The Letter
by Gloria Watts
The letter remained open in Elaine’s hand. The first sentence, held in her mind, repeated itself again and again. She fought for breath, her quick gasps filling the silent room.
She’d imagined, oh so often, she’d imagined . . . but not like this.
The sun, slanting through the filmy bedroom curtains and across the pale-blue coverlet had stroked Elaine’s face to wake her early. Overnight her pain had eased. It came and went as it pleased. Today, she was grateful she felt only the smallest ache. It would be one of her better days; a walk in the park maybe, among the daffodils - how she loved those beautiful yellow harbingers of spring.
The postman’s noisy whistle partnered the sunlight, and the morning’s post tumbled from the letterbox. Elaine found the letters scattered on the polished wooden floor. Picking them up, she’d carried them into the dining room – she would read them after breakfast. No need to hurry.
She’d enjoyed her toast - the rich dark marmalade and a strong cup of coffee. It was her morning ritual ever since George . . .
Taking the letter-opener, she’d sliced through the envelope. Fear came slowly, crept through her, dived and punched the pit of her stomach. She’d lifted her head and taken a minute to breathe deeply before reading it through once… twice. Now, it lay in her hand as snapshots of times long gone reeled through her head.
Lucas. A nice sounding name, a name a man could live with. How old would he be now? Tears pierced the back of her eyes, blurred their storm-gray surface, squeezed through the dark lashes and flowed down wasted cheeks.
Elaine had been only seventeen. She saw herself, a thin stick of a girl with fiery red hair and freckles patterned on creamy-skinned cheeks. In love for the very first time and rebellious Mum and Dad never understood, they never knew him as she did. She’d never give him up.
They ran – they ran to the east coast, hired a caravan. They walked the long, sandy beach and swam in the warm sea. They mingled with the summer crowds; they were happy.
Elaine never thought to ask Ned where the money came from. All that mattered was their love. They stayed a month. The police came early one morning - the sun was shinning, the sky a clear azure blue. It took just a few minutes, a few questions, and Ned was taken into custody. A robbery, they told her. When Mum and Dad arrived that afternoon, she cried, and they took her home. They didn’t crow – there was no ‘I told you so.’
She never saw Ned again. Her baby was born and adopted later that year.
Life carried on. She met George, a quiet man, a shy man, middle-aged. Stout, with graying hair and close-set eyes, not the man Elaine dreamed of but . . . a decent man.
‘Marry the man or stay as you are – you’ll not be getting another offer. He’s a worker, nothing fancy about George. You could do worse. Second-hand goods, remember that, my girl!’ Sharp words from her mum - she’d given in, married George, learned to hold her tongue, speak when spoken to. Oh, yes . . . a decent man but a hard man, a man without tenderness.
‘You’re clothed, there’s always food on the table, what more do you want, woman?’
She’d never answered, never told him. He wouldn’t have understood her longing for a little tenderness. When he’d died, relief like a roaring river swept through her. Within a year, she’d been diagnosed with cancer.
Her eyes returned to the letter. She’d never spoken of him, the memory of him always pushed deep and hidden safe within her. Secreted for years, it now exploded. Sobs wracked her body, filled the room. Lucas. Alive - the baby she’d given away so long ago.
She remembered the disgust on Mum’s face when she’d told her, how she’d cried out in protest.
‘I loved him.’
‘And, now see where it’s got you. Seventeen, a baby coming, no job, no money.’
‘I must tell Ned. He’ll know what to do.’
‘Oh, yes. He’ll be very helpful stuck in prison. No, Ned doesn’t need to know. You can go to Aunt Edith, she’ll understand.’
Elaine sighed, old memories, what was the use of remembering? Be positive, look forward not backward. She would write, she would answer his letter. No, maybe it was better to leave things as they were. All day she fretted. At dusk, she sat at her small oak desk and wrote a short note and sealed it in an envelope.
* * *
Lucas Winter, alone in his cell, waited, hoped for a reply to his letter. When he finally realised there was to be no reply, he shrugged his shoulders, brushed aside his hopes. Life hadn’t been kind to Lucas, and he didn’t expect it ever would be.
Several months later, Lucas received a letter from an unknown solicitor. He could hardly believe the unexpected news - the death of Elaine Cormwell. With blurred vision, he read on, the ache behind his eyes snaking deeper at the detailed list - the contents of her last will and testament. In December of the same year, released from prison, he visited Elaine’s solicitor, Mr. Robert Trent. Expecting to complete formalities, Lucas was surprised when Mr. Trent handed him a letter. Stony faced, Lucas opened the envelope and withdrew the letter.
With his heels digging into the damp earth beside the grave, Lucas held Elaine’s letter in his hand. The rain pattered its rhythm against the gray headstone, flattened the spray of white lilies, turning the words on the small sympathy cards into a blur. His eyes searched the headstone, read each engraved word. A lump filled his throat.Tears held back pressed hard against his eyes and increased as he mouthed the blurred words –
Wife. . And Mother of Lucas, Dearest Son….
Gloria Watts is a retired Further Education College Lecturer. She lives in the UK , is married with two grown children and four grandchildren. She has been writing flash fiction, short stories and poetry for the past 4 years; many of her stories/poems can be found published on-line.
She writes in a variety of genre, mid-stream, mystery, romance and horror, as well as writing articles for Helium.com. She is an active member on many on-line writing forums including LSS Writing Friend, Muse Prophets, and The Desk Drawer. She also values her membership at the Writer’s Village University . She belongs to two local writing groups in her hometown, the Market Town of Wellingborough. This small town situated in the beautiful county of Northamptonshire , England is named in the Doomsday Book, compiled for William the Conqueror in the year 1086.
Gloria loves to keep busy so when not scribbling she is happy watercolour painting, playing piano, gardening, practising yoga, and of course, she has time for plenty of reading.
Interview
Could you tell us a little about yourself?
I live in the UK and since retiring, it seems I’ve spent most of my free time writing. I enjoy writing short stories, flash and micro fiction and recently I’ve written a number of poems. I’m now attempting a novel, a slow process but a challenge.
Do you write in a particular genre? If so what genre is it?
Most of my stories are mainstream, but I’ve also written a few mystery/suspense stories, one presently published in Mysterical-e, many flash fiction horror tales, and have tried my hand at ‘romance’.
How do you develop your plots and characters? Do you use any set formula?
I’m no planner and find it difficult to produce a well thought out plot. I usually start with a character in mind and when I start writing, I let the story take over; it seems to work for me.
What do you do to unwind and relax?
I love summer time, a deckchair and a good read. Gardening is very relaxing. I also like to spend time playing piano and practising yoga.
What inspires you? Who inspires you?
I enjoy reading Historical novels and wish I had the patience to do the research needed to produce one of my own. My favourite authors are Philipa Gregory, Anya Seaton, Doris Lessing and Sarah Dunnet.
Are you working on any projects right now?
Yes I’m attempting a novel, process is slow but I’m enjoying the challenge.
What is most frustrating about writing? Most rewarding?
I can’t think of anything I find frustrating, but I definitely feel great satisfaction when a story or poem of mine is published.
If I were sitting down to write my very first story, what would your advice be?
Maybe look for a good local writing group to offer help and advice, and/or join an on-line writing forum. It’s always good to share your work, take on board fellow writer’s critiques while remembering it’s your story – write what you feel.
What advice would you give to writers just starting out?
If you want to write, sit down and write every day. Learn the craft of writing and if possible join a local writing group. Don’t give up.
