2 June 1958
My dear friend,
I realize it's been barely five days since I sent my last letter, and even if you have received it you no doubt have not had time to respond. Perhaps it seems a bit hasty, my writing to you again so soon, but the truth is I do not do it for my own sake. Timothy has a question, you see. He discovered the enclosed butterfly - poor fellow - on our windowsill, and is terribly curious to discover what befell the little creature. I must confess it is not my area of expertise, and so Timothy insisted we send it to you for diagnosis, as - and I quote here - "Sister Bernadette is a nurse and she's very clever. She might know what happened." I could hardly tell him no, though I don't expect you to have become an entomologist in the week since you've left us.
Which brings me to another point - Timothy misses you dearly, Sister. I have told him only that you have gone to Chichester, to the home of your Order, and whether you will return to Poplar remains to be seen. I - somewhat selfishly, perhaps - have not told him the reason for your going. He is only a boy, and unused to the complications we adults bring to the world. And, to be quite honest, I don't know what to tell him. Shall I tell him that I have quite fallen in love with you? How shall I explain that love is not always convenient, or welcome? He was weaned on stories, as are most children born into happy homes, and so he believes that love is always good, always reciprocated, always blessed. I do not wish to disabuse him of these notions just yet.
I do not wish to disabuse myself of them, either, for now I live in hope, that I might soon receive a letter from you, and in the receiving of it learn what it is you want for your future. And I hope, most fervently, that I can be the one to give it to you.
I remain yours, faithfully,
Patrick
10 June 1958
Dear Sister Bernadette,
Today is Tuesday, and I have just come from the antenatal clinic. Everyone is carrying on here in much the same fashion as always, but I must confess I find myself made anxious by a conversation I had today. Nurse Franklin - that dear, bubbly girl - told me that Sister Julienne had received a letter from you. Though I cannot say how, she seems to know the reason for your leaving - there was an understanding look in her eye, and a compassionate tone to her words I have not often seen from her. I think she knew that I would want to hear news of you, and wished to break it to me gently.
She tells me that your letter reports that you are doing well and that the Mother House has been a place of restoration for you. For that I am grateful; when last I saw your face you were weeping, and I would give anything to see you smile again. I am glad that you have taken the time to reassure those that love you best that you are well, but I must confess I am somewhat - dismayed? Concerned? Worried? Anxious, perhaps - that I have not yet heard from you. I have told you plainly what it is I want, and I fear that perhaps in the telling I have offended or upset you. It grieves me to think that any action of my own could have caused you hurt; please, tell me what it is you need of me, so that I can give it to you. Even if our continued separation is your desire, even if you wish to never see me again, please tell me, so that I can respect your wishes. I'll not write to you again, if that is what you desire.
But I don't know what is is you desire, you see, and therein lies my problem. If it's convincing you need, let me convince you. If it is silence you need, let me be still, and patient. But which? And how? I do not know which course to take, and I am lost, without you.
I remain yours, faithfully,
Patrick
17 June 1958
Dear Sister Bernadette,
Another Tuesday, another clinic, made strangely mournful by your absence. It has been more than three weeks now, since you left us, and while it seems that the Nonnatuns are kept informed of your activities in seclusion I have not yet heard from you, and in your silence I fear I may have found my answer. And yet, I live in hope; someone told me, once, that absence of evidence is not evidence of absence. I think you would hear those words, and use them to prod on my lack of faith in God, perhaps; can I prove he does not exist, just because I did not see him when I most needed him? I can almost hear you saying those words; perhaps hope has driven me mad.
In any case, I am choosing to believe that the absence of evidence proving your regard for me does not mean that such regard does not exist. I cannot believe, for one moment, that if you felt nothing at all for me you would have allowed us to draw as close as we did. You are a strong woman, and clever, and I believe - I have to believe - that if you did not wish to receive my affections you would have rebuffed me long ago.
I find myself thinking, now, of that warm day in May, that day when you and I went to aid that poor girl who was beyond our help. I remember your grief, as you realized that mother and baby were both lost; and lost not to illness or the unforeseen complications of pregnancy, but to the violence inflicted upon her by the man who should have loved her most. I have often wondered what you thought of that, that this man who had been gifted things you yourself could never have - love, marriage, a child - could treat them so viciously, with such disdain. I have often wondered, in these last few weeks, what midwifery has taught you of marriage, whether it has put you off the proposition altogether. I can certainly understand if it has; a midwife sees just as much bad as good.
I fear I've wandered off topic. The point is this, that I find myself thinking of that afternoon, and the way you trembled in your grief. I find myself thinking of that moment in my office, and how all I wanted was to hold you, to comfort you, to tell you most earnestly that love should not ever be accompanied by a fist. I find myself thinking what a joy it was, what a gift, that you allowed me to hold you; I felt, in that moment, as if the pieces of my heart had slotted into place, as if the broken parts of me were mended, however briefly, by the warmth and goodness of you. I find myself wondering if it was what you wanted, or if you wished I hadn't done it; it remains a beautiful memory, and I would hate to think that something which brought me such comfort caused you pain.
I asked you, that day, not to hide from me. If the Order dictates that you must give up your individuality and your desires, if you must hide yourself from them, so be it. But please, please do not hide yourself from me. Let me be a refuge for you, let me bring you comfort. Let us work through this problem together. You do not have to be alone, if you do not wish it. I promise you, my dearest one, that if you wish to come home to me I shall give to you everything that I have, all of myself. If you need a hand to hold, let it be mine. If you need ears to hear you, let them be mine. If you need a shoulder to bear your burdens, let it be mine. If you need lips to kiss you, please, let them be mine.
I remain yours, faithfully,
Patrick
21 June 1958
Dear Sister Bernadette,
I am beginning to wonder whether these letters are reaching you at all, but I must admit with Nurse Franklin's assistance - and a bit of obfuscation as to my true purpose on my part, for which I beg forgiveness - I was able to confirm that I have the correct address.
It's been nearly a month, now, that you've been gone. Sister Julienne told me it might take as long as this, for you to reach your decision. I am the first to admit that I do not have the patience of a saint, as do you and your sisters, and these weeks have been a lesson in patience for me. I have said that I will wait, that I will do as you bid me, and in the absence of marching orders from you I can do no more than this, write to you and wait.
It was my birthday, today. Fifty-one years old; it is a gloomy sort of milestone. The day was far more festive, last year. I recall your smiling face, the gifts you gave me, the way you and your sisters welcomed me into your home, and I must tell you, I am so grateful to you for your kindness. I had worried, when I first came to Poplar, that perhaps I'd made the wrong choice. I've left the days of my youth behind me, and Timothy had enjoyed a rather more comfortable upbringing. But Poplar called to me; it is the place of my birth, and so I suppose in a way it shall always be my home. That's how it goes, isn't it? We cannot ever truly separate ourselves from our beginnings. Where did you get your start in life? What is the name of the village where you grew up? Your parents' names? The name they gave you? I have so many questions to ask you, and I long with all of myself to know the answer.
I wonder if perhaps you doubt the sincerity of my affections. I am an old man in comparison to you, who are still young and lovely. I had a wife, once, and have a child to raise. I know what this must look like, my chasing after you. And though I wished to look into your eyes when I said these words I fear I shall not ever have the chance, and so I must take the opportunity to speak them to you now in the only way that I can.
Yes, I have known love before. Real love, true love, I'll not deny it. I love her still, and will love her always. But the human heart is limitless in its capacity for love. Loving once does not mean we cannot love again. And it is love I feel for you. I know it, because I have felt it before; oh, each love, each person, is different, but the force of it, the vibrancy of it, the undeniability of it remains the same. I want to know your dreams, your thoughts, want to laugh with you, speak with you, dance with you, always. My mind is besieged by thoughts of you, my heart overcome with a desire to bring you joy, to see you shine. There is so much I don't know about you but I want to learn it all, and to share myself with you, until we are as familiar to one another as our own hands. I feel incomplete, without you here. Timothy and I can manage quite well on our own, but we do not wish to be alone, you see - we wish to be with you.
And yes, I shall say it now as I've come to suspect I've nothing left to lose, I want to hold you. I want to touch you. You remain as distant and sacred to me as the saints you venerate, a goddess, an icon not to be sullied by the hands of man, but I want to reach out and touch you. I want to kiss you, to run my fingers through your hair, to see you as no one else has ever done, or ever will. I want you to be safe and at home in my arms, and in my bed. I want you beside me in the darkness. I want to come to know every inch of you, to see you tremble with pleasure, to hear your voice cry out for me - I want you, in every way a man can want a woman. I want you, and without you I am bereft, aching and lost.
It is my birthday today, and I have spent it with the Nonnatuns - for they have welcomed me, and that is down to you, I think - but all I want, all I need, is you.
Please, my darling, please. Write to me. Give me some word, some sign, some news. Anything.
I remain yours, faithfully,
Patrick