waking from a stupefied and tropical dream, she stiffened, she became aware of the facts. Her hands rose up and she pushed at his chest, unsure, panic rising in her like vomit. He drew back, took her hands in his again and smiled at her. He said he was sorry. Mute, Dorothy shook her head. But she tried to smile at him, until her lips trembled and her cheeks stiffened. She felt like a young girl, sickened by the shock of her very first kiss.
They walked together to her front gate, and he took her hand in his as though they were taking a lovers’ stroll past a duck pond. He whispered goodnight and rubbed her arm reassuringly. She thought he winked at her, but in the failing light it was hard to tell. She watched the Polish man and his bicycle disappear into the darkening night, slipping away from her like an apparition.
She stood alone for many minutes, staring after him into the gloom.
9
13
th September
1947
Dear Marion,
I write to thank you for your visit last week, it was lovely to spend time with you and Lionel again. Peter had a marvellous time too. So nice to play tennis once more. We made a grand set, didn’t we? Since your departure I have been bottling and jamming fruit, we have a bumper crop this year. And the weather has been so hot! I think of Denis always at this time of year, how he loved his fruit! And his tennis, of course. Peter played terribly well, didn’t he? He grows more and more like Denis with each day that passes. Very soon he will be off to university, and I don’t mind admitting, dear Marion, that I shall miss him dreadfully.
Do visit us again, dear, any time you can manage it, and please give my love to Lionel. I hope his tooth has stopped playing him up? And that your headaches are subsiding? Headaches are such a trial.
Yours, with love,
Hilda
(The first letter I found at the Old and New, and I can’t remember in which book I found it. It’s not the most fascinating of letters, but it has a sweet poignancy, and I took it home to begin my collection, which is now housed in Mrs Sinclair’s suitcase. I have formed a mental picture of Hilda, her teenage son Peter, her dead husband Denis. I see her with her hair scraped back in a bun, I see her face hot and red as she throws herself into jam-making. But I don’t think it helps.)
T here are changes in Jenna, changes only I notice. Hair not brushed so well, make-up clumsily applied, or missing altogether – something I thought I would never see. Her clothes are creased, her skin is dry and flaky across her nose. Her cheeks are hollowing, and she has shadows under her eyes, grey-purple shadows that speak silently, I think, of guilt. Of regret. Sleep-dust litters the corners of her eyes. These changes are subtle, you understand. She has hitherto been impeccably presented, and now she is less than impeccable. Now she is more like me. She is a seven out of ten.
I know exactly how she feels, and I know how much it hurts, though the circumstances were different.
It was at university. I hooked up with a student who was good-looking, clever and funny. I’ll spare his blushes and keep his name to myself. I felt flattered by his attentions, and I fell in love, I thought. It was fun. It was bloody brilliant, in fact. Until my period was two weeks late. Panic. A solitary late-afternoon trip to Boots. A long wait overnight (because in those days you needed to test your first urine of the day). Two pink stripes. Not one, which is what I wanted, but two, very clearly, very pinkly. There was little discussion between myself and the handsome student. Just a conviction that it ‘might be best to terminate’. ‘We’ were too young. ‘We’ were career minded. ‘We’ had no intention of … so I visited the GP, then the clinic, discreetly, swiftly, alone. Handsome Student said he was ‘grateful’. I broke up with him.
I’ve never told anybody else about my termination. I’ve never felt the need to.
Does Philip notice the differences in
They walked together to her front gate, and he took her hand in his as though they were taking a lovers’ stroll past a duck pond. He whispered goodnight and rubbed her arm reassuringly. She thought he winked at her, but in the failing light it was hard to tell. She watched the Polish man and his bicycle disappear into the darkening night, slipping away from her like an apparition.
She stood alone for many minutes, staring after him into the gloom.
9
13
th September
1947
Dear Marion,
I write to thank you for your visit last week, it was lovely to spend time with you and Lionel again. Peter had a marvellous time too. So nice to play tennis once more. We made a grand set, didn’t we? Since your departure I have been bottling and jamming fruit, we have a bumper crop this year. And the weather has been so hot! I think of Denis always at this time of year, how he loved his fruit! And his tennis, of course. Peter played terribly well, didn’t he? He grows more and more like Denis with each day that passes. Very soon he will be off to university, and I don’t mind admitting, dear Marion, that I shall miss him dreadfully.
Do visit us again, dear, any time you can manage it, and please give my love to Lionel. I hope his tooth has stopped playing him up? And that your headaches are subsiding? Headaches are such a trial.
Yours, with love,
Hilda
(The first letter I found at the Old and New, and I can’t remember in which book I found it. It’s not the most fascinating of letters, but it has a sweet poignancy, and I took it home to begin my collection, which is now housed in Mrs Sinclair’s suitcase. I have formed a mental picture of Hilda, her teenage son Peter, her dead husband Denis. I see her with her hair scraped back in a bun, I see her face hot and red as she throws herself into jam-making. But I don’t think it helps.)
T here are changes in Jenna, changes only I notice. Hair not brushed so well, make-up clumsily applied, or missing altogether – something I thought I would never see. Her clothes are creased, her skin is dry and flaky across her nose. Her cheeks are hollowing, and she has shadows under her eyes, grey-purple shadows that speak silently, I think, of guilt. Of regret. Sleep-dust litters the corners of her eyes. These changes are subtle, you understand. She has hitherto been impeccably presented, and now she is less than impeccable. Now she is more like me. She is a seven out of ten.
I know exactly how she feels, and I know how much it hurts, though the circumstances were different.
It was at university. I hooked up with a student who was good-looking, clever and funny. I’ll spare his blushes and keep his name to myself. I felt flattered by his attentions, and I fell in love, I thought. It was fun. It was bloody brilliant, in fact. Until my period was two weeks late. Panic. A solitary late-afternoon trip to Boots. A long wait overnight (because in those days you needed to test your first urine of the day). Two pink stripes. Not one, which is what I wanted, but two, very clearly, very pinkly. There was little discussion between myself and the handsome student. Just a conviction that it ‘might be best to terminate’. ‘We’ were too young. ‘We’ were career minded. ‘We’ had no intention of … so I visited the GP, then the clinic, discreetly, swiftly, alone. Handsome Student said he was ‘grateful’. I broke up with him.
I’ve never told anybody else about my termination. I’ve never felt the need to.
Does Philip notice the differences in
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