Letters

1

. . . SURELY, SWEETHEART, YOU’VE had enough by now? Aren’t you fed up of looking after yourself? And aren’t you lonely? You never mention any friends. It’s not good for you to be stuck away in the middle of nowhere all on your own in that awful little house, which I’m sure must be damp and giving you rheumatism. Besides, it’s such a waste of your young life. Your father says I mustn’t nag, but, darling, what am I to do, I’m only concerned for your welfare, and hate the thought of you not getting the best out of life.

I’m sending you one of Zissler’s pies this week. I’m sure you need feeding up and Zissler’s are still the best. The woollen socks are from Aunty Jenny. She knitted them for you to wear when you’re standing in the road taking the money, which is something I don’t care to think about.

I was talking to Mrs Fletcher the other day. Her Brian only got a B and two Cs but was accepted at college quite easily – he’s going to teach – so I don’t think you should feel at all upset about an A and two Bs. I know you wanted As, we all wanted that for you of course but an A and two Bs when you were a year ahead of yourself anyway is respectable enough and would get you into any reasonable university. As a matter of fact, I had a talk with Mr Colbert at school today and he says if you come home in time for next term they’ll be glad to have you back to do whatever you like till summer. He thought that with a bit of extra work to make up for the lost time you’re quite capable of picking up a scholarship. Now you’ve had a break you’ll feel better about things. Won’t you think about it?

Gill called in on Saturday as usual. She puts on a cheerful face, but I can tell she misses you. I made her stay for supper and got out of her that you still haven’t written or even phoned. Sweetheart, that’s very unkind. She’s devoted to you, and you’ve been such good friends. I told her – you don’t deserve her! You don’t either. If I were her I’d have gone off with someone else by now. Won’t you just drop her a line? It would make all the difference.

Dad says thumbs up, whatever he means by that, and to tell you he’s planted 120 daffodil bulbs where the begonias used to be, the ones that caught the strange disease and died last year, which I still think was caused by those dreadful cats from next door. And also would you like the radio he uses in the garage? Just ask and he’ll post it. He says it’s better than the old thing you took with you. He sends his love, of course. He’s going round sniffing on the edge of a cold because he hasn’t bothered to have his anti-flu shot this year, even though it did him so much good last winter, though the winter isn’t here yet, but these autumn nights are quite chilly. When you talk to him on the phone next, would you encourage him to have his jab. I’m sure he listens to you more than he ever does to me.

We’ll be out at the Smithsons on Sunday – it’s his fiftieth birthday – so ring before 7.0. (And that’s another thing – having no phone. I hate not being able to ring you and you having to use a call box.)

All my love, darling. I long to have you home again.

2

. . . I know she’ll tell you and you’ll be mad at me, but I couldn’t help it. These last few months have been foul. Agony. Torture. The pain, the pain! But, honestly, I never thought I could miss anybody so much. When you went I expected withdrawal symptoms for a few days, even a week or two, but didn’t think they’d go on this long. Every night I go to sleep thinking of you, every morning you’re still there in my mind when I wake. During the day, when I’m doing something, I’ll look up, expecting to see you, and when I don’t I almost burst into tears. I have a couple of times actually, once in the middle of Gerty’s French. God, the embarrassment!

I feel your skin on mine, the shape of you pressed against me, your hand on my breast, as if my body has a memory. But that only makes me feel worse because it’s like loving a ghost. And then I begin to wonder if you’re ill or hurt or perhaps even dead, and I can’t bear it.

If only I knew what you were doing, what you’re thinking and feeling. If only I knew you’re missing me as much as I’m missing you. Couldn’t you write? Or even just phone? I wasn’t going to ask, I swore to myself I wouldn’t, wouldn’t make any demands. But now I’ve blurted it out to your mother I might as well be honest and tell you how desperate I am, even just to hear from you.

Remember how we used to say we didn’t know what ‘love meant’? Didn’t know if we were really ‘in love’ or just liked being together and screwing? Well now, if I’m not in love with you, I don’t know what love can be. All the time, every minute, every day, I want to be with you, want to hear your voice, see your lovely face, caress your lovely body, wrap myself around you, put my mouth on yours, spread my fingers in your hair, feel your long hard fleshy sinewy body on mine, do everything with you. I want to live with you, do things for you, have you do things for me, argue with you, eat with you, read with you, dance with you, screw with you, sleep with you, die with you.

You see – I need you. Desperately. Can ‘love’ mean anything else?

Remember the weekend your parents were away? Our first weekend on our own together all the time. We had that silly row about condoms just because I’d bought a different kind from our usual and you didn’t like it and then got the giggles when you were putting one on! Well, that weekend was the happiest two days of my whole entire life. I would give anything to have more days and more nights like them. All my days, all my nights.

This is stupid. I shouldn’t be writing to you like this. Letters are hopeless. They get misunderstood. Is that why you don’t write? If only we could be together even for just an hour and talk. Won’t you let me visit you? Just for a weekend. Just a Saturday night.

I’ve taken a Saturday job in the bookshop. (Let me know of any books you want, I can get them cheap. I’ll send them, though I’d rather bring them.) I’m saving my wages (for Christmas, I tell Mum) so I’ve money for the train, which will cut travelling time and give us as long as poss together. They’re good at the shop and will let me off for one Saturday. Just seeing you would be such a relief. I won’t tell your mother, honest. Not a word. Not to anyone.

I love you. I love you.

3

. . . No, I don’t want you here. Keep away. Beware of the dog. Trespassers will be persecuted. I do not want you here.

I explained the best I could before I left. I can’t do any better now. Not yet. When I can you’ll be the first to know.

Please do not quote memories at me. I don’t care about memories. I don’t want to hear about them. You say letters get misunderstood. You’re right. But memories get misunderstood even worse. People do what they like with them. They make them mean what they want them to mean. I want to live only in the present. That is where I am.

Yes, I enjoyed screwing you. If you were here I’d screw you again. But that’s another reason I don’t want you here. It would only confuse things. And I think that was what I wanted with you the most anyway. I’m not sure I wanted anything else. I won’t pretend otherwise.

Pretending has been one of my problems. I’d got into the habit of pretending. Trying to be what everybody wanted me to be.

I’ve made a rule for myself here. I will only be what I feel I am. I will not pretend, even if that means being disliked and saying no when people want me to say yes. I want to be honest with myself. I don’t know how else to start finding out what I really truly am. Who I am, I mean. There is so much old garbage inside me already, so much dutter, even after only seventeen years. What must it be like after thirty years or fifty? Is that why so many old people go round looking like they’re weighed down by two tons of compressed crap? I don’t want that to happen to me. But how do you stop it?

I don’t like all this talk about love. What people call love is only things they want from someone else. Like a good screw or a nice time together or even just someone to keep them from feeling lonely. As far as I can see that’s what most people mean by love anyway. It isn’t what they want for anybody else, it’s what they want for themselves. Eating people is wrong.

I just want to be me. I take money from people crossing the bridge, I repair the house a bit, I keep the garden tidy, I read a lot, I mess about with a rowing boat on the river now and then, I listen to music, I watch telly, I think, and I look after myself. And no one pressures me. For the first time in my life I am completely responsible for myself. And not responsible for anybody else. I like that. It’s what I want.

Leave it like that for now, OK?