The Wainwright Letters

by Hunter Davies

  What I was trying to say myself, and bungled it as usual, was that, knowing you so well, I have realised instinctively, without being told, that your old feelings for me have withered. I honestly believe, and you have confirmed it, that this has not happened because of anything I have done, or omitted to do. It’s just one of those things that can never be properly explained and for which an explanation is better not attempted. I don’t honestly think either that I was becoming a hindrance in your very busy life. But I was someone who kept cropping up in your mind, and you may have been feeling some obligation or duty to me because of what we had been to each other. This is what I was trying to get across: that you owe me nothing and that you can put me right out of your mind and, if you want to, forget that I exist. One thing less for you to worry about! I also wanted to say that I shall not, and could never, change my regard for you. I shall always love you; I can’t help it. If ever you want me I shall be here, always ready, always willing, always wanting you. Promise you will come to me if ever you are in trouble or serious doubt. To me, please, not to your other friends. All I can now ask is that you should continue to think of me, not as one of many friends, but as someone rather special. I don’t want you to class me with Dick and Margaret and Jim and Sheila, but as someone who loves you even more than these, and, even more than these, would want to help. There is one particular way in which I could help (no strings) if only you would let me. Don’t ever let pride stand in your way. Give me the chance, please, to express my devotion in a way that would give me as much joy as our day on Ingleborough. We must not break our ties completely. That would be too much of a penance for both of us, I think. We will abandon Kirkcarrion but keep in touch. I will let you know of any exciting events, and hope you will do the same. But we will not see each other, except when you really want to, and we will not correspond regularly. You don’t ever have to sit down to me when there are dishes waiting to be washed, you know that. This letter calls for no reply, but I wanted you to have it so that you might better understand my faltering words last night. Today I feel shrivelled by your tears, and the outlook is as bleak as the weather. But I have my books to do, fortunately, and a host of wonderful memories of you. There will be reminders of you everywhere when I go out. I shall never see a birds-eye primrose or a purple saxifrage again without thinking of our search for them together. I will take pleasure in going again to the places we visited together; you will be everywhere. There will be many anniversaries, too, to recall. Next Wednesday night’s meeting at the Museum will be the second of our very first expedition together, to Paddy Lane, and coming back along Oxenholme Road I remember suggesting that we should write love letters to each other purely on the basis of a professional literary exercise. Well, this present letter is not within that category. It is written from the heart…. I will no longer listen for the doorbell as I have these many months past. But someday I will write a novel set in the places where we were happy, and if you don’t recognise yourself in it my pen will certainly be failing. I may even include myself – in a very small part. It will have a happy ending, just as I want your life to have. Never feel, if you do not hear from me for some time, that I have forgotten you. Betty dear, you know I never could. There’s Christmas and your birthday. I will send remembrances, and you will know that as long as these arrive I shall be thinking of you and with no less tenderness. I have so much to be grateful to you for, so very much.

  My eyes are filling. I said I wept not at sadness but at happiness. Perhaps because there has been so much sadness, so little happiness. So it must be the memory of a blissful partnership that brings today’s tears. It is ended, but nothing could ever make me forget our days in the heaven we made for a little while. Few men can have loved as I have, and no man is the worse for loving as I have. Thank you, Betty, for everything.

  Whenever I hear of Doctor Zhivago I shall think, not of the Russian revolution, but of a country lane near Sedgwick on a September midnight in 1967.

  Please remember all I have said, and most of all that I will always love you dearly.

  Now turn out the light, and curl up and go to sleep, chick, and try not to worry. Be patient, and lasting happiness will come to you. Don’t make the mistake of going out to look for it. It will come to you, in its own good time. Sweet dreams. Goodnight, love, and goodbye. God bless!

  Red

  LETTER 136: TO BETTY, 8 OCTOBER 1967

  Thursday afternoon

  Dear Betty,

  Last Saturday was a wonderfully happy day. It was delightful to be with you again, to walk and explore together as we used to, to wander awhile in a world unpeopled by others, to talk to you and to listen to you and even to have my spine chilled by the details of your men’s-surgical-ward experiences, to have you all to myself, to turn away and not look while you made little waterfalls – oh yes, love, everything was as I had remembered it. I was reassured. I was left feeling that nothing had really changed. Saturday brought me back to normal, and I have been happy since. I can keep going now until the next time.

  On Monday, Cyril called at the Museum (for two hours), with stories of his preliminary excursions to the Limestone Hills of Craven, with new maps for me, and with a copy of ‘A Guide to the Pennine Way’, just out. I am sending this for you to look at as and when you can find time over the next few weeks. I have only glanced through it myself, sufficiently to form some conclusions. It is attractively designed, well printed and nice to handle; it is well written and the author has delved deep into avenues of research for his interesting side-notes (history, botany, architecture, etc), and in fact for a boy of 23 it is a remarkable achievement of which he ought to be very proud. It is a good book, love, but ours will be better.

  Cyril also produced a letter from Her Majesty’s Stationary Office saying, in reply to his enquiry, that the OFFICIAL guide to the Pennine Way is to be published early in 1968. Ours will be better, love.

  On Monday there was a letter from Doris, distressed by recent events, so on Tuesday I went over to see her, staying overnight and combining with this visit an expedition to the new motorway being constructed across the Pennine Way on the moors east of Rochdale, which was something I had to do anyway. But first Doris. I don’t know why, but I seem to have a tranquillising effect on her. She was tearful and unwell and full of woe when I got there, and with reason (I’ll tell you later), but a few simple enquiries at an opportune moment on the best way to make coffee, to polish furniture, to grill bacon, etc. led to a two hour demonstration on housewifery in great detail that took her mind off other matters and before bedtime the smiles and her old sense of fun were back again. She has the knack of recounting a story, even a trivial incident, most entertainingly, with word for word conversations, and is a wonderful mimic. I don’t have to contribute anything but an attentive ear. Just occasionally I have to lead her from one story to the next, but ‘Has Eddie been to see you lately?’ or ‘What did the Vicar say when he called?’ is enough to produce another entertaining half-hour. We also looked through some of her old photographs, another sure-fire way of getting her to reminisce on the past and forget present misfortunes. She gave me the enclosed picture of herself and Derrick as I first knew them, when she was being urged to become an opera singer. She asked about you. I had some success, too, with her little dog Cindy, who, by devoted nursing, she has kept alive when the vet said there was not hope. Cindy has recovered from pneumonia but is left with a very weak heart, poor little thing, and cannot yet walk without stumbling; for two months she has lain at deaths door, her toys untouched, but for just a few minutes that night I got her tail wagging as we wrestled for possession of her squeaking cat on the carpet. She is all the world to Doris, and I do hope she recovers.

  I have had a letter from the solicitor (enclosed) and have fixed up the appointment he requests.

  I am satisfied now that the cavity where we had our coffee was in fact the place we were looking for, i.e. the exit of Long Kin Cave with the entrance to Long Kin Pot directly opposite
, although these apertures could not clearly be seen from the surface. But I am still puzzled by the absence of the stream linking the two. I will go again with Peter (home tomorrow) and we will get down the hole and investigate.

  This morning’s post brought me details of a new medical encyclopaedia, which, it seems, is a must for every pupil nurse in her mid forties, especially if she has a lovely face and has come out top in her first written examination. I know it isn’t Christmas, and I know it isn’t your birthday, but may I get it for you, please? Please, chick. Besides, I want to look at the bits on female anatomy. You have me at a disadvantage these days. You are getting all the breaks and I am learning nothing. I feel stripped naked by your incredible stories of the men’s ward. Are you quite sure you get all your facts right? Sometimes I think you are pulling my innocent leg. I never heard of the things you tell me.

  R

  P.S. about the encyclopaedia. It doesn’t have to be a present. I would order it in my name and it could belong to me, coming to you only on permanent loan if this arrangement would suit you better. Please say yes and return the order form.

  Enclosure:

  ____ ‘A Guide to the Pennine Way’ by Christopher John Wright

  ____ Letter from the solicitor dated 4th September

  ____ Cutting from the Lancashire Evening Telegraph, 5th September

  ____ Photograph of Doris and Derrick, taken about 1939

  ____ Packet of Doublemint Chewing Gum.

  ____ Details of the New Illustrated Medical and Health Encyclopaedia

  On October 23 AW sent Betty two letters – the second in his assumed persona as her wise uncle Hans.

  LETTER 137: TO BETTY, 23 OCTOBER 1967

  Thursday evening

  To the sweetest woman in the world:

  Dear Betty,

  Sentimental, you said I was. It was not sentiment, Betty, that made me kiss your letter this morning. It was gratitude, for writing so kindly, for understanding me so well, for letting me know and love you. It was more than a letter. It was a reprieve from a death sentence. It came after the four most wretched days of my life, four days empty of all purpose, four days when I had no will or wish to do anything but think and think and think of the events of last Saturday night. Betty, love, I was heartbroken. I could not bear the thought of losing you. I had hurt you, else why the tears? I was four days in the house, with no callers, with nothing to deflect my thoughts. The newspapers held no interest: it was last Saturday evening, the night of the long knives, that was important, not Vietnam or the Labour Conference. I watched TV, but the picture I saw was your tearful face. I badly wanted Peter to come and provide a distraction, but he did not. The house was a condemned cell, and I a guilty man.

  Reaction to Saturday night did not set in until after I had written to you on Sunday morning, after a night of little sleep. I was utterly dazed, unable to comprehend that I might never see you again. I simply could not believe that I would never again feel your sweet body nor the caress of your lips. It was unthinkable. I loved you so much. How could it be that we had parted? What had happened between us? The reaction came slowly. You know how a bad knock or fall brings no pain immediately. Rockclimbers have told how they have fallen from great heights and been badly injured, yet have felt no pain until some time afterwards. Medically I believe this is a first consequence of shock, but you will know. That’s the way it was with me. Sunday dragged on as I tried to recall all you had said, searching desperately in your words for some gleam of hope to check my rising doubts. But I could find none. The more I reflected the more I despaired.

  I had been so utterly sure that in you I had found the girl I had dreamed about for forty years, so who so often comforted my loneliest hours. She was a fiction, until you came and made her real. You were this girl, exactly. In the way you looked, in everything you did and said, in the way you loved me. I was never more sure of anything. The girl was you. You were the girl. Betty, I could never find the words to tell you, but I worshipped you. You were so right for me. I had waited so long for you to come, and when you came you were sweeter and lovelier than imagination had pictured you. But – after Saturday night, could it really be that I had been wrong? No, no that was unthinkable. You, the woman I revered and respected, could it be that you had feet of clay? No, I refused to believe it. How could you destroy so perfect an image? … No, not disappointed, Betty. Disenchanted is the word. And it hurt. Well, I concluded (trying to console myself) there’s no fool like an old fool; everybody knows that. Well, I said (still trying to console myself) at least I’ve got a bit of iron in my soul now, and I shall be a better writer through bitter experience; forget about that love story and I’ll do one about the duplicity and deceit of women. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. To hell with dream girls anyway. They don’t exist, how could they? They are the stuff of imagination. More damn fool me, to think one would come to life, just for me.

  So my thoughts ran on. Betty love, I am truly repentant. You see what powerful influence you have on me. The four days were hell. But today has been altogether different. Your letter came, and if I had dictated it to you it could not have said better just what I wanted to hear. My black mood fell away completely between your first sentence and the last. Quite suddenly, in the short time it took me to read it, I was a happy man again, the happiest in the world. I sang ‘Oh what a beautiful morning; as I washed up. Peter came and I could have fallen on his neck with joy. The sun is shining, I said, and you said you would take me to Knock Fell to finish the Pennine Way, and I am feeling great; come on, let’s go. So we collected his friend Arthur and off we went. The day remained fine, and I filled in the last gap in my Pennine Way journey. We took the car up to the brick hut on Great Dun Fell, the one we have abused so often. Peter and Arthur climbed Cross Fell while I went the other way, over Knock Fell and down to Dufton, reversing the route to save climbing. All went well. When I came down to Swindale Beck I had completely walked the Pennine Way. The rest of the walk into Dufton I had done with you, and here started the memories, which yesterday would have had irony in them but today were joyous indeed. Look, there’s the patch of heather near the high stile where we lay together, heart against heart (we must have been mad: it was trying to snow); and the railway wagon near the path where she disappeared for a minute (clever girl, she always knows when she wants to do it); and the little clapper bridge where she sat and munched an apple and watched the stream, in her funny rain-hat and cape, not knowing I was regarding her with devotion and thinking how adorable she was; and that muddy lane where we sheltered against a wall during a minor blizzard and I kissed away the snowflakes as they fell on her sweet face. Betty McNally, surely you must realise that no other man could love you as I do? My whole world lies in your sweet body. Please, please never leave me . Peter and Arthur were late for our arranged rendezvous in Dufton. I had had wings on my heels, they hadn’t. What was described as a celebration tea was agreed; the others thought it was to celebrate the completion of the Pennine Way, but you and I know different. I didn’t take them to Mrs Barker’s – she would have asked how my wife (or daughter) was, and my American cousin. We had tea in the new café in Appleby and then came home. A wonderful day. I have been in a state of ecstatic chuffiness ever since the postman called. Oh yes, a wonderful, wonderful day. And a wonderful evening, writing to you when I thought I might never again do so. And it will be wonderful going to bed; I shall be able to think of you before going to sleep, as I used to before last Saturday. I shall put in a bolster to hug.

  I am thrilled and excited, but I haven’t sought to give you the impression that I am assuming we will resume our pre-hospital friendship. I know that cannot be, dear, and I am reconciled to it. I am happy today because your letter has told me you want us to remain good friends. I am not expecting more. And what I wrote on Sunday is still true. I would never try to hold you if you wanted someone else, never. You can buggar off (where did I get that dreadful word from?) whenever you feel like spreading your wigs and fl
ying away.

  But I am glad, really glad and relieved, to have your assurance that you will step warily. I don’t want you ever even to contemplate doing anything shabby because I know my dream girl never would and it would hurt me. Don’t look back into the past, love. Looking back is for old people, like Ade. Not for you. Please don’t keep a candle burning in the window for what is dead and done with; there are only ghosts in the past. You are young (which is why I like to call you chick) and for the young happiness lies ahead, not behind. You will not find it by raking the ashes of dead fires. You may miss seeing it when it comes if you are looking back over your shoulder. For you, love, the promise of a fuller life and complete happiness lies wholly in the future. It will come, of that I am sure. Bet you five bob! All right, ten. But do cheer up. I want you to be smiling when I see you again. The only tears a sweet woman like you should shed are tears of happiness. Those are the only tears I ever want to see in your lovely eyes.

  You do need your bottom smacking a little bit, though. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and anyway my smack would soon turn into a caress, but I have persuaded your Uncle Hans in Utrecht to do it for me. His letter is enclosed. It will jolt you: his hand is heavier than mine. His is not a letter to read in bed. His is a letter to read when you feel like throwing things: it will add power to your arm. I know that nothing infuriates more than to be given advice and told it is for your own good, and I am not claiming this for anything Uncle Hans has written. He has said what he has because he loves you, as I do.