The Lost Letters of William Woolf

by Helen Cullen

  Flora pushed past her sister to block the living-room door and stretched her arms across the frame.

  ‘No!’ she shouted. ‘I’m not having it. You’re nothing like Mum! You’ve no reason to think you’d make the same mistakes she did. You looked after me when she couldn’t. And she was sick.’

  Clare tried to squeeze past her, but Flora wouldn’t budge. Clare tried to calm down, shocked how quickly this conversation had turned; her heart raced as if a mouse had suddenly scampered across the floor. She forced her voice to become neutral.

  ‘Stop it! She wasn’t sick. She was a drunk, and still is. You and Dad always make excuses for her, but I protected you from so much of it. I have no idea how to be a good mother, because I never had one. The older I get, the more I see her in me, and the harder it is to stay in control.’

  She dropped her clothes in a heap on the floor and sat down beside them, holding her head in her hands. She was too tired for this. Any time she felt even a semblance of normality, she was thrown off course again. Flora slid down the wall beside her and put her arm around her.

  ‘I’m sorry for pushing,’ she whispered, ‘but can I just ask you something? If you could be sure that you wouldn’t end up like her, if your relationship was strong, would you want a baby, then? Because it’s a hundred per cent fine if you just don’t think it’s right for you, but if there is even a small part of you that wants it, you need to be very careful about your next move, because it’s one of the few choices you make in life that can’t be reversed if you leave it too late.’

  Clare rested her head on her sister’s shoulder. ‘That’s what William said too.’ She sighed. Flora remained silent.

  ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘If I could wave a magic wand and fix everything, then, yes, maybe I would consider it, but I couldn’t do it by myself.’

  Flora squeezed her hand. ‘You wouldn’t be alone,’ she said. ‘William would be there, I’m sure of it. And me, too.’

  She stood up, offered her hand to Flora to pull her up also, and said, ‘You have to understand, Flo, that us staying together isn’t the only possible happy ending for us. There are no plan Bs now … only plan As. Does that make sense?’

  ‘It does,’ she answered. ‘But I can still root for you, though, right? I think William’ll come through.’

  ‘Maybe he will,’ Clare said, ‘but I’ve hurt him a lot. You don’t know the whole story, Flo.’ Flora’s head whipped around to look at her sister but Clare ignored her arched eyebrows and continued towards the bathroom. She called back over her shoulder, ‘Do you fancy taking a drive? I’ve been working on something and want to show you the results.’

  One shower and two slices of peanut butter on toast each later, Clare drove her sister through Camberwell, Shoreditch and De Beauvoir Town until her Mini rattled to a stop in front of what looked like a derelict building in Dalston. Flora pressed her hands on the glass of the passenger window while she peered out.

  ‘Come on! All will be revealed,’ Clare said, as she jumped out of the car and hauled the rusty corrugated gate open.

  She punched a code into a security box to release the cast-iron front door and led Flora inside. A long concrete corridor stretched ahead, with burnished black doors to the right and left, and a steel staircase curled upwards at the rear. Flora followed her sister as she ran up the steps two at a time. At the top, she produced from her bag a silver key attached to a ring of turquoise fluff as big as a tennis ball. With it, she opened a white panelled wooden door and swung it wide to allow Flora to enter first into the wide, rectangular room. One wall consisted purely of windows; light flooded the room and clouds of dust danced across the old floorboards under their feet. Bits of threadbare grey carpet still stuck to the perimeter of the room; the previous tenant must have had the vision to tear most of it away to find out what the original floor was. A paint-splattered butcher’s block ran down the centre, and a Belfast sink, chipped and cracked, stood in the corner.

  ‘It still has running water,’ Clare announced, turning on the taps to demonstrate.

  ‘Wow! What is all this?’ Flora was wide-eyed as she walked across the room to look out across East London through the cracked windowpanes.

  ‘It’s my new studio!’ she said, turning slowly on her heel to survey the room. ‘I paid six months upfront and, tomorrow, I’m going to blow a small fortune on a new easel and every oil paint they have for sale in Ferguson’s. I don’t think I’ve felt so excited in a long time.’

  Flora squealed and ran back across the room to throw her arms around her sister. They spun in a circle, holding hands like they had as children, before collapsing on the dusty floor, laughing.

  ‘Tell me everything! Does this mean it went well with your boss yesterday?’ Flora asked.

  Clare wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans.

  ‘Oh, it was just what I expected,’ she answered. ‘I’m just glad it’s over. He said I can take the year and they will hold my job open, but that “leaving at this point in my career will have a serious impact on my ability to make partner”.’

  A wrinkle of worry creased Flora’s brow.

  ‘Are you not bothered about that?’ she asked. ‘You’ve worked there for so long. And that ladder was so hard for you to get on in the first place. You’re the first woman they’ve even considered for partner, you said it yourself. That’s a big deal!’

  It was Clare’s turn now to put her arm around her sister.

  ‘Not as much as it should. I just know that, if I don’t take a break now, I probably never will. And, at this point, the fear of working for ever at a job I don’t love far outweighs the fear of falling a few steps down the ladder if I have to go back. I mean, have you seen my porcelain sink?’ She winked at her little sister. ‘C’mon. I’ll treat you to lunch at Soup Opera.’

  As they drove back to Flora’s, Clare felt as if the spring sunshine was glowing from within her and spreading out across the city. She knew in her bones that this was the right thing for her to do, but worries about William tailed her like a thundercloud. They stood at a crossroads. A large part of her wanted them to reinvent their lives together; the other worried that they might need space from each other to be able to do that. Either way, she knew she had to forge her own path so that, whether they stayed together or not, in a year from now she could be happy, or at least happier. She knew that she couldn’t keep blaming him or their marriage for holding her back. It was on her now, and she wouldn’t let herself down, but she hoped she could find a way to save their marriage. And she already had one idea about how she could do it.

  Flora was singing along with the Bangles’ ‘Eternal Flame’ on the radio when Clare pulled the Mini over. ‘Do you mind if we take a detour past the flat?’ she asked. ‘I need to pick up a few things.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Flora said, and she smiled at her sister. ‘My big sister, the artist. Who’d have thunk it, eh?’

  Clare tapped out the beat of the song on the steering wheel. She liked the sound of that.

  XXIV

  Discovering Clare’s letter, instead of her physical presence, in their home was mostly a relief to William, but he couldn’t shake a tinge of disappointment that she had done as he had asked and left him alone. He couldn’t, however, deny what a comfort it was to hear that she was staying with Flora and not with that man. It was too soon, he thought, to consider when he might see her again or what he would say when he did. For now, he had to follow through on solving the mystery of Winter, for both their sakes.

  William had heard about the Clapton Working Men’s Club but had never been himself. Stevie, who had led many a conga line there in his time, had told him it was a giant dress-up box for students, eccentrics, performers, voyeurs and the fabulous to dance, play, perform and mingle with many unlike-minded people. On the top floor, it still existed as a club for working East End men to socialize, play cards and pool, and listen to records on the original gramophone that had been preciously maintained since the cl
ub had opened in the sixties. These members had their own entrance, a private stairway to their rooms, which minimized but didn’t eliminate entirely the opportunity to converse with lindy hoppers, drag artists and adherents to the current craze Shoreditch inhabitants had for dressing up as Hollywood stars and staying in character all evening. It was exactly the sort of club that Stevie had moved to London for, and his only disappointment came with the realization that, with this crowd, he would never be the most interesting or flamboyant person in the room. He made a valiant effort for a while, experimenting with dressing up in a three-tiered-cake costume, as a fearleader – which William later realized was a dead cheerleader – and trialled numerous creative ideas involving body paint, glitter and carefully positioned feathers. Eventually, however, he grew fatigued and decided it was far more intriguing just to go as himself; it was one of the few places where Stevie, dressed normally, didn’t cause a stir. He had invited William along a few times to ‘broaden his horizons’ and ‘set him free’, but William had always resisted. He considered asking Stevie to accompany him now. He might even be able to pass it off as a symptom of his general malaise in response to recent events, a need to embrace the world that existed outside the marital home. He was sure Stevie would support him fully, however he wasn’t quite ready to admit to anyone, even Stevie, about what he had been up to in Dublin. He decided to investigate quietly by himself to begin with and call for reinforcements later if required.

  The number 48 bus dropped William at Clapton Pond, and he patrolled the avenues, looking for the right address. When he finally arrived at the venue, he almost walked past the entrance, it blended so perfectly with the residential houses along the street. A brass plaque adorned a white iron gate at the end of the driveway with the letters C.W.M.C. and an engraving of the happy/sad Greek-theatre masks connected by a snooker cue. He creaked the gate open and continued up a path that wound around the side to the rear. The whole building was much larger than the front exterior implied; the back garden revealed a world of wonder at play. Festoon lighting draped from the roof of the house through the branches of the trees. Oversized swings and hammocks rocked gently in the breeze as they waited impatiently for someone to fill them. A giant chess set sat on the lawn; the queens stood with their backs to each other, wearing lipstick, plastic sunglasses and baseball caps – the bishops, too. A dozen tutus of varying sizes were drying on a washing line; they looked rather disturbing as they danced in the wind, like discombobulated ballerinas. Tables and chairs painted in proud rainbow stripes were scattered around the garden, behind bushes and in nooks and crannies, to accommodate private mischief. The door of a shed painted scarlet was swinging open, and William could see that the interior was red, too: the walls and floors, sofas and chairs. He didn’t dare to cross the threshold, but wondered what lay further inside, what activities were enjoyed there after dark. William felt a bolt of envy towards those who came here freely and weren’t ashamed to act on their desires; something he struggled to do more and more as time passed.

  The back wall of the house was covered in graffiti: giant flowers and kaleidoscopes of colour, peace slogans and dancing zebras. Perhaps there were all sorts of subliminal messages at play that William was innocently absorbing. The windows were covered in starry cloth that prevented him peeking at the interior, but in the centre of the back door sat a frame made of white lights and miniature crystal balls containing the programme of events. It offered the Sailors and Sweethearts Swing Ball, the Camping in the Countryside Sleepover, Hollywood Bingo, Fun and Funky Friday, The Cocky Horror Picture Show, Rock and Roll in the Hay … and there, in a cursive silver font, Winter Wonderland: Burlesque Revue. There was a photo of a lady in silhouette lying atop what looked like a giant block of ice with cascades of fiery red hair flowing over the edge. It had to be her.

  The heavy black wooden door opened a crack and a head emerged, wearing what looked like the gusset of a pair of tights on top of it and very white powdered make-up. The man’s lips were painted red, but so far only one eye had been decorated with elaborate make-up and false lashes; altogether, it gave him the appearance of a very disturbed china doll.

  ‘You’re not a journalist, are you? I don’t even have all my face on.’

  His voice was very deep, with a strong northern accent.

  ‘No, no. I was just checking the listings. The burlesque show sounds interesting. I might come along.’

  The character behind the door swung it open to reveal a black fluffy bathrobe with white fishnet stockings peeking out beneath.

  ‘Oh, you definitely should. Those girls are just fabulous, and they’ll move on to other, bigger things soon, I can tell you. I’ve been the manager here for ten years now and they all move on in the end, but these girls in particular are far too good for this dump. You just can’t get the talent, usually, to turn out a decent show. Do you perform yourself?’

  For a fleeting second, William considered that this could be the in he needed, but caught himself before he opened up another Pandora’s box of ridiculous behaviour on his part.

  ‘No, no. I’ll definitely come along to see one of the shows, though.’

  ‘All right, then. Close the gate on your way out. We’re keeping a low profile today. Bit of trouble last night.’

  ‘Oh, what sort of trouble?’

  He paused for a moment as he surveyed William further, and then the whole story came gushing out as his shoulders collapsed forward.

  ‘Dolly Get-Your-Part On was whizzing around on rollerskates while under the influence and accidentally fell through the curtain while the Von Tramps were performing, and that horrible old queen Dixie Trix pushed her off the stage, and Dolly’s wig came off, and the wheels were spinning underneath her while she tried to stand up, and she got madder and madder and pulled at Dixie’s skirt for balance, and the two of them ended up rolling around the floor, with hair and lashes flying and pantyhose ripping, and then all the Von Tramps piled in and it became a bit of a free-for-all.’

  He took a breath before he continued. ‘Some fool in the audience called the police, which was completely unnecessary, as we always resolve these little matters ourselves, but when they arrived we were still serving – after hours – so now I’m in so much trouble you just wouldn’t believe it.’

  He sat down on the doorstep and held his head in his hands. William awkwardly patted his shoulder and mumbled something reassuring about first offences and extenuating circumstances. The manager patted his hand, nodding his head like a toy bobbing dog.

  ‘Maybe a little sleep would help?’ he suggested, as he peeled his hand away. ‘I hope you get everything sorted.’

  Turning the corner to follow the pathway out, he looked over his shoulder and saw the old dear wiping his eyes with one of the tutus as he collected them from the line. Winter’s show was scheduled for the following Thursday, so William knew exactly where he could find her then. He could ask Stevie to come to the show with him, but the prospect of watching her perform made him terribly uncomfortable. Winter hadn’t told him about it herself, and to go and see her on stage felt as if he were stealing something from her, something she hadn’t chosen to share with him. Maybe he could see her afterwards? Or leave her a note. Or a letter? Yes! A letter was definitely the right way to contact her after all this time. His new friend could pass it on, perhaps.

  Back on the 48 bus, William forced himself to consider why the club had affected him so much, why he felt so jealous of a life that could so easily be his. Had Clare been right all along? Had he just convinced himself that he was happy at the depot because he didn’t think he deserved another chance to live a more creative life? Maybe he saw Winter as his portal to a second chance. He knew, though, that only he could set himself free. For too long now, he had been a passive observer in his own life. Could Clare ever support him if he tried again to succeed as a writer while she was still trapped in the snares of her job? Did they each need to start again as individuals to have the freedom to let go of
their past selves? Maybe Winter had come for him so that could happen. Or maybe her letters would help him find his way home. Whatever the outcome, he knew he was close to the truth.

  XXV

  Two blue Basildon Bond envelopes sat on William’s desk, one addressed to Winter, one to Clare. They waited like a pair of starched pillows anticipating a pair of tired heads. He traced his forefinger over one name and whispered it aloud into the deserted office space. Clare. How easily his pen had scrawled her name, how practised those letters in that order were by his hand, how effortlessly his pen nib scratched their shape. His fountain pen formed the word ‘Winter’ more clumsily; he had smudged the crossing of the ‘t’.

  He felt compelled to read both letters again, hoped the words found at midnight were not so soaked in Jameson as to prove incoherent. Beyond the windows, a wet blackness was spilling across the skyline, an inkpot toppled on sheets of pale-grey paper. The office was too dark to award him a reflection; he looked beyond the glass out to a city hushed and shrouded in mystery. The city lights were blurred in silver rain as black cats raised black kittens in alleys more puddle than path.

  In this enveloping gloom, it was hard to imagine sunlight could ever sweep this town, illuminate corners, coax it to shimmer. It was even more difficult to think of those two women with only their absence in common. Where was Clare tonight? Was she sitting hunched over a computer at work, pale face, tired from the longest of days, glowing in the electric-green light? Had she kicked off her stilettos and slipped her stockinged feet into the wine wool stockings she hid in her bottom drawer for nights when she worked late alone? Or would she have pulled her hair from its daytime knot, swapped a suit jacket for a leather one, carefully applied scarlet lipstick and absconded to a cellar bar to drink expensive white wine with the men from her office, or with one in particular? The thought made him want to race into the wet night and trawl the streets looking for her. Would she want to be found? He wasn’t sure any more. It was less than a week since she had left him in Dublin, but what a difference those days had made.