AW first met Betty McNally some time in 1957 when she was called into his Borough Treasurer’s office about an unpaid bill for ten shillings, incurred by a charity she happened to be involved with. He reprimanded her, and told her not to sign things on behalf of other people. She sensed a gentleness despite his sternness, and also noticed the sun shining on the red hairs on the back of his hands. Then she went back to her own life.
Betty was born Betty Hayes in 1922, educated at Casteron School, which the Brontë sisters once attended, did a Speech and Drama course, got married to a Dublin doctor called Paddy McNally and had two daughters, Jane and Anne. The marriage collapsed and Betty returned with her daughters to live in Kendal – where an old school friend was living – and busied herself with good works and cultural activities, bringing up her daughters on her own.
Seven years after that first encounter with AW, some time in 1965, she wrote him a fan letter. By this time she had realised he was the author of the Pictorial Guides, which she had enjoyed reading. He wrote a reply, inviting her to his office to talk about the fells. She was a bit surprised, him being the Borough Treasurer, but a few weeks later, on 20 September, finding herself passing the Town Hall, she decided to pop in and asked to see him. They chatted and he asked her to call again, making a proper appointment this time.
When she arrived, he said he was just going off on a holiday to Scotland with his cousin Eric, but while he was away, he wanted her to read a book which he gave to her.
The book was a typed manuscript which he had written in 1939, an autobiographical story in which he imagines he will one day meet his Dream Lady, that he will sit with her, she will comfort him, resting his aching head on her sweet breast. He had shown no one this manuscript, keeping it totally secret.
AW was aged fifty-eight by now, already thinking of retirement, while Betty was forty-three, still officially a married woman with two young daughters. But from the moment of meeting Betty, he had decided that she was the Dream Lady, the one he had fantasised about for almost three decades.
[A note to Betty, accompanying his book]
Just read the book first, and make sure it is not a case of mistaken identity with me, and mistaken impression with you. Wait a fortnight, please. Then let me know.
How I am looking forward to my journey tomorrow! Twelve hours alone, without distraction, to sort myself out and think tenderly of you ….
Oh dear!!!!
AW returned from Scotland and got down to finishing off the last stages of Book Seven, the Western Fells, while also thinking of the Pennines, his next project, but unable to get the image of Betty out of his mind.
Dear Betty,
I must write. An eternity has passed since I saw you. Saturday was a complete non-success. It rained all the time, but I hardly noticed it, and as the day dragged endlessly on it began to sit my mood. Silly me, I looked for you on the bus. I walked the streets of Keswick looking for you, although I knew you would not be there. I walked the streets of Cockermouth looking for you, although I knew you would not be there. I went on to Loweswater for no better reason than that you said you had once been there. I walked by the lake; there was not a soul about. I stood under a tree and listened to the rain on the leaves above. I was wretched. For the first time I was not merely alone, but lonely. Desperately lonely. What folly, to have put so much distance between us when every instinct urged me to get closer to you! I wanted you. I needed you. I thought of you all day with such tenderness that I felt I was melting away. As for sorting myself out, I couldn’t: I need your help to do that. I sighed the three words ‘oh Betty please’ a hundred times that day, not quite knowing what I was asking of you. Perhaps simply that you should not forget me. Only hours had passed, by the clock, but it seemed to me that an age had gone by without word or sign from you.
I want so much to be with you again.
Forgive me if I should not have written. But I badly need some reassurance that I have not been dreaming, that I was not wrong in feeling some response from you. You seem worlds away at this moment. How cruel a silence can be when it is not explained or understood! You may have disliked my book and be now disliking me. I know I suggested no contact for a month, but that idea has proved a complete non-success too, except perhaps as an exquisite torture. How can I know what a silence means? I want to hear you whisper that you have not forgotten me.
Alfred (to you)
It is an hour since you rang, and I have spent it gazing out of the window. Thank you for letting me hear your sweet voice again and for being so wonderfully kind to me. Now I know you have not changed. And I am very very happy.
Betty, in her letter back to him, said that she had decided to call him Red from now on, thinking of the red hairs she had noticed on the back of his hand and also as a diminutive of Alfred – which of course he never used or liked.
On Saturday I had coffee at my usual place at Keswick: a nice quiet place of shaded lights and soft music. A lady asked if she could share my table. I said yes, of course. She had a kindly face; she was rather older than I. The background music switched to ‘Rose of Tralee’, a haunting melody that I first heard John McCormick sing and which always brings me close to tears. I would like this to be our song. I wanted to tell the lady that I had found the most wonderful girl in the world. I wanted to tell everybody, even the man sweeping the street. I can tell only you.
I didn’t get to the top of Gable. The weather was glorious and I was infinitely happier than last Saturday, but I had your last letter with me for company, and halfway up I thought I would turn aside from the path and find a quiet hollow in the heather and read it yet again. So I did, and then I felt to dreaming and trying to recall every word you said to me last Wednesday. After which it was much too late to go on and I wandered slowly down to Seatoller in a happy trance
Yesterday I spend on my book, as I always do on Sundays. Sunday is my best opportunity – I can get 10 or 12 hours at it. All day I wondered what you were doing, and ached for your touch again. I have so many ideas for you, for us. In the evening I watched a film on TV, attracted by the title ‘Magnificent Obsession’, which seemed singularly appropriate. I enjoyed it. The story, a sad one, would hardly bear analysis, but there were nice sentiments in it. It ended happily, as I wanted it to do. Please, B, I want to buy you a TV for Christmas. It would be one way of sharing experiences while apart.
The word I was searching for was not therapy. It was telepathy.
I have ringed two dates in the diary – first anniversaries. But I hope the whole year will record only pleasant events and incidents. You deserve so much to be entirely happy. I like the name you have given me. So simple and so appropriate, yet nobody thought of ‘Red’ before. Yes, I do like it. Sounds tough! I always fancied myself as a cowboy riding the lonely ranges, and Red is just right for a man who sits tall in the saddle. And this is exactly how I have felt since last Wednesday. Tall in the saddle. On top of the world. A world that has turned upside down in three amazing weeks. And I like it so much better the way you have changed it for me!
Take very good care of yourself in Dublin, love. Remember all the time you are away that there is someone here waiting for you to come back, and wanting you.
Red
Betty was going to Dublin to see her husband, to discuss divorce arrangements, which had been planned, long before AW appeared. While she was away, AW climbed Great Gable with Harry Firth, the printing manager of the Westmorland Gazette, who had been charge of the production of AW’s books since the beginning. Cindy was AW’s dog.
Monday,
Betty dear, I am missing you awfully. We are separated by distance, with only your sweet letter, received this morning, linking us together. It is a frail bridge across space, your letter, but a comfort in my loneliness. It tells me you are safe, and well, and coming back to me.
The wonderful experiences of last Thursday evening, when for a blissful hour you took me into another world, a world with only the two of us in it, I shall never forget and I shall never try to forget. Everything was just perfect, as I have long dreamed it would be, as I have long known it would be, if ever I found you. It was wonderful, like being on an island away from everything and everybody else. I was conscious of you, and only you. I have lived in a cocoon of happy thoughts ever since. The warmth of your embrace is ever in my mind, somehow protecting me against the unkindnesses and irritations of life, the little niggling things that happen every day. These things don’t matter any more. What is important is that when you hold me close, I feel safe. I suppose I am a big baby, really. I want just to snuggle up to you and let you deal with the world outside me. I know you would handle everything competently as you do the car. I want only to hold your sweet body, and cling and cling and cling, while you look after me and kiss me often.
Great Gable was duly climbed last Saturday by an all-British expedition consisting of Mr Firth and myself, our combined ages being 107. I was not an attentive companion, I’m afraid, my thoughts being very much elsewhere, and in fact once, in the car, I found myself gently stroking his knee. However we got to the top all right, and down again. A thick mist hid everything. On the summit I found a place to sit facing Ireland (which Mr F must have thought a bit mad because it was exposed to a drizzling rain and there were better shelters nearby), but visibility was down to 30 yards and never improved. But it was a good day. I was happy, and back in form. Mr F greatly enjoyed it – mist on the mountains was a new experience for him – and asked to go with me again and do the same walk in clear weather. OK, I said. And could he bring his son? OK, I said. Oh how I wished he had said could he bring Betty McNally. OK, I would have said, quite casually, but my heart would have been racing. We have fixed November 6th for a repeat. I have another and much more important engagement on the 30th.
Ten hours on my book on Sunday was enough to finish it, except for revision. I was alone with Cindy all day. I must thank you for understanding so well last Thursday. Telling you my story was the oddest thing! I had been dreading bringing back the old memories, yet you made it so easy for me. You sat quietly listening, so quietly that I felt I was talking to myself. It was a strange feeling, to be talking of things I had always tried to hide, and it could not possibly have happened with anyone else. You gave me your legs to caress, and it was lovely to do this: they were a link between us in the darkness. Today’s letter tells me you did understand. Bless you, for this and for everything.
I have found a delightful place in Keswick for coffee on the 30th, and next Saturday I shall make a tour of all the ladies lavatories so that I can be the perfect guide. Nothing must be left to chance on the 30th. I want this to be happiest day of my life. I want to feel you are mine, and only mine. For twelve blessed hours, in surroundings I have come to love. All this, and heaven, too!
Tuesday
I have saved the postscript until I can feel you are really on your way back to me. Such a lovely day for your flight, and such a lovely feeling for me!
Red
Thursday
Better dear,
Before last night I had reason enough to be grateful to you – for being so delightfully friendly, for taking an interest in me, for seeming to understand.
After last night’s overwhelming kindnesses I cannot even begin to speak my thanks. The car ride was lovely (I wasn’t a bit frightened by your driving); and the coffee (with nothing forgotten) was an inspiration. But these were kindnesses others might have shown me. No, it is of the very special kindnesses that I write, the kindnesses that only you could have shown me. The interlinking of fingers when I tried to start to tell you my story and couldn’t go on; the sympathy that seemed well enough expressed by a clasping of hands; and, later, your utter sweetness, your caresses, the touch of your lips, the whispered words of close embrace. There was mystery and magic enough in the night itself, although this would have passed with the morning, but what happened between us cast over me a spell that will be with me forever. Betty dear, I want last night to happen again and again. I wish all nights could be like that.
Monday
Today I came down to work with an eagerness not usually associated with Mondays. There was your letter, shy and forlorn amongst fifty others paying bills, wanting Council houses, and so on. I fondled the envelope and put it to one side to be read quietly when my tea was brought in. Alas for another resolve! By ten past nine I had read it over and over again. All day I have been taking peeps at it. Betty dear, what can I say in reply? Every word in it is charming. I am half-swooning at my desk for love of you. I am afraid the ratepayers are not getting value for money out of me these days at all, at all. How I wish these last few months of service were fled! I am in chains here. This is no place to be, with you in my thoughts all the time … I can only answer your letter with my arms around you.
My new Monday-morning habit is to scatter all the mail that is brought to me in an impatient search for your now-familiar writing, and read first of all what you have to say. The rest is unimportant, and can wait. For a few moments I can feel you are with me again, and am suffused in a warm glow. I am all tenderness for you.
Thank you for telling me about your weekend. I had been wondering. I am always wondering. How crowded your life is, really! You have the house to look after, a two-acre garden, the children, the car, your friends, you have lectures, meetings, concerts to attend. Is there really room in it for me, too? Am I intruding in the pattern of life you have chosen for yourself? A fear is creeping into my mind, and I want you to kiss it away!
Tonight I have meetings to attend, but my thoughts are all of tomorrow. Another day of waiting and then we shall be together gain, really together, in the quiet of the evening. I think of the other nights there have been, of the moments of tenderness, of kisses in the dark, of your heart lying against mine. There is still so much to be said, so much to learn about you – but first twelve days of waiting must be rewarded, twelve days of stored-up affection must be expressed, twelve days of hunger must be satisfied. I want to hold you close. It is five weeks since you called to see me – five weeks today, at just about this hour. It is five weeks today since I fell in love with you. Five wonderful, amazing weeks. I try to think what life was like before. I thought it was a full life, and I was content with it. Only now am I beginning to realise how much better it could have been.
Trying to write to you in the office is very difficult. Every few minutes something happens to bring me back to earth with a bump. Visitors, telephone calls, letters to sign, staff enquiries, meetings to prepare for. My time is divided between my desk and White Moss Common; my thoughts flit from one to the other bewilderingly. But now I am going to steal across to the Fleece with your letter, and read it yet again, and then try to read what is written between the lines. It was delightful to see you at midday: you disturb me but re-assure me at the same time.
Until tomorrow, love. I cannot wait, but wait I must. I leave the agenda to you, but first you must be held close. I must go now. When you get this letter tomorrow will have become today. Our meeting will be only a matter of hours, our kiss only a few hundred heartbeats away.
Red
The big meeting took place in Keswick, a favourite spot for their secret meetings as there was less chance of people from Kendal spotting the Borough Treasurer doing any sort of canoodling. Betty arrived in her car. AW came on the bus, as usual.
Sunday evening
Betty my love,
Yesterday was the most wonderful day ever, and although 24 hours have gone by since we kissed goodnight I am still utterly under the spell. There never was another day like it, from the moment you appeared – or even earlier, when there was the excitement of knowing you would come for me. In terms of geography, our journey covered ground I have covered many times before, but never like this, never like yesterday. How much I prefer your company to my own! How much I admire your competence in every situation, when my own thoughts are floundering in dreams, and your many accomplishments! How I like to hear your sweet voice talking to me – about anything! What delight and comfort there is for me in your lovely little body! Betty dear, thank you a thousand times for making yesterday possible and giving me a memory I shall never forget.
It was all too wonderful to be happening to me, and if I seemed a little quiet and sad on the way home it was only because a perfect day was coming to an end. But you have promised me other days, and much more even than that, you have promised yourself to me, that you will come to me for always if even I can ask you. Oh Betty, if only that could happen! Oh my darling that would be the greatest kindness of all … So today I am not less happy although you are not with me. My dream of a future together may be proved idle, but it is so very pleasant to think about!
I can hardly believe the good fortune that brought our widely-different paths side by side. I am still completely bewildered by the happenings of the past few weeks. If I try to think rationally, nothing makes sense. Why should you have taken this interest in me, of all people? Why should the sweetest, liveliest creature I have even seen prefer to eat fish and chips with me out of a newspaper sat in a car in a scruffy side street, than to attend a social banquet as a special guest with the nobility? This is the sort of thing that happens on the pictures, but I am no film star. Why should it happen to me? Why me?
And the incidents in the car, the trembling ecstasies of nearness, the gentleness of your touch, the softness of your lips. Why, of all men, should I be the one so privileged? Not even the gods fared better. But these are questions only you can answer.
Today has been happy, too. I have been studying my maps for a visit to Wuthering Heights, and, from what I remember of the story, our walk across the moor should be done on a wild and stormy winter’s day – soon, please? But most of the day I have been doing a drawing for you, because I want you to have something of me in your home that others may see, something that has not be secretly locked away. I like drawing better than writing because the mind can wander, and today it has wandered over every incident of yesterday, and returned to each one time and again – and nothing happened that was not altogether delightful. We talked over coffee, and there was positively not another person in the whole world except yourself – yet when it was time to go I found the room crowded, even our table being shared. I liked shopping with you. I liked the rain. I liked the little walk we had, the plans we made, in our secret valley. I liked you changing your clothes in the back of the car, because this gave me confidence to feel someone rather special. I was glad you were with me to help me out with the conversation at Badger Hill. Everything was just right yesterday. Even the unkind weather didn’t matter one little bit, as you said earlier it wouldn’t. My plan for giving you a scrumptious meal that would have made your little tummy as tight as a drum went awry, but that didn’t matter either, and I wouldn’t have missed the interlude outside Ambleside Police Station for worlds. Oh, Betty!! Please let’s go on, and on, and on. I love you so very much, and I need you more with every passing day
Red
Monday:
I dared not expect a letter from you today, but there was one for me as usual, and as kind and charming as usual, telling me what I love to hear you whisper, thrilling me, making me want to hold you close for ever. Yes, dear, there will be other days, other meetings, other kisses. There must be. Yes, dear, we will go again to Badger Hill, and write our novel, and snuggle up close in bed. Somehow, we must. And yes, dear, I will come to Fowl Ing. I must. I am riding on the crest of good fortune, and I have a most wonderful feeling that heaven is opening its gates for me, or that you have opened them for me. I stand on the threshold, eagerly – yet a little fearfully because I know I cannot enter, and will never enter, unless you are by my side and holding my hand.
You must never leave me, Betty
Red
AW had taken to wandering past Betty’s house, Fowl Ing, even when he knew she would not be at home, or hoping to spot her car in the street. Apart from sweet nothings, they had also been discussing animals, which they both loved, and charity work. He had told her about his RSPCA plan (see Letter 82) which Betty encouraged him to do.
Thursday p.m.
Dear Betty,
Thank you for your lovely letter. There are times, dear, when my thoughts of you are so intense that there are simply no words to express them. This latest message from you, so kind, so loving, has touched me deeply.
I looked for you today, as I do every day – even when I know you are out of town.
Every day is a month when I do not see you.
I have now committed myself to the R.S.P.C.A. idea, and had an encouraging talk with the local Inspector. I didn’t lose any time after you had said ‘go ahead’ because I want this gift always to be associated in my mind with you.
Please try to see me tomorrow. I have been carrying a present for you around the streets all week, hoping to come across KJM 307, and although it is an insignificant present it is a very heavy one. My arms are aching (for you) enough already, without this added burden! Have pity on me!
I love you.
Red
Sunday evening
Betty dear,
It was charming of you to call to see me on Friday afternoon, to share my tea, to talk to me, to give me yet another glimpse of the heaven it would be to live with you. For me, this was a quite delightful interlude, delightful as all the others have been, but stolen as they must all be. The time always comes for you to go, and leave me; or for me to go, and leave you. I wish we could be together forever, Betty, never one leaving the other. Farewell kisses and caresses are nice, but, since they prelude a further separation, there is sadness about them. For us there should be not farewells, but only gradual coming closer.
Friday night’s meeting was soon over, and I found myself wandering afterwards along Appleby Road, but this was a mistake. I knew you were not at home, but in other company, and quite suddenly I felt miserable and lonely. I wanted you all for myself – I who have no right to you at all! Melancholy set in and I went home, where, at least, I have a right to be.
Yesterday, Saturday, in spite of a cold east wind, was a glorious day although I wasn’t feeling quite attuned to it. My chill was worse, for one thing, and, for another, I fear I am growing resentful of anybody being with me if it isn’t you. You have sadly spoiled me for anyone else’s company! However, I went up Great Gable with Mr Firth and his son Michael and eight hankies, and was in good form (which means I was nearly able to keep up with my companions). On the top, Mr F. produced coffee and mint cake and apples, and this time I sat with my back to Ireland, which is now out of favour with me because I know that Dublin is going to take you away from me. Jim kept coming into my mind all day, and he was out of favour, too, because I don’t like Jim intruding in my thoughts when I am thinking of you. Put Jim on the next agenda, please – high on the list. Mr F. was out of favour also, rather unfairly, simply because he wasn’t you, and even little Michael was out of favour because he wasn’t our red-haired and brown-eyed child, yours and mine. It was a good day, but I wished you had been there instead of the others. You would have enjoyed the walk immensely. The sky was cloudless and the visibility perfect. I was home by seven; the car swept past Dunmail Raise and White Moss as though they were places of no importance. I like your VW much better: it is a friend, it has sympathy and sentiment, and deserves some frilly little curtains for Christmas.
Today, Sunday, I have finished my book and wondered all day what you were doing. Only a short mile separates us, but when you are not at my side you are a world away. Sunday has become the loneliest day of the week, for it is a day with no contact, when I know there will be no word from you, no sight of you. Sunday has become a day when memories of other days must sustain me. There are many memories now, all of them pleasant to recall, and I like to think back to the 20th September, when you called at the office after I had given up hope that you would, and I fell in love with you; and all that has happened to us since. I try not to think how it will end
Monday
After seeing you this morning, after stroking your sweet little face (you ought to stop me touching you in public) just to make sure you were real, after reading your wonderful letter (surely poetry cannot better your prose?), after thrilling at your hopes for our future, I cannot but feel remorse at the sulky, peevish undertones of the there pages I wrote last night. I feel like tearing them up, but will send them anyway, because I have been despondent this weekend, and jealous, and nasty with the Firths, and I think you should know that your letter has lifted me up and sent me soaring again. Perhaps it was just my cold that got me down a bit, but this is nothing that the soft breasts of my beloved will not cure. Thank you, and bless you, for being the sweetest person I have ever known. You will know tomorrow night how much you mean to me.
RED
… nothing was important but you. You were with me, when you could have been with any of your friends. You preferred my company to that of anyone else, and I still don’t think you can possibly realise what an honour I count that, and how grateful I am, and how fervently I wish I could, somehow, repay you for all your kindness. I can only hold you close, and trust you to understand what I cannot say.
After such a day there was little question of sleep. I was restless for you, and though a lot about your academic and highly-technical dissertation in the car from Colne to Gisburn. What a lot you know! I learned much I never knew before, and must have taken it all in.
Today I have been drawing, and imagining you endlessly and uncontrollably eating nuts. I have nothing further to report from home. Mrs W. was out when I got home last night (we could have loved each other longer) and today has gone to see Peter’s young lady at Staveley.
Take good care of yourself, Betty love, and never never forget that you are the sweetest person in the whole world to
Red
At last, in a café in Keswick, AW was allowed to meet Betty’s daughters.
… I loved them on sight, and wanted to put my arms around all three of you and squash you into a struggling lump and hug you all tight. Some day I will do just that. I was home by 7.30, and there was a welcome only from Cindy.
This morning I had to attend the civic Remembrance Service (I remembered it only just in time!) and the rest of the day I have spent sorting out photographs and maps, thinking about you and yesterday and next Tuesday and Saturday, and wanting to love you. I intended to watch Moira Shearer on TV tonight, and pretend she was you but wasn’t allowed to. Instead, I am writing this letter.
I am terribly sorry about your own difficult domestic position this weekend. I think I do understand your disappointments and problems.
Monday afternoon
Betty, my dearest one,
Yesterday, for a Sunday, was more tolerable than usual. Last Friday night was not so far distant that I had lost comfort from it: I could still feel your touch and your kisses still warmed my heart. It was so nice to come to you again, and find you waiting, so delightful to walk together into the darkness, away from the bright lights and away from people. Just to be with you would be enough, just to hear your voice and see you smile would be more than reward for the devotion I have for you. But you give me much more, and willingly, and then I know, in the blissful moments of embrace, that I must hold you forever, that there is not, never has been, and never can be anyone else. You are so wonderfully kind to me, I who deserve nothing of the happiness you bring me.
And yesterday was more tolerable, too, because I was designing my own Christmas card to you – a little thing, and a poor thing, but I was pleased to feel I was doing it for you. It brought you nearer.
On Saturday I went to Keswick, chasing a 1000 to 1 chance that you would appear to have tea with me. I ought to know by this time that 1000 to 1 chances don’t happen, but it was a hope I clung to till 4.30. Such a state am I reduced to that, for a meeting with you, even for no more than a glimpse of you, I would do anything, go anywhere. I might not have gone, otherwise, so bad was the weather early on, but it improved magically and transformed the scene. At Low Wood, across a deep-blue Windermere, the mountains looked as though carved in white marble: a picture beautiful beyond belief, and I wanted you there with me to see it. The road was clear, but two miles out of Keswick the bus broke down (the driver said he’d ‘lost his air’, whatever that may mean), so I got out and walked the rest of the way. I had lunch at The George, where our sacred corner was being profaned by a bunch of noisy youths, visited Friars Crag, which was quite deserted, and then walked around the suburbs of Keswick three times, killing time until 4.30 (no climbing, she said – as if I would take any risk that might keep us apart!) at 4.30 I entered the Keswick Restaurant to find it completely empty of customers, as it remained for the hour I was there. I listened for the door to open, but it never did. I listened for the patter of tiny feet, but they never came. The place was warm and cosy, the soft music nostalgic love songs. I pretended you were there with me, and I told you how I thought it should happen to us, that act of love you have made me want so much. Oh Betty, shall we ever know each other completely? You agreed with me, so sweetly; and then I went out in the dark and the cold and felt suddenly desperately alone. What have you done to me, dear girl, that I can now find restfulness and comfort only in you?
I have read your letter this morning over and over again. You have no idea how lonely and out of it your account of a happy weekend at Fowl Ing makes me feel, how much I would like to be there, sitting quietly in a corner of the kitchen, watching you all the time and perhaps being allowed to touch you now and then. For this, for the right to sit by your fire in my slippers, for the right to go upstairs with you, I would give everything I have. Ambition has narrowed to this – to be with you, to have you for myself, to be yours, to show you how much I love you. I am so very sure, now, that with you there would be perfect happiness for me: I get a glimpse of it every time I see you in the street, a real awareness every time I hold you close.
The weather is dreadful today. When you emerge from your snug nest tomorrow night mind you don’t get blown away over Benson Knott!
Oh, my love, I can’t wait …
Red
When AW started on the Pennine Way, he began to use Betty – and other friends – to give him a lift in their car. He also got Betty to take him to Blackburn, in her little VW Beetle.
In the car, I am so well content to listen to your sweet voice telling me things I never knew before, and later, after dark, to experience again the very special pleasures that only you can give me. I enjoyed every single moment, even the wild ride across the Lupton ice-cap, where driver and car came through a severe test with flying colours. Being an innocent in things mechanical, I probably didn’t fully realise how capably you handled the situation, but then, I knew you would. I had no fears, no doubts. I never had a guardian angel before, but I have now. You never fail me.
Thank you, dear, for taking me to Blackburn. It is a town of little attraction, and it was kind of you to suggest it. It was interesting to me to see once-familiar places again, but the old feeling has almost gone. I am a stranger there now, and I see with the eyes of a stranger. I could never go back to stay. The past is dead and done with. Home for me now is the five-foot-nothing of Betty Hayes. Life for me now lies in her warm bosom and sheltering arms. This is my new home, and the best. I hope I shall never be turned out, and I shall never stray. When I am there, warm and cosy, I want nothing else. What else is there to want? Comfort, happiness, love, are, for me, all to be found in your sweet body. This the foot of my personal rainbow. My search has ended in your arms.
I liked Whalley. I liked the quiet of the abbey ruins, and I liked kissing you there. Someday, in summer, we will go back and climb Pendle hand-in-hand.
Sunday evening
Better dear,
The hours pass quickly when I am with you, but how slowly when I am without you! Today has dragged, I have been alone most of the time. I have drawn. I have looked for you on television, in vain. I have checked the proofs for Book Seven. It has rained all day. No bright little face appeared over the garden wall to cheer me up. But I have had our meeting last evening to think of, and I cannot be other than happy when I think of you. So many meetings now, so many places with special memories! I have always been happy with you, from the first moment. I found comfort in your company not after long acquaintance, but from the very instant of our first coming together. I did not then, and have not since, felt any shyness, any awkwardness, and strangeness, with you. I have hidden nothing, nor wanted to. I have no secrets from you, nor wanted to have. It could not be like this with anyone else. You are the one, the only one. Falling in love with you has been the most natural thing in the world: it was bound to happen to me if ever we met. I waited a long time for you to come along, too long. I lived almost a lifetime, missing you and wanting you. I knew you must be around somewhere because you were more real to me than the people I met every day. But the years went by. You never came, and I never found you, until a few weeks ago. And at once everything changed. I had been lonely and now I was lonely no more. I had kept other people at arm’s length, you I wanted against my breast. Nobody else understood, but you did. You knew exactly, and you knew at once. You passed into me, and became part of my being, and from that moment the world became a happier place and living a happier experience. You will never leave me. You cannot. If I were never to see you again you would still be with me. You are everywhere. All the time I can feel the touch of your lips, so softly caressing, and hear your whispered endearments. You have brought a magic to existence and made living worth-while and thrilling and exciting, you have transformed everything. You have made me love you, utterly. You have made me very very happy, and I shall always bless you and be grateful. I hope the day will come, and come soon, when I can show you how much you mean to me. That day will be the happiest of all.
Red
By Christmas time, it had been three months since their relationship started – and the romance was growing stronger than ever, even though Betty was caught up in her family Christmas while AW was still mooching around on the bus, walking his old haunts, or going past Betty’s house, gazing at the lights.
Sunday evening
Dear Betty,
On the face of it, yesterday was a day like so many others have been. I caught the 8.30 bus to Keswick, as I invariably do. The weather was poor, not fit for the tops: a grey day with some rain: so many have been like that. At Keswick I had coffee, following long custom. Then I went to Cockermouth on the bus, a journey I have often travelled, and at Cockermouth I had a look in Smith’s, as usual, and killed time with a short walk, finishing at Ouse Bridge to catch the return bus. And at Keswick I had the meal I have had, without variation, for five years past. It was a day spent as I have spent so many others, and, in the things I did, a very ordinary day. Yet there was something about it that made it not an ordinary day at all, but one quite different and special.
There was no letter for me yesterday, and I worried about it. Perhaps you had been called away to Manchester. Perhaps another door had fallen on you and broken your right arm – no, both, because you are a clever girl and can write with your left. Perhaps you had told me you wouldn’t write and I couldn’t remember. Or, perhaps more likely, the Christmas post had delayed it. I felt anxious.
This morning your bedroom light shone brightly through the slight mist and cheered me up wonderfully, and when I arrived at the office your letter awaited me. I kissed it. Now I could send mine. I feel grand again and very much in love.
R