The Lost Letters of William Woolf

by Helen Cullen

  He found himself a temporary home in the library bar of the Central Hotel, where the atmosphere reminded him of Christmas Eve. An open fire was roaring in the hearth. Chesterfield sofas and plush armchairs were scattered around on thick, rich carpets in sets of twos and threes; all the lighting came from lamps and tea-light candles in crystal holders. What a dangerous place to encounter on a damp day such as this; he might never leave again. A softly spoken waitress with wing-tipped tortoiseshell spectacles and two long auburn plaits trailing down her back brought him a bowl of country vegetable soup and warm crunchy rolls slathered in butter. He tried not to think of the brown-paper bag of bread hidden under his seat as he relished the comfort food, having already decided to leave the bag behind him when he left.

  After the soup had warmed his bones, an Irish coffee with its whiskey kick seemed the only option. He sank back into a rustred leather armchair and stretched his toes to within inches of the flames flickering in the hearth. Stress ebbed from the tension in the back of his neck down his spine and out through his aching legs before wafting with the smoke up the chimney. He decided that missing his flight had been worth it, for this moment’s grace alone. He closed his eyes and felt he was hovering a few feet above the room as he tuned in to the sounds around him: clinking glasses behind the bar, the pages of a newspaper being snapped taut after each turning, a vacuum cleaner murmuring in the hallway, animated chatter from two ladies surrounded by shopping bags, their high heels temporarily abandoned, sipping gin and tonics. Clare would love it here. The thought sunk him in gloom. He wanted to be angry at her, to hate her, even, but every time those dark feelings bubbled inside him they burst before they grew real legs. Deep down, he knew that what she had done was just a terrible symptom of how wretched they had become, but that didn’t mean he could make peace with it. And definitely not yet.

  He pushed the memory of last night from his mind and turned his thoughts to Winter instead. Had she ever lounged here on a lazy Saturday afternoon? Sometimes, it’s harder to surrender to indulgences of that nature where you live; there’s always some small task to be accomplished. Library bars, even one as seductively comfortable as this, could never be his weekly ritual in real life. Obligations would get in the way and turn the whole business into a spate of guilty mental list-making as he catalogued all the other ways he could be – should be – spending his time. This sort of pleasure had to be reserved for holidays, or the occasional spontaneous moment. What a sad truth to confront. Perhaps if he and Clare had enjoyed more of this and fixated less on accomplishing things on their to-do lists, they would be here together now with Clare’s feet tucked in beneath him. Perhaps. He wriggled into a more upright position, rummaged in his satchel for his notebook and flicked through the history impressed upon its pages that stretched back to the time before this calamitous period in his life. He pined for the innocence of his scribblings:

  Potential birthday presents for Clare:

  A first edition (if can afford) … but of what?

  Weekend abroad (is this just present for me, though?)

  Telescope for star-gazing (can you see enough stars through the smog in London?)

  Fountain pen (too work-related?)

  Cooking classes (too open to misinterpretation?)

  Espresso maker? (too domestic?)

  Lingerie? (again, present for me?)

  Directions to Karen and James’s: Overground to H’bury and Is; change at Dalston Junction; turn right until giant street mural and next left to No. 11 over the dry cleaner’s.

  Shopping:

  Paella rice (medium grain; regular if none)

  Pimms (and lemons/limes/cucumber)

  Cardamom pods

  Non-alcoholic wine for Mrs C

  Pesto (green & sun-dried tomatoes)

  Honey – squeezy

  Green olives (some stuffed with cheese for C.)

  Chocolate digestives

  Sweet potatoes

  To do pre-Christmas:

  Bleed the radiators

  Order wine hamper

  Bag of clothes to charity shop

  Replace lights on bicycle

  Arrange night with Stevie and the band

  Xylophone!!!

  Secret Santa

  He hadn’t done any of those things and couldn’t remember at all what the xylophone reference meant. Perhaps Clare’s frustrations at his alleged inability to get anything done weren’t entirely misplaced. At least he had seen Stevie, although not under the circumstances he would have liked. He scribbled from memory a list of people and places Winter had mentioned in her letters; how he wished he could lay all her letters out before him and scour them for clues. He remembered her old career promoting records in radio stations and tried to consider how useful that nugget of information was. How many radio stations could there be in Ireland? If he spoke to one of the DJs, they would know all the radio pluggers, wouldn’t they? It was hard to gauge what sort of relationship she might have had with them without him having any insight into how the industry worked, but it was definitely a lead worth exploring. He caught the eye of the waitress and gave her the universal gesture to request the same again. As she placed the hot glass tankard before him on a tomato-red napkin, he asked, ‘Odd question, but do you listen to the radio much?’

  ‘At home, I do. It doesn’t really work to have music playing in here, though, if that’s what you’re thinking?’

  ‘No, no. I was just wondering about the local radio stations, what I should tune in to while I’m in town.’

  ‘Well, I listen to some of the pirates myself, but the main one is 2fm. That has all the big DJs on it and is a bit more mainstream. Apart from Dave Fanning. He’s deadly and plays great tunes after eight o’clock. Rock and alternative stuff, mostly. Would you be into that sort of thing?’

  ‘Sounds great. Like the Irish John Peel? Where is the station itself? In Dublin, I’m guessing?’

  ‘Yeah, in RTÉ, out in Donnybrook. It’s not far from here but, if you’re into it, the Roadcaster is outside St Stephen’s Green shopping centre today. You can go see the legend Larry Gogan in action.’

  His antennae twitched at the mention of Donnybrook; wasn’t that where Winter had lived, over a cake shop? He could have kissed the waitress for mentioning it, as he wasn’t sure he would have remembered it otherwise.

  ‘The Roadcaster?’ he asked, hopeful for more intelligence that could help him.

  ‘Yep, it travels all over the country with Larry playing the hits and his Golden Oldies. You should take a stroll up and check it out. You can play a request for Maggie and the gang in the Central Hotel, and my ma might hear it.’

  William gulped down the hot Irish coffee as quickly as the scalding liquid would allow before heading back out into the warren of Dublin. The rain had stopped and the wet cobblestone paths glistened under the pale watery sunlight that tried to break through. As he drew closer to the gates of St Stephen’s Green, he saw a little crowd gathered around a big black-and-yellow bus that was pumping out ‘Teenage Kicks’ by the Undertones. He edged his way to the front, where one of the happiest-looking men he had ever seen was chuckling behind a clipboard and wearing giant yellow headphones. A beaming young woman wearing a black jumpsuit with a thick cerise-pink belt was holding the microphone for him while he shuffled through his papers. The music ended abruptly and the spectators all shared a titter as the DJ jumped and giggled himself at nearly being caught out. A voice of chocolate, so warm and friendly, boomed out from the speakers. This must be the legend Larry himself, thought William. Larry turned to a blushing middle-aged woman who was bursting with pride at the attention. She kept fluffing her ginger perm as she watched him, shifting her weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

  ‘So now we’re going to have our last Just a Minute quiz of the day. Who do we have here?’

  ‘Oh, Larry, I’m Ursula, and that’s my friend Carole hiding over there, but she’s too shy to go on the radio.’

  ‘What’s that,
Carole? Carole, come over here and help poor Ursula answer a few questions out of that.’

  Carole turned scarlet and waved madly, as if the nation of Ireland could see her gesturing over the radio waves.

  ‘It’s no use, Larry. She’ll murder me after.’

  ‘Don’t mind her, Ursula. We’ll give it a go ourselves. Are you ready?’

  ‘Don’t ask me any hard ones, Larry.’

  ‘We’ll let the clock start, then, Eddie, and away we go.’

  A clock started counting down and Larry jumped into action:

  ‘How many in a baker’s dozen?’

  ‘Thirteen.’

  ‘How many times did Johnny Logan win the Eurovision?’

  ‘Twice. Oh, I love him, I do.’

  ‘Name the capital of Germany.’

  ‘G.’

  ‘Finish this famous proverb: as happy as …’

  ‘Oh, as you, Larry.’

  The crowd started laughing, but Larry managed to keep going with the questions.

  ‘What do you put on before you go to bed?’

  ‘Perfume.’

  ‘Can you divide 144 by 12?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A stitch in time saves …?’

  ‘Nine.’

  ‘What do vegetarians not eat?’

  ‘Vegetables.’

  ‘What do caterpillars turn into?’

  ‘Dust.’

  The alarm sounded, and the crowd gave a big cheer while Larry’s assistant counted her score.

  ‘Ah, they didn’t suit you, Ursula, but how many did she get, Anne?’

  ‘Only four this time, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Aw, don’t worry a bit, Ursula. You got a few sticky ones there, but you did great. What do we have for her, Anne?’

  ‘A great prize – two tickets to see Twink in her new show at the Gaiety and a Cadbury’s chocolate hamper.’

  ‘Great stuff. Let’s hear it for Ursula, and it’s back to the studio for the Boomtown Rats. Hit it, Eddie.’

  Carole and Ursula posed for a photograph with Larry before he escaped, but William managed to catch the attention of Anne before she jumped on board the bus behind him.

  ‘Excuse me, do you have a second?’

  ‘Hello there. We’re not doing any more quizzes today, if that’s what you’re after, but I can give you a form to fill out if you’d like to have a request played?’

  ‘That’s okay. I was just wondering if you might know a friend of mine who works for one of the record companies.’

  ‘Maybe, but it depends on what they do.’

  ‘She’s a plugger, as far as I know.’

  ‘Oh, well, Larry would probably know her, then. He listens religiously to every new track that comes out. What’s her name?’

  ‘Winter, although that could be a nickname.’

  ‘Ooh, that’s unusual. Doesn’t ring any bells but, if you wait until the end of the show, you could ask Larry himself, if you’d like to.’

  William started backing slowly away as he realized that he couldn’t really ask this DJ if he happened to know Winter and, if so, where she used to work, without looking pretty peculiar. Was this blind alley just indicative of the end results he would face from all his clues? The futility of his search seemed ever clearer, and he started to panic about what exactly he was hoping to achieve. Was he hoping that whatever magical force had brought the letters into his life would also help him find the woman who wrote them?

  He told Anne he might pop back later and ran to catch the number 10 bus that would take him to Donnybrook village. He asked the driver to let him know when they reached his destination, then watched Dublin city roll by. Larry’s quiz reminded him of the challenge he had taken at last year’s depot Christmas party; he was called up on stage to name something he had found in the depot for every letter in the alphabet. The audience shouted out the letters and, flustered though he was, he managed to call out a discovery in response to each one. He ran through the list in his head until the driver gave him the nod as he pulled up outside a huge chapel. A, apple tree; B, butterflies; C, chandelier; G, gnomes; J, jalapeño peppers; K, kaleidoscope; M, marzipan; P, picnic basket; V, ventriloquist’s dummy. William jumped off the bus, his mind a momentary blank for what he had had for Y, before it hit him as he waited at the pedestrian crossing. Y, yo-yo! Of course!

  He walked along the high street, with its artisan shops and ornate streetlights, hoping he hadn’t missed the bakery as he strolled past. All these shops looked as if flats could exist above them. Did Winter walk along here every day? Buy her groceries in that market? Pore over paperbacks in that bookshop? Find bunches of flowers for friends in that florist? Anyone here could have known her, could still know her now. Everyone spread a web of connections across the world they inhabited: acquaintances, friends, chance encounters. Surely some sticky fragments of Winter’s time here must exist along this street.

  A cake shop sat on a curved corner, its stained-glass door opening on to the connecting street. This must be the one. In the window, a display of wedding cakes blocked most of the interior from view, but he saw that the bakery stretched further along the street; a row of little tables for two with blue-and-white-check tablecloths lined a long window. Each table had a red bud vase in the centre that held a sprig of winter jasmine. His favourite flower. In fact, the only flower that held any emotional significance for him at all. When he was a little boy, every November, his mother would take him out into the fields at the back of his grandmother’s house in Devon to gather armfuls of it. They seemed to herald that Christmas was coming. His granny filled the house with them; in vases of all shapes and sizes but in empty milk bottles and tall drinking glasses, too. Whenever he could, he took a bunch to her grave in Highbury.

  He was disappointed to discover that the flowers were plastic, but then, it was the wrong season. Goodness, where would he be spending Christmas this year? Would he and Clare be apart? Where on earth would he go if they were? Stevie’s house? Thoughts of Christmas Eve without Clare made a cold mist gather on his skin. If he couldn’t imagine Christmas without her, what was he doing sitting in a cake shop in Dublin, trying to track down a ghost? Even as every iota of common sense told him to leave and go straight to the airport, however, he was incapable of surrender. An important, essential part of himself had committed to this quest and, whatever his better judgement told him, he could not give up now. He forced himself to focus; he had lost sight of why he had come here.

  William approached the counter, ordered a chocolate eclair and a peppermint tea, immediately questioning their compatibility, before starting to quiz the silver-haired gentleman in a starched white shirt and royal-blue tie who was so elegantly preparing his tray. William wondered if the clientele came as much for his attentions as for the little pastries that, he later discovered, were made by the man’s wife.

  ‘I’m visiting from London and remembered my friend, Winter, saying she lived above a cake shop around here. I don’t suppose it was this one, by any chance?’

  The gentleman’s voice was slow and soft, only just more audible than a whisper. William felt they were already participating in a shared confidence.

  ‘I don’t suppose so.’

  ‘Oh? Any particular reason?’

  ‘A very particular one. I’ve lived upstairs with my wife for twenty-five years and, although we’ve had all the seasons living with us through that time, to the best of my knowledge, they have never taken on any human form.’

  William concentrated on stirring his tea, watched the colour darken within the thick, glass-walled mug.

  ‘I see. Twenty-five years. It’s a long time. You must be very happy here.’

  ‘Oh, we’ve had our ups and downs. And we did try to leave once. My wife, Sylvie, became poorly, and we made an effort to retire in the west, but it wasn’t for us. Syl spent all day making cakes without any neighbours for miles to give them away to. I thought I’d never be able to suffer the sight of them again. So, we came back to w
ork, and my daughter kindly let us take the reins again.’

  ‘Did she mind the shop for you while you were away?’

  ‘Yes, she took over the whole business and lived upstairs but, really, I think she was relieved not to have to keep going. She had loftier ideas than inheriting the family business and always hankered to move abroad, to a bigger city where something exciting could happen.’

  William’s teaspoon clattered on to the silver tray while he registered this news.

  ‘So, all for the best, then? Did she make the move? America? Or closer to home?’

  ‘No, she wanted to go to America, but her mother’s heart was broken at the thought of her being so far away, so she settled for London. Syl still feels guilty about that. Maybe if she had just gone to America, things would have turned out differently.’

  William kept his voice steady as his heart banged and thrashed inside his ribcage. He rested his clammy hands against the tiled countertop to steady himself.

  ‘Did she not like it, then? What’s she up to now?’

  His confidant took off a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles and patted his brow with a white handkerchief before polishing the lenses.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s not up to anything. Things took an unfortunate turn over there and she got herself into some trouble. We’ve never really been sure exactly what happened; dodgy boyfriend at the heart of it, though, of course. Anyway, she passed away and was found in a horrible little flat in Shepherd’s Bush, and by then it was too late to ever know the whole story.’