The Lost Letters of William Woolf Page 9

  She placed her hands on top of it and whispered, ‘I’m exhausted, William. I don’t sleep. You don’t sleep. We stay up half the night not talking to each other. I’m too tired. “Tired of things that break, and – Just tired.” ’

  William felt a frost settle over his skin, prickling, numbing, crackling at the familiar words. He paused before he spoke, yearning for his gut to show him the way.

  ‘Clare, wait! “But I come with a dream in my” –’

  She pushed him away. ‘No, William! No!’ she shouted. ‘It’s too late for that.’

  William fell to his knees and buried his face in the pleats of her dove-grey silk skirt. His sobs were wretched and he couldn’t hear her crying over his own wet, thick, desperate sounds of protest. Clare stood with the palms of her hands over her eyes, quiet little tears squeezing through her trembling fingers. She tried to step backwards without touching William. He fell forward but didn’t let go, so she awkwardly wrestled his arms from around her knees and stepped over him, a semicircle heap of a man. He watched her pick up a suitcase in the hallway that seemed to have appeared from nowhere. How could he not have seen it as he came in? She didn’t look back as she rushed out of the front door and closed it gently behind her. William remained immobile on the floor.

  VII

  After Clare left, William sat staring at the closed front door until his limbs fell into a sleepy ache. Without anything useful to do, he rose to put the kettle on to boil and stood watching it. He listened to its dry squealing for a moment before he realized he hadn’t filled it with water. Steam burned his hand as he held it under the tap. The water flowed over, dampening the sleeve of his cardigan so the wool became soggy against his wrist. He slapped his hand against the edge of the sink and cutlery scattered across the draining board. How could he have let her leave? His gaze wandered around the kitchen he had spent so many evenings in with Clare, talking, kissing, cooking, eating, cleaning, decorating, dancing, fighting. He heard a quiet crinkle of paper as he leaned into the sink and remembered Winter’s letter in his pocket. He sighed. Would it make him feel better or worse to read it now? Anything was better than the silence of their empty flat. He abandoned the full kettle on the kitchen counter and climbed to the top of the stairs, sat where Clare had been perched writing to him. The discarded notebook lay open; only ‘Dear William’ written before he had interrupted her. The hallway looked different from there; so far below, like a theatre set waiting for a performance to begin. He groaned, rubbed his tired eyes, removed the letter from its envelope and balanced it on his knee as he read.

  My Great Love,

  It is such a comfort to me, being able to write to you like this. To talk in a safe place where I can acknowledge you and how much you mean to me. It’s difficult to discuss you with anyone else, of course. It’s important to me that others don’t know how much it bothers me being without you. There can be something so tragic about anyone whose life revolves exclusively around their search for a perfect mate. I often think, if they just spent less time obsessing about their potential other half, they would find themselves a complete whole, nonetheless. So please don’t misunderstand me; I have a very full and, oftentimes, lovely life. I don’t need a man per se and know I could carve out a life of great adventure entirely on my own – if I had to. I would just rather not. I’m not ready yet to let go of the idea that there is one great love for me out there, that you are still searching for me, too. I can feel it in my bones. I want someone to travel with and share the experience of discovery. Someone to talk to when I come home in the evenings so we can bear witness to each other’s lives and understand the importance of a million little things.

  I want someone to see me, all the colours of my personality, and love me anyway. But I would rather be alone than pretend to have found the right someone. To sit here and write these letters and wait impatiently for you rather than to talk myself into loving another. I refuse to settle for anything less than a magnificent love. I want the sort of love people have fought wars over, walked thousands of miles for, made sacrifices, forsaken all others for. I’ll never ask you to do any terrible things to prove your devotion, but I want to know that you would. I want poetry and passion, a particular love that is specific to you and me. No roses or champagne or candlelit dinners – no generic romantic expressions but rather ones that could be inspired only by the most intimate knowledge of the very heart of me.

  I want to have children with someone I believe will inspire them to be the most brilliant of humans, a man that will love them unconditionally and give them the confidence to follow their dreams. My father always encouraged me to believe that I could do anything, be anyone. If not for him, I might never have left home for London with just my camera and the idea that I could be a proper photographer if this city was my studio. Many people question if I made the right decision, leaving what they considered to be the perfect job at home. I spent years working for a small independent record label, coaxing Ireland’s DJs to play songs and to promote albums for the next big thing. It was definitely an adventure – concerts, festivals, tours – but I reached a point where I thought I couldn’t imagine doing it for ever. It was time for me to stop facilitating the dreams of others and allow myself the chance to follow my own. So I left. I swapped my wishbone for a backbone, as they say, and committed myself to the realization of the dream that brought me here. Any of the men I have known in my life so far, I have struggled to imagine them as a father and a best friend as well as my lover. Someone who will encourage me to follow my heart, while he does the same. Those two things don’t have to be mutually exclusive, do they? That’s why I’m still waiting for you. I’m not asking for too much, am I? When the moment comes, please don’t hesitate. Seize it. Seize this spectacular love for us.

  Maybe you’ll see me this evening when I catch the Northern Line to Camden Town. I’m meeting my good friend Peter for some Mexican food and mojitos in our favourite restaurant by the station – a hot remedy to spice life up after a grey week spent in Ireland with his parents. He finds it hard to reconcile London Peter with the Peter from the small town he left behind. I can relate. It’s far from Mexican food he was reared. Isn’t that the magic of this city? You can experiment with a thousand different lives, experience something new, and then continue or cast it aside. Sometimes, I worry the city makes us do that to people, too. There’s always someone else to turn your head; potential lovers race by as frequently as the Tube. What if your great love just hadn’t revealed their true self before you moved on?

  I declare tonight to be my new New Year’s Eve. Why wait until 31 December for new resolutions, new beginnings? I wish you were here to kiss me at midnight.

  Happy New Year, My Great Love. Can we please start a new year together?

  Yours,

  Winter

  William lay on his back on the carpet of the landing, his eyes focused on the cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. I would rather be alone than pretend. He whispered the words like a mantra; wasn’t that the belief Jack Kerouac had instilled in him all those years ago? Back then, it was still easy to believe in a great love; he hadn’t yet been disappointed, worn down. Was Winter naïve? Or was she just less jaded than him? A spectacular love: the younger William had believed anything less was a travesty. Now, after being in a relationship with Clare for fourteen years, had his essential self changed? Was the real tragedy not allowing their spectacular love to grow into something perhaps less sparkling but more stable? Was real romance just persevering when times were hard, hidden in the daily domestic rituals of a life shared? He didn’t think he would ever convince Winter of that. Could he convince himself?

  Perhaps Winter was right, and maybe he was one of those who spent too long obsessing about who should complete him instead of thinking of what he could do to complete himself. He needed to make himself whole. The thought of two people independently pursuing their dreams without either making a sacrifice struck him. Had he held Clare back? Was it fair for her to
lay that at his door? It made him shiver to think how well Winter seemed to know him. He was so vulnerable to her command to find her. To want more. If Winter were a flesh-and-blood person standing in front of him and presenting her case, would he be able to resist? Oh, how deceitful his heart was to the logic his head struggled to hold! He remembered the quote from Blaise Pascal that his English professor had carved over her door: ‘The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of.’ He knew now that it was true.

  He had to escape the flat. Before he had time to consider the wisdom of his actions, he reached for the telephone and dialled Stevie’s number. Clare wasn’t there to object. He answered on the first ring.

  ‘Well, as I live and breathe, look who’s crawling out of the woodwork. If you’re going to ask me to reunite the band, well, you’d better have a good –’

  Stevie’s voice sounded hoarse, as if he had just woken up, which was always highly probable, regardless of what time you called him.

  ‘I’m not, tempting as it is. Although, if I did, it would be far less mad than what’s actually been happening recently.’

  William caught the panicked tone in his own voice and tried to swallow it away while Stevie asked, ‘Oh? What’s going on? Oh God! You’re not having a baby, are you? Please don’t say that.’

  ‘Why do you say that like it’s the worst news I could possibly have to tell you? What if I was terminally ill or something?’

  He laughed, despite himself, before Stevie shot back, ‘I know which problem I’d rather have.’

  William creaked the drawers of the dilapidated sideboard on which the telephone rested open and closed. He seemed incapable of sitting still any longer. ‘Look, a baby wouldn’t have to be a … Forget it. Clare’s not pregnant, and I’m not dying of anything, not that I know of.’

  ‘So, what’s going on then, stranger?’

  A silence hung between them on the telephone line.

  ‘Nothing. Not really. I just thought it might be time for us to catch up and maybe have a few drinks, grab some food or something?’

  Stevie snorted. ‘For no particular reason? I don’t buy it, but I’ll bite. I’ve started working in a cool record shop on the Market, Seven Deadly Spins! You could call in to see me tomorrow? Or I have a gig with Blue Lagoon at the Windmill in Brixton next week, if you fancy it?’

  ‘I’d rather eat my own feet than stand watching those clowns. What about this evening? Are you still in that bedsit in Chalk Farm? I could meet you in Camden, maybe?’

  ‘Tonight? Has Clare not got something scheduled already for you? I didn’t think you were allowed out on your own.’

  William could hear the smirk in Stevie’s voice but knew it disguised a very real hurt that he saw so little of him. He shouldn’t have left it so long to call.

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ he replied, in a softer voice now. ‘Anyway, Clare’s away. At the moment. With work.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So, while the cat’s away, eh? Fiiiiiine, I am free tonight, as it happens. This girl I was meant to take to the cinema cancelled on me because she has scarlet fever. Thank Heavens – she wanted to go and see Ghost. Patrick Swayze is in it, which is a plus, but apparently it’s all about pottery or –’

  William cut him off. ‘So, will I meet you at Camden Tube at eight? Do you know any Mexican restaurants around there?’

  ‘Mexican?’ Stevie sounded indignant. ‘What do you want Mexican for? Let’s get a curry, like we always do.’

  Why did everything have to be a battle? ‘I just fancy it, that’s all. Maybe we can have a walk around and see if we find one. You’re the one who says I need to try new things.’

  Stevie emitted a little whine, but acquiesced.

  ‘Oh, aaaaallll right, then. I think there’s one on the way to Mornington Crescent. Sombrero Jim’s, or something, it’s called, but it looks kind of like a disco bar …’

  William whooped. ‘Yes! I bet that’s the place. It’s a date.’

  ‘What do you mean, that’s the place? What place?’

  ‘Wear something normal, okay?’

  ‘I refuse to be bound by your limited understanding of fashion and your lack of individuality.’

  ‘Well, at least cover up, do you hear? Nothing with too much flesh showing!’

  William hung up before Stevie could ask any more questions. He was already doubting the wisdom of reintroducing his old sidekick into the current turbulence of his life, but, for the first time in a long time, he was excited to be taking some action.

  The ‘S’ and ‘b’ of Sombrero Jim’s red neon sign had lost their illumination, and the giant sombrero covered in fairy lights filling the window had faded from years of sunbathing, but the aesthetic decline of the exterior did nothing to stop eager eaters filling the chipped red chairs. The waiting staff wore a strange combination of traditional Mexican clothing and the piercings and punk haircuts of Camden uniformity. Stevie and William made an unlikely coupling as they squeezed into a table for two near the bar. The accordion player touring the tables didn’t bother serenading them and manoeuvred past. Stevie had shaved his naturally blond hair from the tops of his ears straight across the back of his head and wore his remaining hair in a ponytail on top with candyfloss-pink stripes. He was dressed in a striking ensemble of lady’s purple velour smock, white Lycra leggings and petrol-blue biker boots but, in the dim light of the restaurant, he almost blended in.

  ‘Can I ask you a question, Stevie? What do you wear when you go to visit your folks in the Lake District? I can’t imagine your father has ever got used to the make-up or the high heels.’

  ‘He hasn’t. If the residents’ committee cares, he sure as hell does.’

  ‘So? Do you just calm it all down?’

  ‘No. I just don’t go home any more.’

  ‘Never? When’s the last time you saw your parents?’

  Stevie looked up from the plastic menu he was holding tentatively between the black talons of his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘Daddy dear? I don’t know. A few years ago. Maybe. Ma sometimes comes to London and takes me to tea. She pretends for a while that she’s cool with it – the band, the bedsit and the bankruptcy – but she always cracks and starts bombarding me with college brochures, job adverts or apprenticeship schemes. It usually ends in a row, and she goes home in tears while I go and get another tattoo or blow my dole on blow.’

  He was so matter-of-fact. Always had been. William had long since stopped waiting for Stevie to grow out of his habits; he had realized, eventually, that his friend wasn’t going through an extended-adolescence phase. This was just who he was, and William always respected him for having the courage of his convictions. He just sometimes wondered if Stevie had been so rigid in the construction of his identity that he had unwittingly painted himself into a corner he couldn’t move on from. He wasn’t alone in that predicament, if so. He gave his friend’s hand a little nudge across the table.

  ‘Do you never get tired of it all, eh? The struggle?’

  Stevie swatted him away with the menu then flicked it towards William.

  ‘Tired of what? Not giving up? Holding my nerve? Do you not get tired of it all?’

  William rested his forehead on the yellow-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth.

  ‘I do. I’m exhausted. I could curl up under this table and sleep for a decade.’

  ‘Not under this table you couldn’t. My shoes were sticking to the floor as I walked in. So, what’s going on, then?’

  ‘Maybe in about two drinks’ time I can start telling you. I fancy one of those pink cocktails – something fruity, toxic and anonymous that’ll work strange wonders on me. Do you know what you want to eat?’

  William ordered camarones borrachos and frijolas de la olla with sautéed spinach and rice. Stevie, always a picky eater, grudgingly accepted that they didn’t serve burgers or chips and poked at his taco de pollo, seeking out the pieces of meat and wiping off the sauce on the rim of his plate.

  ‘You’re lucky
Clare isn’t here,’ William said. ‘She really can’t cope with fussy eaters. You should try her starters approach – always order something you’ve never had before as your starter so you get to experience new foods without risking your main meal being something you don’t like.’

  Stevie waved two sarcastic thumbs up across the table.

  ‘Oh, Clare, she’s such an inspiration to us all, with her experimental attitude to life. It really doesn’t take much to freak her out, does it?’

  ‘Be fair. When you stayed with us, you really pushed her quite far.’

  ‘What? Just because I like to go out and enjoy myself and don’t have OCD about housekeeping, the way she does? Just because not all of us want to work for the man?’

  ‘You wet the bed. Twice.’

  Stevie’s mouth hung open, the forkful of chicken paused on its way to reach it.

  ‘Did I? Well, it happens to everyone. It’s not that big a deal. I cleaned it up.’

  ‘Eh, you didn’t actually, and, no, it doesn’t happen to everyone. Certainly not anyone over the age of eight. And you borrowed her grandmother’s silk dressing gown that she’d left her in her will and lost it at a rave. And you brought home that girl who stole all her tights. And you woke her up playing the saxophone the night before her big –’

  Stevie’s perfectly manicured hands fluttered over his food, moving the salt and pepper shakers to one side, refilling their water glasses from a plastic lemon-shaped jug.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, okay. So, there were a few minor clashes, but it was good for her. Loosen her up a bit. Where is she, anyway? Exciting yoga retreat up a mountain? Volunteering to save penguins somewhere, is she?’