‘I just dreamed of you last night,’ said Maggie. ‘Of us. Not muchhappened in the dream. But it was so vivid. It was before London. We were in the house in Broomhill, talking, as if no time at all had passed. But we were happy. Just so happy. It’s so silly. I wonder why that, last night, was the—’
‘Oh, Maggie. I dream of us too.’
‘I don’t ever remember dreams, but this morning I did. I’m sorry. I think I should go now. It’s a little too much. I just needed to—’
‘You’ve only just—’ Wilbur stopped himself. He wanted her to stay on the line. It was torture to hear her for just a few moments, and then for it to be over. But he knew she didn’t owe him anything at all. Life was as it was. No one could change what had happened. And so much had happened. That was simply what it was always meant to be.
Still, he couldn’t help himself. ‘I would like to speak to you again. Would that be all right?’
‘Yes,’ she said, in her frail and aged voice. ‘I would like that.’
A Fragment
He put the phone down to find he was out of breath. As if having run a marathon. But he had the sudden urge to find something. He wanted her letter. Proof of their time as a couple, or rather, the first record of their separation.
He hadn’t looked at it in years. It was under the eaves of the attic, behind a door. He went there and crouched down on his hands and knees to crawl deeper into the cupboard, passing a chaos of old bills and documents and Trade magazines. Motes of dust floated around his head like a miniature galaxy.
‘What are you doing, Wilbur?’ he muttered to himself. ‘Silly old fool.’
Then he found it. Or at least one of its pages. The last page. He tried unsuccessfully to find the others, ignoring the fact he felt increasingly unwell. He was panting now and his head spun when he stood up. He gathered himself and went downstairs with the yellowed page in his hands.
The Last Page of Maggie’s Letter
… You are forever somewhere else, even when you are right next to me.
It is important for me not to succumb to fantasy. I doubt I will even travel the world. I imagine I will be consumed with looking after my dad’s increasing needs back in Sheffield.
Anyway, this is not easy.
I know you think of me as strong, but I am not.
I feel as fragile as a leaf in the wind right now.
It seems like I have been holding my breath through this whole letter.
I feel if I exhale I will cry and never stop crying.
I know you went through a lot when you were younger, as did I. But we can’t be trapped by that for ever. I can’t fix you. I can’t even fix myself.
This is heartbreaking. But sometimes you have to let your heart break in order to stay alive.
I want you to understand that.
I want you to understand too that our love is always still there. Can you remember my silly theory of art? That people grow old around art but the art stays fresh? Well, I think in a way that is true for memory. I don’t know how to explain it but I like to believe we are still, somehow, at the theatre when you walked over to me. Or on our wedding day. Or on our honeymoon. Or looking up at the stars one drunken evening. Or happy, pasting up wallpaper at Broomhill.
I love you, Wilbur.
But I am also leaving you.
I don’t know where the past hides, but I will meet you there.
Maggie
x
Miles Away
As he read the words, Wilbur was overwhelmed by a pain in his neck, running down his arm, coupled with a pressure in his chest. By the time he got to the end of the letter the pain was so intense it engulfed everything else, making his surroundings seem miles away. He staggered outside to get the help of Josh, the gardener, occupied on the tractor-mower. Wilbur reached the lawn before collapsing, while the letter lay back in the house on the kitchen tiles, never to be read again.
