a hold all in which my few belongings fitted, two spare dresses, a corset my mother had gifted me with before I left, a woollen nightdress, a handful of blouses and skirts that I
had darned again and again over the years as they kept on falling apart at the seams, some shawls I was attached to and an extra set of cotton underwear, as well as a few coins which constituted my
total fortune.
I had no idea when I would sleep that night. Or where.
To cut a long story short, I of course survived.
I experienced joy. Some sadness too. Not everything I did was right, by my own standards or in the eyes of others but I regret nothing. Until we met, my love.
I miss you.
I miss the vigour of your cock inside me.
I miss your words in my ears, your hands on my body.
And I wish I had told you so, before it was too late.
The street lights outside have been dimmed and the sky is clear of clouds, but it’s getting dark. And colder by the minute. London without you is a dull place, despite its many charms,
and if, as I fear, I do not hear from you again, I am thinking of leaving Britain and the memories behind. Going South somewhere maybe. My heart pulls me again, this time even further from home, to
lands beyond the great oceans.
I am not even sure if I will post this letter.
At times sadness overwhelms me and makes me question why I am even writing these lines. But I will always hold on to that kernel of doubt.
Because there has to be a future.
I am carrying your child. I became aware of this barely three months after you had left for Europe to see if any of your family had survived.
I know it is still a most dangerous place and the bleakness of the afterwar appears to have swallowed you up and I am prey to the fear of having lost you.
I write it again: I am carrying your child.
Warmly and wantonly yours, my dear,
Joan
Clarissa was leaning against a lamp post outside, her back pressed flat against the metal girdle, one leg forward and the other bent with the toe of her boot resting on the
footpath. A half-smoked cigarette hung from her lips. Tucked under her elbow was a worn leather satchel. She was the picture of casual chic.
Joan, I recalled, had been drawn into the Ball by a red-haired woman with hair down to her ankles like a long flame who had met her by a lamp post outside a music hall in Piccadilly Circus. I
had the sudden sense that though separated by decades, our experiences were converging, as though time were folding in on itself and drawing our worlds closer together.
I coughed, and Clarissa looked up.
‘Well, well,’ she said, examining me up and down, her eyes lingering on the silken sheen of my tuxedo trousers. ‘Don’t you look wonderful.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you would like me to wear them, or not.’
‘Dear girl!’ she cried, drawing her body away from the post and standing at full height, ‘of course I want you to. Did you think I bought them for you so they could sit in a
cupboard? All you need now is a good haircut, but we’ll leave that for another day. For now, let’s drink, and talk, and be merry.’
She flicked the long nub of ash that balanced precariously on the edge of her cigarette and I watched it flutter like tiny grey snowflakes onto the footpath.
‘Come on then,’ she said, and proffered her arm to me. I threaded mine through hers and we walked along Shaftesbury Avenue and into Soho, dancing between late-night drunks, couples
walking hand in hand and occasional raucous groups of youngsters in search of the next best thing. I instinctively scanned each face that passed mine, searching for Iris among the crowds. She would
have stood out here, a lone pale star amid the busy glittering throng, her quiet graceful beauty gleaming all the more bright against the gaudiness that surrounded us.
Clarissa pulled me towards the doorway of a basement bar that I would never have even noticed under ordinary circumstances. The steps downward were rickety and poorly
had darned again and again over the years as they kept on falling apart at the seams, some shawls I was attached to and an extra set of cotton underwear, as well as a few coins which constituted my
total fortune.
I had no idea when I would sleep that night. Or where.
To cut a long story short, I of course survived.
I experienced joy. Some sadness too. Not everything I did was right, by my own standards or in the eyes of others but I regret nothing. Until we met, my love.
I miss you.
I miss the vigour of your cock inside me.
I miss your words in my ears, your hands on my body.
And I wish I had told you so, before it was too late.
The street lights outside have been dimmed and the sky is clear of clouds, but it’s getting dark. And colder by the minute. London without you is a dull place, despite its many charms,
and if, as I fear, I do not hear from you again, I am thinking of leaving Britain and the memories behind. Going South somewhere maybe. My heart pulls me again, this time even further from home, to
lands beyond the great oceans.
I am not even sure if I will post this letter.
At times sadness overwhelms me and makes me question why I am even writing these lines. But I will always hold on to that kernel of doubt.
Because there has to be a future.
I am carrying your child. I became aware of this barely three months after you had left for Europe to see if any of your family had survived.
I know it is still a most dangerous place and the bleakness of the afterwar appears to have swallowed you up and I am prey to the fear of having lost you.
I write it again: I am carrying your child.
Warmly and wantonly yours, my dear,
Joan
Clarissa was leaning against a lamp post outside, her back pressed flat against the metal girdle, one leg forward and the other bent with the toe of her boot resting on the
footpath. A half-smoked cigarette hung from her lips. Tucked under her elbow was a worn leather satchel. She was the picture of casual chic.
Joan, I recalled, had been drawn into the Ball by a red-haired woman with hair down to her ankles like a long flame who had met her by a lamp post outside a music hall in Piccadilly Circus. I
had the sudden sense that though separated by decades, our experiences were converging, as though time were folding in on itself and drawing our worlds closer together.
I coughed, and Clarissa looked up.
‘Well, well,’ she said, examining me up and down, her eyes lingering on the silken sheen of my tuxedo trousers. ‘Don’t you look wonderful.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t sure if you would like me to wear them, or not.’
‘Dear girl!’ she cried, drawing her body away from the post and standing at full height, ‘of course I want you to. Did you think I bought them for you so they could sit in a
cupboard? All you need now is a good haircut, but we’ll leave that for another day. For now, let’s drink, and talk, and be merry.’
She flicked the long nub of ash that balanced precariously on the edge of her cigarette and I watched it flutter like tiny grey snowflakes onto the footpath.
‘Come on then,’ she said, and proffered her arm to me. I threaded mine through hers and we walked along Shaftesbury Avenue and into Soho, dancing between late-night drunks, couples
walking hand in hand and occasional raucous groups of youngsters in search of the next best thing. I instinctively scanned each face that passed mine, searching for Iris among the crowds. She would
have stood out here, a lone pale star amid the busy glittering throng, her quiet graceful beauty gleaming all the more bright against the gaudiness that surrounded us.
Clarissa pulled me towards the doorway of a basement bar that I would never have even noticed under ordinary circumstances. The steps downward were rickety and poorly
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