by Helen Cullen
‘The bride is coming!’ he heard him call to the stragglers.
William craned his neck to watch for a car turning into the square, knowing that at any moment it would appear. He counted slowly backwards from one hundred, looking from his feet to the corner of the street and back again. As the fifties petered out, a white Beetle spluttered into sight and slowly chugged to a halt outside the chapel. His discomfort mounted. Had he invaded someone else’s dream uninvited? Gatecrashed reality while hunting a ghost? The satellite he had orbited from afar was drawing ever closer; the earth tilted beneath his feet and left him spinning. He could see wispy clouds of white and a flash of scarlet blur through the window as the wedding car slowed to a stand. He saw the bride look to the left; one hand paused as it reached to smooth a stray red curl behind her ear. William touched his beard, held his breath.
Their eyes met.
The usher opened the car door and a white lace glove reached out to him. He steadied the bride as she climbed out and smoothed the skirt of her gown. It was an old-fashioned dress, knee length, full skirt of lace, long sleeves, a silk bow at the nape of her neck. The scarlet hair he had long imagined erupted from a boxy hat with a white lace veil. On her feet, sparkling white cowboy boots. An elderly man, resplendent in top hat and tails, climbed from the car and walked slowly but with great presence towards her to take her arm. William watched the man he was sure must be Winter’s father hand her a bouquet of yellow daffodils; she reached her hand to touch his face and he kissed her on the cheek. As Winter took his arm, she turned her gaze towards William.
Their eyes met.
William jolted at the flicker of recognition that passed between them. Alice-Ann approached Winter and a photographer ran from the chapel yard to capture the bridal party in the moment of arrival. Winter’s face froze into a perfect smile as she looked directly into the lens, before linking her grandmother to the right, her father to the left, and crunching up the gravel pathway to the chapel door. William moved along the railing, feeling for the gate without ever looking away from her. The Beetle backfired as it spluttered away. Winter jumped and whipped her head back towards the noise.
Their eyes met.
William walked to the kerb and paused as a stream of traffic whizzed past him. He stepped backwards towards the railing once again. At the church door, Alice-Ann’s fingers fluttered over the bride’s dress as Winter adjusted her veil. She paused, turned, before lowering it. The traffic cleared and, with it, the congestion blocking the avenues of William’s mind dissipated.
Their eyes met.
He was lost and found.
One Year and One Day Later
Clare lay on a battered dusty-pink velvet love seat in her studio. Kate Bush played on the record player behind her; it looked as if the cherry blossoms on the tree outside her window were swishing in time with the music. The radiator cranked and groaned as it tried to warm the cold, exposed brick walls that surrounded her. She pulled the patchwork quilt she had finally finished the weekend before around her shoulders and smiled in contentment. She loved how the fabrics felt as she ruffled them with her fingers; she was surrounded by memories.
Clare looked up at the sounds of footsteps on the stairs and glanced at her easel; a sheet covered the painting. Good. She wasn’t ready to show him yet. Her swollen belly strained against the paint-splattered fabric of her smock as she turned. She squirmed back into a more comfortable position and rested the book she was reading on top of the bump with the cover facing her. She was tickled by how well it balanced there: The Lost Letters of William Woolf. Resting her head on the cushion behind her, she closed her eyes and listened to the footsteps drawing closer. As the door to her studio creaked open, she turned.
Their eyes met.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost, I would like to thank my literary agent, Peter Straus, for taking a leap of faith on both this novel and the writer within me. I am eternally grateful to him and the entire team at Rogers, Coleridge and White for their endless support and dedication.
Thank you also to:
My superhuman UK editor, Jessica Leeke, at Penguin, who guided me so mindfully through my first editing experience.
The indefatigable Jillian Taylor, and her amazing comrades at Penguin for the boundless energy they devoted to bringing this manuscript to life.
My agent in America, Kim Witherspoon, of Inkwell Management, for introducing this book to a whole new world across the pond.
Margo Lipschultz, Melanie Fried and my magnificent publishing team at Graydon House in America for their insights, support and enthusiasm.
Michèle Roberts, an inspirational writer and my mentor, who gave me permission to think of myself as a writer for the first time and encouraged me to just keep going.
The fellow writers in my writing workshop for their encouragement and feedback; Natalie, Francis, Deb, David, David and in particular, Marc Lee, for his reading of early drafts and ongoing belief in the work.
My parents, Frank and Margaret Cullen. All they ever want for their children is their happiness; unconditional love such as this is a tremendous gift.
My late grandmother Julia for passing down bravery in the blood, and to my siblings, Patricia, Ger, Frank, Mary and Lynda and the extended Cullen clan.
Hans, Gaby and the Wieland family of Cliffoney, Co. Sligo, where the mountains meet the sea, and many of these words were written.
Karen Connell, who has believed in all my mad schemes since we first met at school, not least of all, that I would one day write this book. I would be lost without her.
To all of my incredible friends who have taken such joy in watching this book come into being. I love and appreciate you very much – you all inspire me in a million different ways.
To you, dear reader, for crossing the threshold to the Dead Letters Depot.
My final words of thanks go to Demian Wieland. The book is dedicated to him; he watched over me tirelessly as I watched over these words. Thank you, Demian. This one’s for you.
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia India | New Zealand | South Africa Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
First published 2018
Copyright © Helen Cullen, 2018
‘i carry your heart with me (i carry it in). Copyright 1952, © 1980, 1991 by the Trustees for the E.E. Cummings Trust, ‘you are tired?’, copyright © 1973, 1983, 1991 by the Trustees for the E.E. Cummings Trust. Copyright © 1973, 1983 by George James Firmage, from Complete Poems: 1904–1962 by E.E. Cummings, edited by George J. Firmage. Used by permission of Liveright Publishing Corporation The moral right of the author has been asserted Cover design © StudioHelen ISBN: 978-1-405-93497-8