A Love Letter - Forty Years Too Late

mathepac

My Dearest Anne,

It’s very strange writing to you for the first time almost forty years after our first meeting that Saturday lunch-time in town. A sandwich, a couple of drinks and the pictures, as if we’d arranged it over the phone the night before. All thanks to John who introduced us and who I’ve only seen once in the intervening years.

I left the cinema walking on air and I think you got the bus home, no doubt to charm some other young man out of his senses, while my night ended as did most of my nights for the next few decades, drunk in some late-night club filled with both the glamourous and the no-hopers, side-by-side briefly, sharing cheap champagne at exorbitant prices.

Why write now? I was moving boxes of books today and a black-and-white photo fell out of an old paper-back. I have this habit of keeping stuff beyond the end its useful life. Even when trying to rid myself of junk I still have to open the box and ensure that the contents meet my junkfullness criteria. This is in stark contrast to my behaviour when we were dating and even when we parted, too gauche, naive and addled to behave properly and too stunned to protest.

The picture shows us at a rugby match, you the cool, composed picture of prettiness and shining youth and me looking my usual, untidy, disgruntled and grumpy self. I think either Chris or Nick took the picture and I believe its the only one of us together. The shock of seeing you smile at me from the picture on the floor was such that I knelt there motionless, bereft of energy or speech.

When my brain re-booted itself and gave me back the abilities to think and move, I knew that finding the picture which I hadn’t seen in decades was a signal to some form of action. As my late grandmother used to say, I knew as sure “as eggs is eggs.”

Last week collecting other junk from kitchen cupboards and from under fridges and sinks, I found a mug. Originally one of four you gave me, this sole survivor and its erstwhile companions came I think from New York and originally lived in that awful half-flat in Inchicore and has come with me on my all travels since, apart from France and the US when I lived briefly in company-supplied utility apartments which were kitted out with just enough gear to sustain life in a new country for a few weeks.

So, to the crux of this poor communication Anne. I apologise sincerely for my poor treatment of you and for being such a huge disappointment after that initial surge of attraction. Breaking up with me in The Harp that night was the best decision you made for yourself, but unfortunately for me it tumbled me into the depths of despair.

It has taken me all the time since then to come to realise what I missed out on by losing you. Even when we met for those few seconds in the pub in Clare it didn’t dawn on me how badly I felt; I had sufficient pain-killer consumed. My friend asked me who you were and he reprimanded me soundly for “letting her get away”, when I told him. Understandably perhaps, I didn’t disabuse him of the facts.

I sincerely hope you’ve had an uplifting and fulfilling life and that the last forty years have been everything you deserve. People such as you are true raities and while I’m grateful to have known you briefly, I can never forgive myself for for hurting you and for messing up any chance we might have had to grow old in each others’ company.

Seventeen years ago I began the process of of repairing the damage I had caused in other people’s lives; two years ago I began the process of trying to understand what else was wrong and to heal myself.

With my apologies and undying love, Pat.

SpaceRocket

Wow, that brought a tear to my eye. Love it.

Dr.Zeus

The first one is usually the real one and the only real one. It's a lucky person who finds someone later in life who can recreate the raw emotion of early love.

Beautifully written, I would imagine there are thousands of people who can relate to this.

mathepac

Thanks for the feed-back guys, it's my first post in this forum and was unsure what to do or expect; I'm over the moon.

I've tried to portray the writer's sense of awkwardness by breaking the flow in places, e.g. referring to "John" and "Nick" and "Chris", and his old-fashioned formal writing style is an attempt restrain the outburst he really wants to write.

The original idea was for a short story, which seemed too conventional and had the time-potential to sink into sentimental drivel; I hope I've avoided that.

DangerMouse27

I really did enjoy that, but for the life of me I cannot tell you why. Part of me was rooting for him not to be a loser but he is, to me he is, or was anyway. I hate that he is straining to say something to her and relies on the past to say it instead.
Where is the reply?

I liked it because it made me want to know a little bit more. Please write her reply and give Pat some closure. And why can it not be sentimental drivel? just write what you feel like writing.

mathepac

Thanks for that - it has certainly given me pause for thought.

DangerMouse27 wrote: »

I really did enjoy that, but for the life of me I cannot tell you why. ... I liked it because it made me want to know a little bit more. ...

Pat's little letter piqued your curiosity and you sense there might be a bigger story, perhaps? I'd never considered that up to now.

DangerMouse27 wrote: »

... Part of me was rooting for him not to be a loser but he is, to me he is, or was anyway. I hate that he is straining to say something to her and relies on the past to say it instead.
Where is the reply? ...

The awkwardness and the other issues that cost him Anne's love in the first pace have not gone away and having been hurt already, arguably by himself (?), he is guarded.

I'd never considered a reply surfacing, interesting development potential maybe.

DangerMouse27 wrote: »

... Please write her reply and give Pat some closure. And why can it not be sentimental drivel? just write what you feel like writing.

I guess in a feeble attempt to mimic real life I'd never considered closure or maybe writing the letter was his half-assed closure.

The "Love Story" or the "Lassie" type ending seemed a dangerous possibility to me and a bit clicheed - and of course my writing (!) has to be superior to that drivel! :rolleyes:

The Princess Bride

Well done-such a beautiful,flowing read.
And yes,it does have the potential to be a short story or an even longer one.
It's the combination of how you say it,and what you have to say,that makes it so special.


(Glad to know that The Harp bar wasn't a figment of my imagination.......!)

echo beach

mathepac wrote: »

I'd never considered a reply surfacing, interesting development potential maybe.

I think it is better without a reply. She is almost certainly married to someone else (perhaps he has just found out she is dead?) but either way I don't see this letter as ever being posted.

SpaceRocket

Its your turn of phrase, plus what you have said, but mostly for me it is that instant "connection" which I felt towards the passage. I feel an immediate empathy toward the protagonist, I want to delve deeper into the mind of this fumbling honest humble and endearing, yet infinitely tenacious character which you have so craftfully woven, I can visualise it all, it is an incredibly visual passage...

I want to see Ann's reaction to the letter, want to know what she's doing now, what she thought of Pat back then, if she thinks of him now, how Pat got out of his alcohol fuelled hell, where he found the stregnth, and why he haven't spoken to John much since.

I really hope you write more of this cause I would love to see it taken further.



To be honest it sounds so real, I thought when I read it first last night that it was a personal piece and not a piece of fiction, so bravo!!

echo beach

SpaceRocket wrote: »

I want to see Ann's reaction to the letter, want to know what she's doing now, what she thought of Pat back then, if she thinks of him now, how Pat got out of his alcohol fuelled hell, where he found the stregnth, and why he haven't spoken to John much since.

I want to know all that as well but part of the strength of the piece, for me anyway, is that we don't know those things. We have to imagine them.

SpaceRocket

echo beach wrote: »

I want to know all that as well but part of the strength of the piece, for me anyway, is that we don't know those things. We have to imagine them.

Very good point.

It's without a shread of doubt a wonderful stand alone piece.

(So wonderful that I can't help but long to hear more )

mathepac

OK, I've tried to rise to some of the challenges presented in your feedback. Another little piece, below, entitled The Photograph tries to fill in a few gaps.

I think little yokes this short are called vignettes rather than short stories, In any case -

mathepac

A weak and watery winter sun added to his gloom and as the drops of cold sweat trickled down between his shoulder-blades and gathered in the small of his back, his anxiety grew.

“I’ll never last until full-time without a drink”, he thought. “Why did this match have to be out here in the sticks with no bar facilities?” he asked himself rhetorically, while vaguely remembering that Chris’s husband played with a junior rugby club that shared sparse facilities with the local soccer boys.

An alickadoo beside him on the muddy touch-line exploded in indignation at what he saw as an unjust refereeing decision. The noise of the shouts added to the cacophony of pain in Pat’s head. The little men trying to tunnel out using Kangos and sledge-hammers were now joined by the echoes of the alickadoo’s protestations, attacking his brain through his ears, adding to his misery. It had all seemed such a great idea for a long day out during the planning phase the night before

*/\*

“Pat, you’re wanted on the phone. Are you here? I thinks it’s Anne” said the bar-man in Searson’s. Pat nodded. “Take it in the manager’s office”, the bar-man said, confirming it was a regular who knew better than to ring either of the coin-boxes just inside the door.

Pat lifted the receiver. “Hello?” It was Anne and she apologised for not meeting him as arranged, saying that after working later than expected all she was able for was a bath and a sound sleep. Anne suggested she collect him at the flat the following mid-day to go to a rugby match. Her best-friend’s husband was playing, and they’d make a day of it.

“Sounds good, sleep well so”, said Pat.

“Hey you, don’t be so quick to try and get rid of me. I’ll phone for my long-distance good-night kiss after my bath”, said Anne.

“Fair enough so”, said Pat, “I’ll be here.”

“I know”, said Anne rather resignedly, “I know.”

Back in the bar, Pat took possession of “his” stool and resumed conversation with the regulars.

“Was that Anne on the phone?” asked Ben. Pat confirmed it was. “Hmm”, said Ben, “she’s checking up on you, trying to keep you on a tight leash. It sounds like it might be getting serious. The least you can do to confirm your bachelor status is to attend at O’Shea’s in Donnybrook tomorrow for pre-match libations and then on to Bective.”

“Sorry head, no can do. We’ve arranged to go to some junior club-match tomorrow; I’ll be gone all day”, said Pat.

“It is serious then,” said Martin. “I’m guessing engaged in the New Year and married the year after, if Anne has her way, which by the sound of it she does.”

“Defo” said Dessie, “and that’s a real pity, because on my way back from the jacks I saw a little friend of yours walk into the other bar”

“What friend?”, asked Pat.

“Inez”, said Dessie, “the little Portuguese lassie you got so friendly with in the club.”

“Who’s Inez” said Pat sounding genuinely puzzled.

“Don’t you remember?”, said Dessie. “A few nights ago, after hours in the club, yourself and herself were the very best of buddies, welded to each other out dancing and all she’s been doing since is talking about you.”

“Christ I must have been locked, I can’t remember a thing about it.”

“Well, you’d better start remembering fast, because here she comes. Hi Inez,” said Dessie brightly, “I told you I’d track him down for you. Pat I’m sure you remember Inez, she’s been trying to contact you.”

A very pretty young woman with dark skin and hair and a dazzling smile stood before Pat. A distinctive perfume wafted over him, a heady, spicy aroma unlike anything he’d ever smelled before, but matching the wearer perfectly. Hopping down off the stool, he courteously offered her his seat at the bar and a helping hand to steady her as she climbed up and sat. “Hello Inez, it’s great to see you again,” lied Pat. “It’s been nuts work-wise and I haven’t been out since we last met, have I Dessie? Now, what can I get you to drink?”

*/\*

The perfume was the first thing he noticed and almost immediately the hammering on the front door startled him bolt upright. A wave of nausea welled up inside him and sour bile stung the back of his throat. Swallowing hard, he rushed as best he could to the first-floor window. Anne stared up at him from the door-step and she waved, smiling. “C’mon sleepy head, we’ll be late” she called. Pat gave her a vague thumbs up as she went back to her little black Morris 1000 parked at the kerb.

Opening the bed-room door, Pat rushed over to the shared bathroom, emptied his bladder while tears of relief streamed down his face. Turning on the geyser over the bath, he doused his head alternatively with hot and cold water in a vain attempt to clear it. While dressing, he rinsed a mouthful of toothpaste around his teeth and spat in the kitchen sink. As he went to don his favourite suede jacket, the perfume from the night before enveloped him again. Too late he realised he was supposed to collect dry-cleaning that morning and had no alternative to the jacket. Downing an unusual vodka-free half-litre of orange-juice he locked the flat and headed downstairs.

“Is that the best you can do?” asked Anne after he planted a cursory kiss on her cheek. “I’m your girl-friend you know, not your sister. We haven’t met all week, only spoke a few times on the phone and that peck is all I get?”

“Sorry but the tummy isn’t the best today and my mouth tastes like a monkey’s arm-pit.”

“So you had a good few drinks last night, needless to remark. Who was she?”

“Who was who?”

“Whoever was wearing that perfume. It smells like an Arabian brothel in here. Open your window, please.”

“Oh, that's the perfume the girl Martin picked up last night was wearing. It’s powerful stuff. She had my jacket around her shoulders while we were waiting for a taxi in town.”

“I see. You gave Martin’s new girl-friend your jacket to keep her warm. Where was Martin at this stage?”

“Ah sure you know what he’s like, he gets drunk on the smell of a cork. He was half-passed out and I was kind of looking after both of them. That’s why I overslept; I had to take them both home before heading home in the taxi myself. Look can we not argue please and just get through the day?”

“Get through the day? I’d hoped we’d both enjoy ourselves, being in each others company and with our friends.”

“Well yeah, but they’re your friends really, not mine”

“Please, don’t start that again.”

*/\*

“Pat, Pat”. The sound of Nick’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Yes, Nick”

“Can you snuggle up to your beautiful girl-friend, you lucky bastard, and smile for the camera, please?”

Oh Christ, thought Pat, not this again. ****ing Lord Lichfield himself with his Olympus SLR. Tentatively he put his left arm around Anne’s shoulders. She smiled up at him lovingly, a smile free of guile or pretence, making him feel as if he was the only man in the world and simultaneously racking him with guilt.

“Look this way” said Chris. Anne and Pat looked towards the camera. Nick clicked the shutter-release, capturing the moment forever.

*/\*

... The picture shows us at a rugby match, you the cool, composed picture of prettiness and shining youth and me looking my usual, untidy, disgruntled and grumpy self. I think either Chris or Nick took the picture and I believe it's the only one of us together. The shock of seeing you smile at me from the picture on the floor was such that I knelt there motionless, bereft of energy or speech ...