and the postman just whistles

… and the postman just whistles.

　





She opened the letter.

As soon as she felt that pleasurable ripping of the envelope giving way to the blade Kathy realised what she would have known before had she not been blinded by suspicion; that she might be making a mistake. She felt the stab of guilt, had split their trust with a dagger, severed bonds, felt a kind of disjoining.

She sat at the polished table with the slit envelope in her fingers, at arm’s length - disowning it. She drummed on the table lightly with the corner of the envelope, worrying about the consequences. I will have to throw the letter away - I will know something he can never know I know.

An hour ago she and Tom had breakfasted here. They had touched hands across the toast rack, had flirted with the freshness and excitement of strangers; a game he loved to play.

Oh come on, Kathy! Get hold of yourself, it’s probably something ordinary and innocent. But… he might be expecting it - ask about it - missing letters sometimes complicate things.

She read the envelope again, the strong, confident immediacy of the handwriting - a fountain pen, she guessed - seeing Tom’s name written by some one else as if they owned it - had stolen him - knew things about him which she herself did not.

Kathy reminded herself why she was doing this; those odd phone calls - silence when she answered, but if Tom answered he’d say, “I’ll call you back.” And he always went out afterwards to pop to the shop or get something from the car.

She’d reached down to pick up the letter from the new doormat. The simple, ordinary doormat, like so many objects for Kathy, had memories locked within its stillness, its matter of fact inanimateness. She and Tom had bought the doormat together, holding hands in the household section of the supermarket. Afterwards they’d had lunch at their favourite pub on the river. On that summer Sunday a man in an overcoat had rowed a small boat resolutely against the traffic of cruisers and tourist vessels. Tom had stood on the bank with a pint in his hand and shouted rude things. An hour later the boatman rowed back down river creating a hazard for club eights and motor boats. The crowd thought it was amusing but the rower in a black overcoat haunted Kathy for the rest of that day - it had unsettled her. They’d spent the rest of that day drinking and dozing in the waspy heat of the garden listening to cricket on Tom’s old portable, occasionally discussing the curious incident of the boatman. At Tom’s insistence they’d suddenly taken a break for sex in the cool kitchen and he had satisfied himself selfishly and vigorously while she’d thought about the boatman.

She had reached down, extended her arm to grasp the letter already speculating who it was from and about the news in it; but stopped; did not touch it; saw that it was addressed to Tom. Suspicions she never knew she had teemed into her mind. In that moment, bent and hand outstretched, so many things became clear, incidents which had entered her consciousness in the innocent, disarming state of natural trust and filed as routine, of no consequence, things forgiven and forgotten. It was all so obvious now. All those times when he’d behaved out of character - weekends away - more late nights than usual - those instances of unusual reticence and moodiness - tell tale signs which had not registered as warnings.

How dare she write to him here!

Opening letters had always been such a pleasure for Kathy, a ritual she savoured, a rejoining with much missed friends. She loved slitting the envelope and reading - listening to - the voice from the pages, magically transported from far away as if the writer were here in the flower scented stillness.

She tap-tapped the table with the corner of the blue envelope. There was still time to throw it away. No. No, it is too late. I must read it. Either way nothing will ever be the same.

Get a grip, girl. She remembered how her mother had said that to her so often. Kathy often invoked her mother to give her courage when she was dithering or wilting, or to shift the responsibility for anything she was about to do.

She took the single sheet out of the envelope. There’s something else, she remembered. Tom’s friend, Christopher.

Chris used to come to the house often - used to pick Tom up in the morning in his genuine Yellow Cab imported from New York at great cost. They were always fixing it and driving off looking for parts. Sometimes they’d be away all day. They seem to have such fun together and Kathy was happy for Tom. In the evenings Kathy would cook a meal for the three of them, they’d have wine, lots of laughs - but now she remembered… haven’t seen him lately. He’s been behaving rather oddly, too. Covering for Tom, I bet! Typical! And he was evasive, almost unfriendly. She had phoned the office to speak to Tom. Christopher answered. Tom was out and Christopher seemed unwilling to think about where Tom might be and not interested in Kathy’s chit chat. Later that same day Kathy had seen Chris in the shopping centre, had smiled in anticipation of their greeting. He’d darted into a shop and they didn’t meet. She had thought then that Chris had not seen her. Typical, just like men. He’s covering for Tom and couldn’t face me.

Kathy wished she had not opened the letter, had not remembered the suppressed memories that had ambushed her stable straightforward existence. I used to like Chris. Opening this damned letter has contaminated everything!

Kathy remembered nights when Tom would be late from work - remembering as if it were a past relationship - how she would be asleep and she would wake when he came to bed, smell alcohol and fresh air on him, feel the brief draught of coldness when he slipped under the duvet. He would cuddle up to her and after a few fidgety adjustments settle into the mould that they were and she would absorb his coldness until they were one evenly warm togetherness.

She remembered, too, those nights when he would lie close, so very close, but not touching. She would lie awake because he was awake, alert as if he was concentrating on not making contact, as if - in case- she might want something, as if touching might awaken desire for affection or sex. It was all so clear now.

I wonder what she is like. Dark haired I suppose. Like me. I wonder if he ever asks her to… oh, god! A series of brief vivid images of Tom doing their special intimate things with another - with HER - made Kathy physically ill as if she had been kicked in the stomach. Does he do things with her… not with me… what has he told her… DAMN HER!

Holding the single pastel coloured sheet, she looked around the room, at the familiar friendly things which now felt unfriendly, even hostile, that had absorbed the sounds and thoughts of the room into their screaming muteness; the carefully chosen furniture they’d shopped for, ethnic carvings, bits of tack and tat, her mother’s elegant vases, wedding photos, happy snaps of them on holiday in Mombassa, Algiers, New York, memories glossed over as if never serious. So this is what it’s like - the day your life changes - the day, the moment, it happens? Just an envelope through the letterbox. And the cheery postie whistles on his way.

She could hear her mother’s voice telling her that there are some things it is better not to know.

Darling Tom,

I am writing in the hope that you will read what you wont listen to, what you wont let me say. My anger has gone. I cant be angry with you.

I know that you know that I love you. I cannot believe that you were never serious about our plans - about our life together. Why should I believe that I was a fool to believe you? You’re just dishonest, Tom, my love.

You have broken my life and thrown it aside, but you cant rob me of my memories.

I miss your hugs and security, and can’t live without them.

All my love


Please don’t scrap our buttercuppy car. If we can’t go to New York, then send her.



copyright billhaddowallen