A/N: Seriously – I am carrying on with 'Keeping Chickens' and will be updating soon, it's just that other ideas keep bugging me.
Okey poke. This is set any time after 5.5 that you imagine. Adam is still alive, and has arranged for Ruth and Harry to correspond. The first letter is hers.
Chapter One – Missing you
For my dear friend,
It's funny. I've been desperate to talk toyou for so long. Ever since the butterflies went away, and the terrifying unknown road ahead became the path of everyday life. So, when it was suggested by our mutual friend that I write to you, I jumped on the idea. You can't blush in a letter, or stammer. You can cross things out, add things in – conditions even I can flourish under.
Yet even so, now that I sit here, pen in hand, I can't think of a thing to say. I can't tell you about the people that I have met or the places that I have seen. I can't even tell you where I am. What else is one supposed to include in such a letter?
Start me off, my dear friend. You were always good at that.
Be sure to destroy this.
- - -
For my long lost love,
I know that it is difficult to speak in metaphors and euphemisms and hints – you have always been frank. But despite the less than desirable circumstances of our arrangement, your letter was very gratefully received. It was short and awkward, but it was almost like hearing your voice again, and despite the terrible day that I'd had, I stood in my kitchen, and I smiled. And you're wrong; I knew every place that you stuttered, every word that brought a flush to your cheek and every alteration that you agonised over; and I loved it.
I also know exactly how you should begin. I don't care that you can't tell me specifics. My days are filled with specifics. I just want to feel as though I'm with you. I miss your company so very much.
Sometimes, when I am working late, I forget for a split second and find myself wondering why you haven't barged in balancing a cup of coffee, and a stack of forms for me to sign. Other times I am all too painfully aware that there is no dark head bent over your desk. That I am all alone.
So, tell me what you ate for breakfast this morning. Tell me what book you're reading at the moment. Tell me if you've been ill recently. Tell me how you feel when you wake up, what you think when you go to bed.
Let me see your life.
All my love,
x.
- - -
For my dear friend,
Without telling you where I am, I can tell you that I got in late this evening, and nearly trod on your letter. However, with a little quick footwork, I managed to avoid doing so, and instead took it into the kitchen. I didn't open it immediately.
Without telling you my new name, I can tell you that I first went to the cupboard, pulled out a bottle of scotch, and poured myself a glass. There was no dog to nuzzle at my ankles, but I now felt close enough to you to look at what you had written.
Without telling you whether it's hot outside or cold, I can tell you that I cried when I read it. I cried at its beauty and its sincerity. Then I set it alight and watched the paper curl to ash, knowing that the words would be with me always.
This morning I had dry toast for breakfast – I was in a rush. I am rereading Jane Eyre. I had 'flu last month and I spent almost a full week on the sofa, doing absolutely nothing.
When I wake up, I miss you. When I switch the lights off and lie alone in bed, I miss you more.
Count how many times you thump your desk in frustration this week – I want to see your life again.
- - -
For my long lost love,
You wrote that letter straight from your heart to the paper, didn't you? You hadn't forced one word.
I was sorry to hear you had been ill. I hope there was some well-meaning young man who telephoned you day and night, and took your temperature regularly. I hope someone is looking after you. I am at least grateful that you spent your time doing something other than working – it seems you are at last learning to indulge yourself. About bloody time is all I can say.
Oh, and you will be glad to hear that I am reading this in the bath with a glass of red wine – carry on indulging yourself.
In answer to your question, I thumped my desk twelve times this week. I also shouted without complete justification seven times, and threw one very expensive desk ornament at the wall.
How many pieces of paper will you reduce to shreds this week, I wonder?
X
- - -
For my dear friend,
There is a well-meaning young man, you will be glad to hear. He is a sweet thing, and he kept a very watchful eye on me when I was ill. However, he's not quite right for me, I don't think. No doubt you're glad to hear that too…
I cannot believe that it has slipped my mind for so long, but I haven't asked how my cats are doing. Has the dog taken to them?
I did endeavour to keep a tally of the bits of paper that I absentmindedly destroyed this week, but then I shredded the tally on the bus, so I gave up. I am sorry, but then I suppose that that little story is enough to satisfy your curiosity anyway.
Thank you for the glass of wine, by the way. I find myself somewhat rushed off my feet of late, and it was very welcome. Can I request that you read this one in bed with a nice cup of tea? I promise that it will be your turn next.
I watched a documentary about Paris yesterday, and thought of you. How many innocent young women have you terrified on the bus lately?
- - -
For my long lost love,
As requested, I am reading this letter in bed, cup of sweet, milky tea in hand. I even have a copy of Jane Eyre beside me. She reminds me of you.
About your cats, the moment I got them home, they made the place their own. I get the feeling you may have spoilt them a little. As for the dog, it doesn't really have much of a choice.
It's funny that you should mention the Paris documentary; I recently found myself being angrily berated for apparently lacking a spirit of Atlanticism. The woman doing said berating was less than impressed when I grinned insolently back at her. I was thinking of you. (It was a strictly professional conversation, by the way – no well-meaning young women for me. And you were right, I was glad.)
Regarding my public transport exploits, unfortunately the bus company withdrew my right to travel with them after the last occasion, so you can proudly claim to be the one and only woman this weirdo has harassed on the bus.
I miss you, ------. I wish I could write your name there. I wish I could say it. Whisper it in your ear, alternated with kisses. I wish I could say to you what you told me must remain unsaid. I wish…
But wishing gets us nowhere. Regrets do not change the past. So instead I ask you, on Thursday, at eleven p.m. GMT, listen to Lillibullero. Don't ask why – you'd only laugh. Just make sure you're listening when I am. If I can't be with you, ------, I'm damn well going to achieve the next best thing.
My love entirely, forever and always,
Your friend. X
- - -
My long lost love,
It has been three weeks, and you haven't written.
I'm sorry if I upset you with my last letter. I look back now and realise that I must have sounded selfish - this must be much harder for you than for me. I want you to know that appreciate the sacrifice you made for me more than you can imagine.
Please write; I'm worrying about you.
Yours always. X
- - -
My long lost love,
Our mutual friend says that he has heard nothing from you. We are both worried about you. Please contact one of us.
X
- - -
Message sender: StarlightElectricals
Dear Miss Rosetyne,
We have not received your payment. Please contact us within twenty-four hours to discuss this, or we will be forced to take necessary action.
End of chapter one.