The Lost Letters of William Woolf

by Helen Cullen

  Two cases lay open on the floor, Clare’s filled with her clothing and belongings, William’s still empty, despite the early-morning flight they would catch the next day.

  ‘William, can you come and pack?’ Clare called down the stairs, as she unwrapped the new pale-blue tie she had bought him to complement her outfit. She ran the silk through her fingers while she waited to hear some acknowledgment that he’d heard her; a mumble reverberated from the living room and she was content. She rustled through his sock drawer for the least exotic socks he owned, something sensible to peek out from the trouser hem of the navy-blue suit she’d collected from the dry cleaner’s earlier. She lined up random trinkets that did not belong there on top of the chest: scissors (lethal, she thought), a used handkerchief, a pamphlet for Madame Tussauds (of all places), a box of plasters that belonged in the bathroom cabinet. She touched something faintly sticky and pulled it out into the light: a Polaroid picture of a pair of boots!

  ‘What are you doing with all my stuff?’ William brushed the paraphernalia of his untidiness back into the drawer with one sweep of his arm. ‘Can a man have no privacy?’

  ‘What’s this picture?’ she asked, not once tearing her eyes from it.

  William only now noticed Winter’s picture in the hands of his wife. He carefully rearranged the socks in an equally chaotic state of disorder as he cleared his throat.

  ‘Oh, that?’ he said, pretending to scrutinize it along with her. ‘It’s nothing. Just something I found in the depot. It ended up trapped in a book I was reading somehow, and I forgot to bring it back.’ He saw Clare look at him quizzically.

  ‘Are you sure that’s all it is?’ she asked. ‘It seemed to have been hidden away back there.’

  William turned away and shoved the drawer closed. ‘Not hidden, just lost!’ He plucked the photo from her fingers and tossed it in the waste-paper basket beside his bureau. ‘Just some more of the random madness discovered in the daily mission.’

  William pretended not to notice as Clare picked it back out of the bin to stare at it again, and focused on removing his suit from the plastic covers.

  ‘Should I wear the jacket on the flight, do you think?’ he asked. ‘Save it getting creased in the case?’

  Clare was still frozen in concentration over the image. ‘I just feel like I’ve seen these boots somewhere before,’ she said. ‘But I can’t place it. Don’t worry, it will come back to me.’ She smiled as she placed it down on top of the chest. ‘Let’s finish packing so we can have an early night.’

  Later, William lay flat on his back, staring into the darkness. Why had he hidden that picture at home? So foolish! Why had he even kept it at all? He jolted as Clare grabbed his arm and gave him a little shake.

  ‘William,’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake? I’ve got it!’

  He rolled over on his side to face her, saw her silhouette sitting upright. She flicked on her bedside lamp; the sudden brightness dazzled him. ‘I saw a girl wearing those boots a few days ago. I just remembered!’

  William’s heart pounded. He didn’t trust himself to maintain a neutral expression and turned to drink from a tumbler of water on his bedside cabinet.

  ‘Who?’ he croaked. ‘What do you mean? Where?’

  Clare snuggled back down under the duvet. ‘When I was waiting in the car for you outside the Indian restaurant the other night. She walked past and, honestly, it was like a scene from a film. That’s why it stayed with me. She was wearing the boots, and this big white fur coat, and she had miles of red hair.’ Her last thought trailed off into a question. ‘It looked like maybe a costume of some sort?’ She clicked off the light again. ‘That’s a relief. I knew I recognized them. Do you think they really could be the ones in the picture? Can’t be too many glittery white cowboy boots walking around!’

  ‘No,’ William sighed. ‘I would think not. Small world.’

  He listened to Clare’s breathing grow steady while he struggled to control his own. A white fur coat? It must be her. He felt the walls closing in around him. Would he never be free of this? He lay perfectly still under the duvet, eyes closed tight. Why was the universe so determined to throw this woman in his path? Had he fallen foul of some cruel trickery? For months, he had been scanning the streets for a sighting, and then, when Winter had finally appeared, he had been looking in another direction. What would he have done if he’d spotted her while Clare sat watching? He couldn’t have just allowed her to walk past, could he? His restless legs started twitching under the covers. Worried that he would wake Clare, he tiptoed to the living room and lay on the couch watching Fawlty Towers with the sound turned off. It made for a confusing silent movie.

  When Clare found him the next morning, he was contorted into an awkward shape under her blanket, cold toes stretched over the end of the sofa.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to disturb you.’ he explained.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she answered, pulling the blanket away. ‘But it’s time to get up now. We are off on an adventure.’

  XVI

  It was raining in Ireland, as it always seemed to be, but as they walked down Wexford Street, huddled together under an orange-canopied umbrella, William was thankful that the skies had opened. On the flight over, he had fought hard to squash the lingering anxiety he felt at Clare’s unexpected encounter with Winter. Deeply engrossed in his novel, The Haunted Bookshop, he deflected Clare’s chatting while the words swam before his eyes. Was Dublin really the best place for them to be visiting? The city was so firmly associated now in his thoughts with his secret lady of the letters. The invitation Winter had extended to explore her old haunts lingered in his mind, but he tried not to dwell on it. He linked arms with Clare and splashed through dirty puddles with enthusiasm. He was determined not to scan the streets for a redhead in a white rabbit-fur coat, but the habit was so instinctive to him now that it was almost impossible for him to resist. He stopped abruptly outside a narrow little pub with square glass windows running the full width of the exterior. A red-and-white-striped awning hung over the door, making the building look more like a barber’s shop than a pub, but its name was painted in cursive scarlet script along a white banner: The Long Hall. Wasn’t this the place Winter had spoken about in her letters?

  Clare nudged him with her shoulder and asked, ‘What is it? Are we lost? I think Temple Bar is just ahead.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just this pub. I remember someone telling me about it once. I was just surprised to see it; you know the way you can never usually find places that people recommend.’

  She stood on her toes to peer through a clearing in the condensation on the window.

  ‘It’s so tiny … but it looks like a nice old-man pub. Maybe we could come back later for a nightcap if the reception doesn’t run too late.’

  He gripped Clare’s elbow and guided her to the pedestrian crossing. ‘No, it’s not important. We’d better hurry.’

  He knew it was ridiculous, but the thought of taking Clare in there seemed somehow disloyal to Winter. Was he losing his mind? Surely the betrayal lay in thinking about another woman in the first place while he was away with his wife. And it wasn’t as if Winter expected anything from him – she didn’t even know he existed! As they waited for a break in the traffic so they could cross the street, he couldn’t resist turning back to take one last look at the Long Hall. He felt sure someone was watching him. His skin prickled but, when he looked back over his shoulder, there was no one there.

  The wedding ceremony of Enid and Seamus was held in the Smock Alley Theatre on Exchange Street. Their immediate families sat on long wooden benches in front of the black panelled stage, white ribbons running along each edge. Old milk bottles, painted in different shades of red and purple glowing from candles inside, made impromptu chandeliers that dangled from the wooden rafters over the stage. The remaining guests were crowded into three tiered balconies with cast-iron railings that surrounded the performance space. Garlands of calla lilies and cornf
lowers stretched along the railings. Night-light candles in china teacups were set into recesses of the stone walls throughout the venue. The acoustics of the room transformed the buzzing chatter of the guests into a melodious hum. Clare gripped William’s hand as they found a spot on the second tier.

  Instead of Mr Buckley walking his daughter down the aisle, they wove along each balcony, swamped by gushing excitement and thunderous applause as they moved. Enid’s father walked one step behind her, guiding her elbow with one hand, dabbing his eyes and shining bald head with a ridiculously large white silk handkerchief with the other. The skirt of Enid’s dress was so wide that, on the corners, she had to turn sideways to proceed, laughing all the time at the absurdity of it. Her blue-black hair had come undone from the elaborate style the hairdresser had conjured that morning; it collapsed about her shoulders under the crown of white roses that circled her head. It looked perfect. When Enid saw Clare, she hugged her old friend, kissed her forehead, before she was swept along by the current of well-wishers. In her wake, William put his arms around his wife, and she rested her head on his shoulder. He hated to think of not being there with her today; to imagine her standing alone in her silver taffeta dress, feet side by side in her white velvet Mary-Janes and new coat.

  As Enid reached the stage, Seamus stepped forward, handsome in a seaweed-brown tweed suit that suited his dark colouring. He was an island man, with wild, black curls, and piercing blue eyes glistening out from under one bushy eyebrow. His right arm was in a sling from a surfing accident the week before, his cast covered in scribbled good-luck messages. The shaman who would lead them through the ceremony hushed the whooping from the audience. Silence descended as he guided them through each ritual before the couple pledged their vows: the lighting of their individual candles at the beginning and the united flame at the end; the binding of their hands together. As they exchanged rings, Enid’s mother stood and sang ‘She Moved through the Fair’, her hands straight down by her side like a soldier. The white chrysanthemum posy on the lapel of her fuschia blouse glowed in the theatre spotlight.

  I dreamed it last night

  That my true love came in

  So softly she entered

  Her feet made no din

  She came close beside me

  And this she did say:

  ‘It will not be long, love,

  Till our wedding day.’

  William handed Clare his handkerchief and she dabbed her eyes carefully. He smudged away a gloop of mascara from her temple with his thumb and she gripped it for a second like a newborn. Seamus dipped Enid for a Hollywood kiss and the wedding party jumped up to cheer in chorus, stamping their feet on the floorboards beneath them. ‘Go on, Seamus, lad,’ a heckler called from the back and his entourage whooped. As the newly married couple climbed down from the stage to lead their guests through to the reception hall, William and Clare stood in one shadowy corner of the balcony and melted into a long kiss.

  Long wooden banquet tables stretched the length of the converted church where dinner was served; sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, dispersing prisms of coloured light on the white stone walls. A low river of green moss, pine cones and branches of fir trees ran down the centre of each table, interspersed with tea lights in green glass dishes and clutches of daisies. Each guest’s name was handwritten in white ink on a pistachio-coloured envelope that rested in the centre of their moss-green linen table-mat.

  The hall reminded William a little of the place where he and Clare had been married. Though less beautifully preserved, the town hall in Islington was of a similar vintage. At their reception, the Turkish rugs were threadbare and the brass chandeliers missing the odd bulb, but they had been drawn to the character of the rooms and felt the hall was just the right size for their wedding. Fifty maroon velvet chairs had been placed in two semicircles which faced each other, creating a natural pathway between them. There was no seating plan, but everyone organically found his or her place in the circle. Before the ceremony, Clare had struggled with the idea of walking down the aisle without her father to escort her. When William suggested that they arrive together, she threw her arms around him, covered his face with kisses and said, ‘I knew that there was a reason I was marrying you.’

  Clare dressed and beautified herself in Flora’s flat before the two sisters took a taxi together to the hall, where they found William and Stevie awaiting their arrival. Stevie wore a silver suit with drainpipe trousers that were slightly too short; one hot-pink sock and one black-and-white chequered peeped out above his white Chelsea boots. William wore a plum velvet blazer with deep red lining and black trousers with braces over a starched white shirt. He still wore the blazer now sometimes, on special occasions; he felt it brought him luck. When Clare stepped out of the taxi, William was confused for a moment; she looked so different from what he had expected. No white dress or veil or bouquet of flowers; instead, a sophisticated black chiffon dress that hugged her waist and kicked out to the knee, and a white velvet bolero over her shoulders. Her hair was swept up into a glossy bun, a single red rose behind her ear. She wore little white gloves, a short string of pearls, red glitter shoes and carried a white rose tied in a scarlet silk bow. Clare resembled no bride he had ever seen and looked all the more magnificent for it. They stood in silence for a moment, absorbing what was happening.

  ‘Are you disappointed, William? Would you have preferred a blushing bride in white?’ she asked, her voice barely audible over the traffic that rushed past.

  William held her by the arms, afraid to pull her too close in case he ruffled her outfit, and leaned towards her until their noses touched.

  ‘Disappointed? You are the most fantastic, most beautiful, most brilliant bride there ever was, and I’m going to march you into that hall right now before you realize how ridiculous it is that you are marrying a silly fool like me and change your mind.’

  Stevie and Flora went ahead to put on the music; Flora tucked Stevie’s shirt in and made him tie up his wild (then lilac) hair on the way. William and Clare waited outside for the opening notes of Michael Dees singing ‘What are You Doing for the Rest of Your Life?’ before Stevie opened the door and everyone stood to watch William, adorned in plum, and Clare, elegant in black, walk down the aisle together. When they reached the registrar, everyone drew their chairs together to complete the circle. There was no religious element to the ceremony, no prayers to a God they didn’t believe in, no words written for them to repeat by people who had never known them. Instead, they wrote their own vows, simple and honest, but with enough love in them to draw a little tear from even Stevie’s cynical eye.

  Before the end of the ceremony, the registrar called on the guests to step forward if they had particular good wishes or any wisdom from their own marriage to share with the newly married couple; a few brave souls did. Clare’s uncle surprised them both by digging deep into his gruffness to speak. He revealed that her father had told him that he knew Clare would grow up to be an amazing woman and that he hoped she wouldn’t let the failings of her parents turn her against the idea of spending her life with the right man, should he come along. Uncle Jimmy said her father would be delighted to see that his wish had come true.

  After the ceremony, Clare and William snaked around the semicircles of chairs to accept congratulatory hugs, then they all walked to the Crooked Billet. The function room had been reserved for them, and a buffet of potato and chickpea curry, moussaka and bowls of salad and rice prepared. Fairy lights were strung in garlands around the room and tea lights sat on the windowsills in recycled jam-jars, transforming the dingy space into something a little bit more magical. Stevie’s band played, until the landlord threatened to cut the power, and they danced until the final note rang out. William’s favourite photo of the day caught him singing with the band while Clare danced beside him. They looked so happy. Just as Enid and Seamus did today. Could they tether the island of their love to the mainland once again before it was lost for ever at sea
?

  Giving the final speech, Mr Buckley drew to a close on the subject of his daughter, his elaborate handkerchief close to hand. ‘My last wish for Enid and my new son-in-law today is this: when you have a choice between winning a row or saving the day, save the day. Remember: cynics may win battles, but romantics win the war. To Enid and Seamus.’ The guests all stood, and echoes of ‘To Enid and Seamus’ rippled about the room as glasses clinked.

  Clare lost her balance as she stretched across the table with her champagne flute. She knocked over one of the green tea-light holders and extinguished the flame.

  ‘I think the fizz has made me a little soggy,’ she whispered to William.

  She poured herself a full glass of water and nudged her empty flute further away to prevent her topping it up again too quickly.

  While the bride and groom slipped away for photographs, a space was cleared for dancing. Seamus’s family band of traditional Irish musicians needed little encouragement to launch into a rousing sequence of set dances. From nowhere, a semicircle had formed at the front of the room: an accordion, bodhrán, tin whistle and fiddle poised and ready to play.