. His second call, to the next address, was answered on the first ring and a little girl sang down the phone with well-rehearsed importance, ‘Hello, this is the Davenport residence. Who is speaking?’
‘Hello, this is William Woolf calling from the Royal Mail. Could I speak to one of your parents, please?’
‘We don’t know any postmen.’
William struggled to suppress the impatience in his voice. He crossed through items on his to-do list, the receiver cradled under his ear, while he spoke.
‘I’m not a postman. Could you call one of your parents for me?’
‘They’re not here. Daddy’s golfing and Mummy is playing tennis.’
‘Lovely. Well, who else is there?’
‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers and tell them things.’
‘Quite right. So, can you call a grown-up for me?’
William heard muffled whispers as the receiver was intercepted.
‘Arabella, who are you tormenting? You were told not to answer the telephone.’
‘I think it might be Stranger Danger, Granny.’
‘Oh, seriously. What nonsense!’
‘Hello, Mrs Davenport speaking. Can I help you?’
William straightened up to answer. ‘Yes, hello. My name is William Woolf and I work in a Royal Mail department that deals with undelivered mail. I was wondering if there is a Godfrey Davenport at this address?’
‘Godfrey? He’s my son, but he doesn’t live here; this is his sister Camilla’s house. Where did you get this number?’
‘The telephone directory. The address on the parcel just told me the name and area so I thought I’d try my luck. Could you give me a forwarding address to redirect it to?’
There was a silence. William suspected she was considering his request.
‘Do you know what this parcel contains?’ she asked, her curiosity barely concealed.
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say, but I do believe it is a personal item that he would want delivered.’
‘How intriguing. Well, you can send it to me. Godfrey and his family will be visiting from the Isle of Man at the weekend.’
The Isle of Man! Was he living there with Tina, after all? William carefully collected the jumble of words into a clear plastic envelope and sealed the letter from Tina inside. Would Tina be standing beside Godfrey when he opened it? Or was he summoning a ghost from the past to haunt him? William dropped the parcel in
to the mailbag for next-day delivery with a short cover note which in no way justified the length of time between posting and receiving, and wished it well. He hoped Godfrey had married the right girl.
Later that evening, Clare laid her new peacock-blue cashmere coat across the bed, fastened the big pearl buttons and stepped back to admire it. She bit her lip, considering for a moment the eye-watering sum she had paid for it, but dismissed her buyer’s remorse. It was a long time since she had indulged in something lovely for herself, and this was a special occasion, after all. Her oldest schoolfriend, Enid, was getting married in Dublin the following day, and she was looking forward to escaping London with William. It was almost five years since she had last seen Enid, and she had been relieved to find the wedding invitation on their doormat in the midst of their Christmas post. She was struck by how hurt she would have been not to be invited, despite the distance that had crept between them, which was far wider than geography necessitated. Clare carefully folded the layers of pale-pink tissue that had swaddled her coat and tucked them away in her dressing-table drawer. She caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled at the subtle blonde highlights her hairdresser had scattered through her hair that afternoon. ‘Takes years off you,’ he’d proclaimed, and she found herself inclined to agree. Baby steps.