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‘I have a feeling it’s not the same … Oh,’ Henry stopped and pulled out a wodge of paper from his back pocket, ‘… I found these letters earlier when I was doing a bit of a clear out of her room. She told me to give them to you. You know how funny she is about throwing things out.’
Henry passed Helen a small bundle of letters: they were cream coloured, tiny envelopes with swirly fountain pen writing on them that reminded Helen of being at school. Most had been ripped open by eager fingers unable to wait to read their contents.
Helen gently pulled open one of the letters. In it was a tiny card with a black and white drawing of a barn on the front. Inside was a poem:
In this breast, the thought of thee waits, hidden yet bright;
But it must never, never come into sight;
I must stop short of thee the whole day long.
But when sleep comes to close each difficult day,
Then night gives pause to the long watch I keep,
And all of my restraint fallsl apart.
Many happy returns for your birthday.
With love,
Vernon
‘OMG, these are love letters!’
‘Yep I guess you could call them that. Strong stuff.’ Henry’s hand scratched the back of his neck nervously.
‘They’re beautiful.’ This is the love I want, Helen thought. Not a, ‘Hey how’s your weekend going?’ message on a dating app, I want the real deal. The kind that travels endless distances, or lingers through time, to find you.
‘I know, I think about Nan, you know, carrying them around for years. Nearly a century actually.’ Henry scrutinised the Edward VIII stamps on the letters.
‘She must have really loved him.’
‘I think he loved her too, read this one …’ Henry pulled out a letter from the bottom of the stack.
Gladys, my dearest,
I know we cannot meet, but please forgive me for writing to you again. If I had the strength to turn my back on us, I wouldn’t be human.
Don’t you realise what you did to me that wonderful night in Kynance Cove …
‘Geez, I didn’t think they were allowed to do that stuff in those days …’
‘Henry! It’s romantic!’
Was I weak to kiss you then?
‘See, it’s justkissing,’ Helen cleared her throat.
I can’t be the same man again that I was before you kissed me. Since then, I have been yours and will remain so.
It is best that we never meet again perhaps, but is it weak to want to be with you again? To joke with you, to walk with you, and to kiss you?
I hope our moon can rise again.
I am linked to you now, and that link can never be comfortably cut, even though we can never set eyes on one another again.
But I believe we shall! I love you too much and have so much admiration for your courage, frankness and kindness. One day, on Faith’s will, we will meet again.
