dearest,
Next Wednesday then. Will it be like last Wed? You know it was marvellous, ecstasy, don’t know how to say it. I love you, love seeing you in our little room. Sorry you thought it was dingy, but we have to be careful. Don’t ask me about myself, can’t tell you, too complicated, I’ve made silly mistakes, can’t go back on them now. And you too? Is that what you meant when you talked about him?
E
2 April
Clare my darling,
Your body is white as the moon, your eyes are stars. If I were a poet I’d be able to write properly about it. After each meeting I feel more jealous of him and angry that he doesn’t appreciate the treasures he’s got. But I’m glad too, glad you don’t belong to him because then you wouldn’t belong utterly to me. I know you do.
Ever your devoted,
E
Dearest dearest C,
Dearest I was so upset, hurt and angry too – not angry for long, I never could be with you, but my anger when it comes is so intense it frightens me. What was there in my letters that made you tear them up? Why is it wrong to wish we could be together always? Don’t you know, dearest C, that I love you with every nerve and sinew in every possible way, mental and physical. I cannot bear to see you only once a week when you come to art class, it isn’t enough. Why should you worry about him, whether you are deceiving him or not, it does not matter since you say he doesn’t care. I don’t understand your feelings. I have ties too, I told you that, but you know I will break them as soon as you say, so that we can be together. And we shall be together, we must, I cannot bear it otherwise and I cannot bear to think of him with you. I’m sorry my darling for writing like this. It is not just physical, it is everything. You are so cool and calm it exasperates me but you know I love you always.
E
There were a dozen letters altogether. He had composed them after careful study of the letters written by Edith Thompson to her lover Frederick Bywaters. Did they show obvious signs of their origin? Reading them through again with the attempted objectivity of an artist looking at his own work, he did not think so. Would it be possible for a handwriting expert to recognise Arthur Brownjohn’s hand? A comparison with Mellon’s correspondence would show they had been written by him. Why should anyone seek to identify them with Arthur in view of that? Some of the sheets would have Clare’s prints on them, even though they might be blurred, because they came from a packet of blue Basildon Bond paper that she had bought and handled before she took a dislike to the colour. They would not show Easonby Mellon’s prints, but that could not be helped. He was pleased with the occasional irrelevancies he had put into the letters. ‘Do you remember that day in the little tea shop at Sevenoaks…you looked like raggy Maggie today but I loved you just the same…rather worried in case Jamie recognised you…you ask what we’ll live on darling, we’ll manage, lovers always do.’ He was pleased also with the increasing hysteria of the letters’ tone and the preoccupation which they showed with Arthur, referred to always as him. The last two or three letters were undated and the writing was much more erratic, to indicate excitement. It was obvious from them that Mellon had told her of his marriage and that Clare had refused to go away with him. His language became almost abusive:
I can’t stand it and won’t. If I give up Joan why should you feel bound to him, what has he ever done to make you happy? You say I must not come down but I shall if I wish, why not, I am so wretched, what harm can it do, I would sooner come down and have it out once and for all. I shall not give up because I love you and if you do not love me any more I would sooner end everything.
It was repetitive stuff to read, like all love letters, but it seemed convincing. At least, it convinced him.
Chapter Ten
Finishing
Next Wednesday then. Will it be like last Wed? You know it was marvellous, ecstasy, don’t know how to say it. I love you, love seeing you in our little room. Sorry you thought it was dingy, but we have to be careful. Don’t ask me about myself, can’t tell you, too complicated, I’ve made silly mistakes, can’t go back on them now. And you too? Is that what you meant when you talked about him?
E
2 April
Clare my darling,
Your body is white as the moon, your eyes are stars. If I were a poet I’d be able to write properly about it. After each meeting I feel more jealous of him and angry that he doesn’t appreciate the treasures he’s got. But I’m glad too, glad you don’t belong to him because then you wouldn’t belong utterly to me. I know you do.
Ever your devoted,
E
Dearest dearest C,
Dearest I was so upset, hurt and angry too – not angry for long, I never could be with you, but my anger when it comes is so intense it frightens me. What was there in my letters that made you tear them up? Why is it wrong to wish we could be together always? Don’t you know, dearest C, that I love you with every nerve and sinew in every possible way, mental and physical. I cannot bear to see you only once a week when you come to art class, it isn’t enough. Why should you worry about him, whether you are deceiving him or not, it does not matter since you say he doesn’t care. I don’t understand your feelings. I have ties too, I told you that, but you know I will break them as soon as you say, so that we can be together. And we shall be together, we must, I cannot bear it otherwise and I cannot bear to think of him with you. I’m sorry my darling for writing like this. It is not just physical, it is everything. You are so cool and calm it exasperates me but you know I love you always.
E
There were a dozen letters altogether. He had composed them after careful study of the letters written by Edith Thompson to her lover Frederick Bywaters. Did they show obvious signs of their origin? Reading them through again with the attempted objectivity of an artist looking at his own work, he did not think so. Would it be possible for a handwriting expert to recognise Arthur Brownjohn’s hand? A comparison with Mellon’s correspondence would show they had been written by him. Why should anyone seek to identify them with Arthur in view of that? Some of the sheets would have Clare’s prints on them, even though they might be blurred, because they came from a packet of blue Basildon Bond paper that she had bought and handled before she took a dislike to the colour. They would not show Easonby Mellon’s prints, but that could not be helped. He was pleased with the occasional irrelevancies he had put into the letters. ‘Do you remember that day in the little tea shop at Sevenoaks…you looked like raggy Maggie today but I loved you just the same…rather worried in case Jamie recognised you…you ask what we’ll live on darling, we’ll manage, lovers always do.’ He was pleased also with the increasing hysteria of the letters’ tone and the preoccupation which they showed with Arthur, referred to always as him. The last two or three letters were undated and the writing was much more erratic, to indicate excitement. It was obvious from them that Mellon had told her of his marriage and that Clare had refused to go away with him. His language became almost abusive:
I can’t stand it and won’t. If I give up Joan why should you feel bound to him, what has he ever done to make you happy? You say I must not come down but I shall if I wish, why not, I am so wretched, what harm can it do, I would sooner come down and have it out once and for all. I shall not give up because I love you and if you do not love me any more I would sooner end everything.
It was repetitive stuff to read, like all love letters, but it seemed convincing. At least, it convinced him.
Chapter Ten
Finishing
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