Night

Night

M R

M C

G LEW IS

whispering and it’s keeping me awake.

I will die happy thinking of that kiss

, he whispers from the shelf where he sits, in paper-and-ink form, his self-penned epitaph.

That kiss, that kiss, that kiss.

He is not Resting in as much Peace as he should be.

I wonder about his kiss with Elsie. On a pier, he said it was in his letter. I imagine their hair whipping around in the cold seaside wind as they found themselves closer than they had been before. Her neat Sunday gloves as he took her by the hand. What words must they have spoken to one another when it became clear that they were about to kiss? Perhaps it was his first kiss and he was a nervous teenager, sweaty palms resting on the small of her back, having no idea if he had done it correctly. Perhaps it was the best kiss either of them had ever experienced and they pulled apart different people.

I turn over and pull the quilt up over my ears to try to quieten him.

I will wait for you, Elsie

, he whispers. I will wait.

What happened to William and Elsie that they could not recover, and why couldn’t he find it within himself to feed his words into the grinning open mouth of a post box?

I peel off my warm covers, pad into the living room and turn on the lamp. It is far too late or far too early for the Big Light.

Pushkin is sleeping with his paws out in front of his face, fluff rising and falling with every quick breath. He’s probably never had to worry about such a thing as love, has never had his little heart broken. If his disdain for all humans is anything to go by, I doubt he misses the small boys who named him Spiderman. He isn’t really a people person or a pig’s pig. It must be nice not to have to worry about being alone.

I take Mr McGlew’s envelopes from the Eddie Shelf and spread them across the dining table. What would he make of a stranger reading the words he meant only for Elsie all these years after he wrote them. Whatever his opinions, Mr McGlew has fallen quiet.

I open the first of the envelopes and re-read his words. Then the second, then the third. Only, this time, I notice that the envelope of the last letter he wrote contains something else. A strip of paper, no bigger than a receipt, and on the back in pencil he has written:

somewhere, out there,

grows the tree

that will be the tree

that will make your coffin.

you must hope it is small

only a seedling, only sap

but it might be tall by now

stretching its branches like arms into the sky.

if I knew where it was, I would chop it down.

I would return to the forest

again and again with my axe,

never resting,

so that you might live for ever.

It is four by the time I have finished re-reading it, and there is a pink tinge to the sky. The promise of morning. I will not sleep now. Carefully, like the curator I like to imagine myself to be, I return the letters to the warm embrace of their envelopes and place them back on the Eddie Shelf.

He really loved her.

I sit and listen to the tick of the clock.

Oh, how he loved her.

And, I decide, she deserves to know.

I retrieve my spiral-bound notepad and attempt to pull out a few sheets. They rip right in half. More carefully this time, I try again, and I find a pen.

I try to picture Elsie, a woman in her seventies now. She was beautiful then. She is beautiful now. But diluted, her hair wispy and white, blue eyes diluted to squash. Old. Just like myself. Just like everyone eventually becomes, if they’re very lucky. I picture her sitting in a faded pink wingback armchair, hair neatly curled, eyes on mine, head tilted to one side, listening.

Elsie,

I’m a pirate

A thief

A crustacean collecting pieces of seabed detritus to stick on my shell.

Except what I collect isn’t debris, it is precious.

Unfortunately, the value of the item exists only as long as the person who values it lives on.

And you see, Elsie, I have come across something that belongs to you. That is meant for you, or that was.

Perhaps you would like it back?

It consists of five letters written but never sent by a Mr William McGlew.

The letters were donated to the charity shop in which I work, because (and I do hope I am not the first to share this sad news), unfortunately, Mr McGlew is no longer with us.

Please write to me at the address below and I will gladly return his words to where they belong.

Sincerely,

Eddie Winston, Donations assistant

The Heart Trust Charity Shop, 24 Corporation Street, Birmingham, B2 4LP

I copy her address from the envelopes. And this letter does

make it into the eager open mouth of Her Majesty’s post box. Landing with a faint flap

upon all the other words bound for better places.

I hope it’s not too late.