The Letter

If this were played upon a stage now,

I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.

Twelfth Night

by

William Shakespeare

Story contd.

The letter was from Maddie, my sister in America. She came to visit twice a year when she was in Europe on business. She would write telling me her dates and usually a list of things she would like me to do or get for her – which used to drive me nuts when the children were little, and my hands were full. It was the usual sort of letter until half way down the page … she said wasn’t it sad - Jamie’s wife had died.

It seemed so strange that she should mention it as an afterthought – but then she wasn’t to know that for thirty years I had quashed all thoughts of Jamie, and he only appeared in my dreams. He had married someone else; he had three children so he was off limits, off my radar. Now, he was in trouble and I thought of the young man I had loved all these years. No matter what the cost to my pride and self- protection I knew I had to reach out to him. But how?

I could phone Maddie and ask her to ask Liam for his address. Liam was Jamie’s brother and Maddie saw him and his wife frequently. But I didn’t want to involve anybody else. Too many people had interfered all those years back; this was between Jamie and me. I realised my hands were shaking and I had to sit down and try to calm myself before driving to the shop. I would decide later what to do. All day long I thought of nothing else, and the staff must have thought I was in another world. I was.

By the time I got home I had decided I would write to him. After all he was an old, old friend and it was the norm for me to write a letter of condolence in such circumstances. I knew his name of course, and that he lived in a Cheshire town and that was all. Quivering like an aspen, I got directory enquiries and asked the operator if she would give me the address.

‘We’re not an address service,’ she told me firmly ‘and anyway there are two people of that name. I can give you the phone numbers.’

I panicked – no way could I find the courage to ring up out of the blue.

‘Oh please tell me the address. His wife has died – I don’t want to speak to him I just want to write a letter of condolence.’

Something in my voice must have registered with her and she gave me both addresses. Whoever you are, wherever you are – bless you for that.

One of the houses had the same number as ours so I decided to take a chance and send it to that one and let fate decide. Once I had made the decision I felt much calmer. Now all I had to do was decide what to say. My handwriting was a worry; it had always been untidy and had worsened with the years – these days I have to type to be legible but this letter had to be handwritten.

I wrote a reasonably neat letter- eventually - and ended by saying that the letter didn’t require an answer but if ever I could do anything, to just let me know. Later Jamie said he had just got back from visiting his mother in Scotland and there was a pile of letters on the mat and he had recognised my hand writing immediately.

Once I had posted it I felt at peace. I had done what I had to do and now it was out of my hands.

For my nineteenth birthday Jamie had given me a lovely orangey- coral, mohair scarf with a note saying:

Isocyanides are red,

Cyanides are blue,

Here is a scarf,

Hope it suits you.

I had kept the note, so was familiar with his handwriting and instantly recognised his letter which arrived within a few days. I wondered if the blood pounding away like that did any harm – my whole frame seemed to shake. I needn’t have worried; his letter was warm and friendly and he said he had only just received my letter as he had been visiting his mother. He said it was good to hear from me.

He told me of his children – he had a married daughter, one son at university and one thirteen and 3/4 year old son still at home. He said his daughter had just moved house in London and that he visualised visiting her in the New Year but in any event he would try to contact me by phone when he was next in London and perhaps we could meet somewhere for lunch. He thanked me for remembering to give my married name as he didn’t know it and he sent his regards to Maddie when I next saw her

At last I had exorcised that ghastly memory of walking away from Jamie in Moseley Street Bus Station thirty years earlier. Whatever happened in the future I could let go of the unhappiness and guilt and be at peace with myself. It was the 31^st of October 1978. I had plenty to keep me busy. The boys would be home for Christmas and mum and dad were coming down. The New Year would be here soon enough.