The Lost Letters of William Woolf

by Helen Cullen

  XIX

  William waited at the airport on a hard grey plastic chair, a brown paper bag containing an uneaten toasted cheese sandwich by his feet, a cardboard cup with the cold dregs of instant coffee balanced between his legs. The interval to board his flight felt interminable; he was too mentally electrified by the night’s events to sleep and yet he felt physically demobilized by them. No flights were arriving or departing at this time; his only companions were other displaced travellers lost in transit. When he saw Clare on the escalator, struggling to negotiate it with their two suitcases, his heart leaped to call her name but his head silenced him. He crouched down lower in his seat, hiding behind the pillar that shielded him from her vision as he watched her scanning the departures lounge – for sight of him, he presumed. Seeing her like this, he felt as if he were witnessing his own heart walk around the airport in another body. The further away she walked, the smaller and emptier he felt. He did not trust himself to see her now; he was weakened by the weight of his damaged love, crushed by her crime.

  Before a plan had fully formed, William was on his feet and darting for the exit, his ticket discarded with the remnants of his unwanted breakfast. As he burst through the revolving doors to escape the airport, the sun was just beginning to rise; light diluted the dark sky, turning it a moody blue. He was the only person waiting for the bus to the city centre; he was happy to climb aboard as the sole passenger and take a quiet, leisurely route into town while he collected his thoughts. He sat on the upper deck in the front seat and watched the city roll out before him through the wide pane of glass as the morning brightened. When he was little, he liked to sit in this seat with his dad and pretend he was driving the bus through the streets of Cambridge. It was a shadowy day when his father told him he wasn’t sure his knees could take the stairs. They had to sit on the ground floor, across from a grumpy old lady wearing a pink plastic visor and steadying a tartan shopping bag on wheels. He didn’t want his dad to be one of those old people who chatted about the weather and the graffiti in the town square. And he didn’t want another little boy taking his place in the best seat in the house.

  It struck him for the second time in as many days that the drive into Dublin offered a grim first impression of the city. He wondered if tourists were shocked by the towers of council flats, the suburban housing estates and the miles of concrete all around. Where were the lush green pastures of the Emerald Isle they had been promised? No doubt the picture-postcard island would reveal itself in due course; he would love to explore it properly one day. Maybe take a train into the west? How he wished that was what he was doing now, instead of unravelling his whole life into a pile of tangled wool. He wanted to explore Winter’s Ireland; if he was honest, he wanted her to show it to him.

  He jumped off the bus at O’Connell Street and walked across the bridge over the River Liffey. The light on the water made it glisten in silver and he recognized why Dublin was considered so magical; you could feel the fairy tale spinning from the old stone of Trinity College, dancing up Grafton Street and scampering down the side alleys. It was painful to absorb the beauty of it all while he was feeling so broken. Especially given how happy he had been to walk these streets with Clare the day before. He walked with his head down, listening to Morrissey sing harmonious songs about disharmonious minds on his Walkman; it soothed him like a lullaby. Why do we take such perverse pleasure from sad songs? Do they make us feel less alone?

  He didn’t stay in the same Dublin hotel as he had with Clare. There was no need this time for room service, jacuzzis or opulent surroundings; instead, he found a cheap room in a backpackers’ hostel on the quays. As he waited for the receptionist to register his details, a wave of nausea washed over him.

  ‘Sir, are you okay? You look very pale. Can I get you anything?’ The touch of the girl’s hand on his arm made him jump.

  ‘What? Oh, yes, no, I’m fine. Just a bit dizzy. Maybe some water. Thank you.’

  He fished the ice cubes from the plastic tumbler she handed him and allowed one to melt on his tongue, flinching when the cold exposed a sensitive tooth. Grinding the ice with his back teeth, cold rivulets of water escaped down his throat, a delicate relief. When he saw the reality of his accommodation, he regretted his pragmatism; the room smelled of onions and a plastic sheet lay under the thin grey one on his bed. What past indiscretions had prompted that act of protection from the management? He looked out of the window at a yard full of rubbish bins and bits of old machinery. An ebony coat stand stood forlornly in the midst of it all. How could such prime real estate in the city centre have become so neglected? He pulled the margarine-coloured curtains closed and lay gingerly on the crinkling mattress; he would just rest his eyes for a moment.

  When he awoke in the hostel later that morning, the glorious sunshine bursting through the thin curtain fabric disoriented him. Where had yesterday’s downpour gone? He washed as best he could in the cracked porcelain sink in the corner of the room, draped his blazer over his arm and walked to the grocery shop next door to buy some essentials. Despite his foul mood, he welcomed the unexpected warmth on his face as he breathed in the air; it smelled so much cleaner than London’s. An instant remedy. He purchased a double espresso from a coffee trike called Java the Hut, sat on a marble stone bench beneath a lime tree and watched the light skip across the glittering surface of the Liffey as the city symphony tuned up for another day. A brown plaque rested on the bark of a nearby tree. It read, ‘60,000 street and roadside trees inhabit Dublin city centre, with an average of 5,000 new trees planted every year.’ He wondered who had been given the task of counting them; pictured a man walking the streets with a spiral-bound jotter, losing track and starting again at the beginning.

  The shock of the previous night was waning a little, the reality of why he was still in Dublin dawning. Clare’s confession sat like a ball of iron in his stomach, but he forced the image it conjured from his mind. He hadn’t allowed himself to try to find Winter before but, now, well, things were different. In his bones, he knew that some prescient instinct told him that coming to her city would be revelatory. Wasn’t that why he had felt compelled to tuck her Polaroid picture beneath the cover of the moleskin-covered notebook he always carried? From his breast pocket, he removed this now and stared at it; how the shimmering morning light infused it with energy!

  Compared to London, Dublin was a village. He even knew the name of Winter’s favourite pub; surely if he asked some questions at some of her old haunts, it would help narrow down the search? He wondered how long it was since she had moved; it sounded quite recent in her letters. And if her name really was Winter, the chances seemed high that someone would remember her. Perhaps it was madness to chase a ghost through this city, but what was the alternative? Go home to pace the flat all weekend, worrying himself into a knot, arguing with Clare? William’s thoughts bounced back and forth in agonizing indecision, until a stubborn peace settled upon him. He could not endure another day of dithering and withering under Ned’s relentless scrutiny. It gave him a momentary relief to think he could refine his approach; Dublin seemed a much less overwhelming haystack to find a needle in. Everything was becoming more real, and that was a good thing. He couldn’t play this out in his mind much longer; he needed some answers. And Clare no longer stood in his way. Winter’s letters had struck a nerve; he couldn’t allow life to just happen to him any more. Wasn’t that what Clare had been trying to tell him for years? Maybe the impetus to get him here was involuntary, but now that he had finally taken some action, he had to follow through.

  First things first: he needed to buy himself some time. He marched down the boardwalk, eyes peeled for a telephone box, until one presented itself, just before the Ha’penny Bridge. He folded himself inside it; the smell of the rotting fish and chips on the floor took his breath away. As he lined up neat piles of ten-, twenty-and fifty-pence pieces on the metal shelf covered in sticker advertisements, he propped the door open a crack with his foot to let some air cir
culate. He dialled his own telephone number, wobbled to hear Clare’s voice on the machine; he remembered how many times she had recorded the message before settling on this one. ‘That’s not what my voice sounds like, is it?’ she’d despaired. She deleted it and started again, while he threw cushions at her to make her laugh each time. As he listened, he heard his own faint laugh in the background. To his ears, his voice sounded weak and watery as he spoke but, this time, there was no opportunity to re-do it.

  ‘Clare, I don’t quite know if you deserve this message but, in case you call the police or some such, I wanted to let you know I’m staying in Dublin for a few days. Please don’t be there when I do come home. I’ll find you when I’m ready.’

  He hung up the receiver and strengthened his resolve for call number two.

  ‘Dead Letters Depot, Miss Clarke speaking.’

  William recognized her telephone voice and a strange nostalgia touched him.

  ‘Marjorie, it’s William. I need your help, but why are you in on a Saturday? I was just going to leave a message for you.’ He paused, dreading the outpouring of scorn and derision to follow but, in its place, her voice softened into a conspiratorial whisper.

  ‘Oh, sometimes I like to come in to water the plants, do a few bits. The weekends are long. What can I do? Shoot!’

  He pictured her sitting alone there, paused to consider it, but garbled on, ‘I don’t have much time to explain, but I’m stuck in Dublin and won’t be back for a few days. Can you cover for me if I’m not in on Monday? Maybe you can say –’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. Leave it to me. Everyone will be in a tizz because twenty-five life-sized mannequins arrived yesterday evening and they’ve taken over the place!’

  The beeps warned him that time was running out, and he fed his last two coins into the slot.

  ‘Thank you, Marjorie. I mean it. I know I haven’t been my best recently.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, ducky. Just get home safe to us, okay? And William?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Anything you need, I’ll be here.’

  The line disconnected. William emerged back on to the street with the dawning realization of how much Marjorie must care about him. Why had he always been so hard on her? Relieved to have completed his tasks, he continued across the Ha’penny Bridge to begin his mission in earnest. Now that he was on his way, the enormity of his actions enveloped him, and the lack of a concrete plan. He walked in long strides, avoiding cracks in the pavement. Supposing he did find someone who knew Winter – how could he explain why he was looking for her? What if they told her a strange Englishman was hanging around town asking questions about her, someone she had never even met but who knew so much about her? She would probably call the police, he would definitely lose his job, and any chance of ever resolving things with Clare would be completely gone. If that was even what he wanted any more. He compelled himself to remember that this was the woman who had cheated on him. Anything else would be a lie. He thought about her earlier confession: the slip of the kiss. In his gut, he had known that there was more to it than she had told him. If he had been prepared then to accept the implicit knowledge of betrayal and reach out a conciliatory hand all the same, what had really changed now that it had been made explicit? Should he have sat down wearily on the side of their hotel bed and tried to reach an understanding? Could he have just redrawn the line under the whole affair in a heavier, more permanent ink and allowed their weekend of rediscovery to continue? Would she love him more or less for his forgiveness? He closed the door on this line of thought. Nothing could ever be the same now, because the truth could never be unknown. He could never unlearn that she had lied to him and that she had chosen to continue to do so when the opportunity to tell the truth had finally presented itself. It was her ability to live inside that fraud that really sickened him. And that was before he even let himself think of what she had physically done. He could never have stayed in that hotel room and lived with himself.

  He turned right along the river until a stone arch enticed him into Temple Bar, where the cobbled streets had become thronged with shoppers and tourists enjoying the unexpected sunshine. He paused outside the Rock Garden and read the billings for that night to see if anyone he had heard of was playing, but he didn’t recognize any of the names. Who knows, if he and Stevie had stuck at it, maybe the Bleeding Hearts might have played here themselves. He strolled down Crown Alley, where all the rock-and-roll kids hung around in awkward little groups in self-conscious poses. A lady sporting a vintage tuxedo, her hair gelled into a bleached-blonde quiff, was dragging a clothes rail heavy with retro band T-shirts and denim jackets down two steps to rest in front of the purple-and-white-striped walls of her store. William helped her position it, and she winked at him.

  ‘Thanks, chicken,’ she said.

  He followed her back inside as he wriggled Winter’s Polaroid picture from his pocket.

  ‘Excuse me!’ he called after her. ‘You don’t happen to know where I might find a pair of boots like these?’ He ignored how foolish he felt as she absorbed the image then quickly looked him up and down.

  ‘My wife,’ he offered. ‘She bought a pair somewhere around here a few years ago but lost them. I wanted to try and replace them for her. Her favourite pair, you see.’

  She pulled out a pair of round gold-rimmed spectacles from under the counter and studied the picture more closely.

  ‘Hhhmmmm, I can’t say I’ve ever seen boots like them before,’ she said, with a drawl. ‘You’re not in Nashville, ya know. I wouldn’t fancy your chances.’

  A teenage boy, resplendent in yellow denim flares, black polyester shirt and orange platform boots staggered through from the back room, the top of his Afro just visible above the huge cardboard box he was hugging.

  ‘Alex! Just the man!’ she exclaimed. ‘Here, take a look at these. Ring any bells?’

  He dropped the box with a slap on the concrete floor and leaned over to peer at the picture.

  ‘What am I looking for?’ he asked. ‘Who’s this guy?’

  He nodded towards William, who jumped in to answer.

  ‘I’m trying to find a shop that sells them, or used to, anyway. Any suggestions?’

  The young man drummed his fingers on the counter-top, chewing on the question for a moment. A look of hard concentration on his face gave William hope, but it quickly vanished.

  ‘Nope, sorry,’ he said with a shrug. ‘I’m going to get a breakfast roll, okay?’ he asked the tuxedoed lady, as he headed for the door.

  In every shop along the alley where William enquired, he received the same incredulous looks, hopeless shrugs, offers of alternatives. He was sitting on the steps of Central Bank, contemplating his next move, when the yellow-flared teenager from that morning strutted past, paused and turned on his heel to call back to him.

  ‘Yo! Boots guy!’ he hollered. ‘I just thought of somewhere! There is one place you could try … on Dame Lane. They do more costumes, but I think they used to do cowgirl stuff.’ He held up his hands in question. ‘Worth a shot?’

  ‘Yes, yes, definitely,’ William answered. ‘Thanks so much!’ but the boy had already resumed his parade down the city catwalk, leaving William to watch him walk away.

  Dame Lane – hadn’t Winter mentioned that street in one of her letters? With revived purpose, William paused at the pedestrian crossing, looked at his street map to find the way to Dame Lane and discovered it was a little alleyway running parallel to where he stood. He picked up the pace as he travelled along its curling pavement, looking through the windows of a taxidermist’s, at the closed blinds of a beauty parlour and the lonely white walls of a gallery empty of art. He was relieved to find the lane so short and the shops so few as to eliminate any chance of him mistaking the place.

  A bubblegum-pink clapperboard hung on the black railings of a stairway leading down to a basement unit. Curly white lettering spelled out the name Gúna of Una, above drawings of ladies’ hat
s with legs sticking out beneath them that appeared to be doing the can-can. He climbed down the stairs, pausing to look into the window, past the jailhouse bars to the lair within. The interior looked as if it had been dropped into Dublin from a Hollywood movie set. Mirrors framed by strings of white lights stretched along one of the whitewashed stone walls. Black-and-white portraits of fifties starlets adorned the rear, looking down on a turquoise chaise longue scattered with voluminous velvet cushions in myriad shades of blue. Red and black feather boas dangled from the ends of white wooden clothes rails, kissing the plush peach carpet underneath. Instead of changing rooms, a hot-pink velvet curtain was draped across one corner on an ornate silver rail. A woman’s head and shoulders were visible over the top as she wriggled into something metallic-looking; her feet peeped from the bottom, where her trousers gathered around her ankles.

  When William pushed through the glossy black door, little bells tinkled and the aroma of vanilla essence was overpowering. It was obvious this shop was not a domain designed for the comfort of men. Enthroned in a purple velvet armchair behind a black marble counter, a woman looked out at him from under a ruby-encrusted pill-box hat that sat neatly on rolls of shiny ebony hair. Her face was powdered chalk-white with eyebrows drawn on in black, sweeping false eyelashes, two circles of blush on each cheek and a perfect pout of sticky redness. She appeared to be wearing a short wedding dress. When she spoke, her voice was a raspy whisper, as if it had become tired from too much singing in smoky jazz clubs.

  ‘Well, now, are you lost or on a mission?’

  She beckoned him towards her with a frosted-pink talon, and William stumbled down the last step into the shop, steadying himself against a glittering ladder of stilettos that wobbled perilously.

  ‘Um, I’m not quite sure what you mean.’

  ‘I mean, have you stumbled in here by accident? Or have you sought out a secret wonderland where a man of certain persuasions can find another identity?’