Clare Lewis

Airmail

    Polly stood separated from the busy high street by her stillness. She waited, arms tightly crossed, her face scrunched in a deep frown, as though she were trying to solve a difficult puzzle.  She was slight and, with her freckles and straight copper hair hanging loose to her waist, looked much younger than she was, a mixture of child and woman. The skin on her bare arms was pricked with goose bumps. Despite the pinching wind she wore no coat over her short sleeved t-shirt. In her eagerness to get away, she had already dressed for the holiday sunshine.
    For weeks the news had been full of hurricanes: images of unpredictable weather, uprooting lives, shredding property and making rivers run along suburban streets. There had even been a cyclone here in Birmingham. It had sped through the terraces, peeling up roof tiles and hanging snatched possessions like washing in the trees and bushes. Now, all that remained was a restless wind that jostled up the high street agitating leaves and sweet wrappers. Determined not to be slowed down, pedestrians raised newspapers against the debris as it hovered and dipped over the pavement.
    “What’s the bloody hold-up,” a driver shouted, his words and the angry blast from his car horn guzzled up by the boisterous wind. A broken-down car sat in the middle of all the persistent activity. A line of vehicles trailed behind, like the carriages of a defunct train, all seething at the obstacle that blocked their need to move forward.
    Polly was concentrating hard on the doorway to a small café ahead of her. Her husband, Simon, had been in there for almost a quarter of an hour. She was standing by the stationary car, the door slung wide open, keys in the ignition. The hazard light pulsed a warning as cars edged slowly past on the narrow high street. Faces with superior expressions peered at her from car windows: they possessed the convenience of functioning transport and, unlike her, they were going somewhere.   

    She was suppressing a desire to walk away; to leave the car doors unlocked with the luggage on the back seat, an invitation for any passer-by to help themselves. Her husband Simon would assume her action was the result of some foolish impulse. He had started to caution her against what he described as impetuous behaviour. She had a tendency to do careless things, like leaving pans to boil over on the stove or her susceptibility to leave her debit card with the cashier almost every time she bought something. Through the house she seemed to leave a messy trail of discarded sweaters and half-read books balancing in triangles like miniature pyramids with now creased spines.
    Simon had started to look at her with a raised eyebrow and tight lips. She knew the state of the house embarrassed him but she could never seem to find the time to tidy up. There was always a new project nagging to be started. “You must try not to be so flighty,” he would say, placing his large hands over hers, pinning them to her lap as though he thought he could control her with this constraining gesture. She always jerked her hands sharply free and they would sleep that night with their backs turned, an unyielding space on the mattress between their rigid bodies. Every time he used this expression she imagined small wings forming on her shoulder blades, gauzy like organza fabric but growing ever stronger.
    She had watched the hurricanes on the television news. The cycle of images were repeated with each bulletin. The same people perched on the same roof top, waving their arms like a flock of birds in flight, as the news helicopter circled in the air above them. Then came the calm; on a flooded street, a muted ripple from the spinning wheel of a bicycle still chained to a lamp post cascaded outwards over the water’s surface.
    Polly looked at her watch, irritated by this incessant waiting. Around her, pedestrians pressed onwards through the wind: they would get on with their lives as planned and not be distracted by other places towards which the wind seemed intent on propelling them as it tugged at their coat flaps. She wondered if perhaps she had set her watch fast. Ten minutes could make all the difference in a situation like this. She peered around the open car door at the dashboard clock, but it too seemed determined to keep pushing forward. The tension, like a stretched elastic band, that she had held in her body released, and she gave way to her predicament. Behind her, a freshly pasted billboard poster showed an aeroplane luminous as it zoomed across a foreign skyline. You couldn’t help as you passed but to stare at its promise of fulfilment and imagine yourself there.
    People swept past. A woman, her hands like clothes pegs, gripped the front of her skirt as it billowed up. “Keep up. Move quicker,” said a mother dragging her son by the hand as he dragged his sister by hers, like a paper chain family stretched out flat. Nobody had time to waste standing still. Even the teenage boy leaning against the bus shelter seemed to slouch with bristling intent as he checked his mobile, marking the minutes as they ticked by.
    Polly watched a young man with uncombed hair and baggy-kneed jeans; a stripy wool scarf was wrapped tightly around his neck, covering his chin. He had been making a fast-paced progression against the wind but had stopped suddenly in front of her like an animal sensing danger ahead.
He was holding a small cream envelope, the address of which he traced with his finger repeatedly as if half hoping to erase it. The determined energy with which he had been walking towards the post box was now entirely channelled towards this letter. He seemed rooted in a moment of uncertainty; an obstacle to the other people who made their way along the pavement.
    Polly could see that the envelope had not yet been sealed. Caught in his indecision the man slid the letter out, unfolding it quickly. He scanned the page, checking the validity of each word he had written so there would be no confusion at its destination. Polly saw a look of confidence pass over the young man’s face; he had been persuaded.  He carefully refolded the page and returned it to the envelope, sealing the flap. Renewed, he took three more steps towards the glossy red post box then, again distracted by doubt, he faltered and thrust the letter into his back pocket.
    Instantly he regained his earlier energy, this time the effect of self annoyance, and fell in pace with the crowd, moving away from the post box. As his steps punched the pavement the letter worked its way to the top of his pocket and fell onto the floor. A tan boot heel pinned the letter momentarily to the pavement before it rose on the breeze, skimmed over the tarmac and came to rest, fluttering and bothersome like a dog eager for attention, against Polly’s ankle.
    The letter’s flapping seemed to suggest an urgent desire to be read. She snatched it from the floor and held it tightly, determined not to give it up so quickly to the grasping wind. For a split second she was elsewhere – another time and place – as memory seized and held her. A resurrection of her lost love of letters, before credit card bills and payment demands had destroyed the pleasure that an unopened envelope used to hold for her. They had thudded gently onto the hall carpet in the morning full of news from the outside world. Holding the letter she felt that pure hope of childhood again, the feeling that anything was possible.
    Holiday postcards with vibrant stamps were treasures that she had kept in a shoe box under her bed. Purple-finned fish from South Africa, smudged and golden cheetahs from Nigeria, Gandhi looking gentle but also quite serious in his spectacles from Calcutta. Her favourite was a black and white line drawing from Egypt of three pyramids against a desert backdrop. She had looked at that stamp longer than she had spent reading the postcards with their descriptions of mysterious customs which were simply part of the everyday life in these far-away places.
    The address on the letter, neatly handwritten in black ink, was framed by three stamps and a sticker stating that the letter was to travel ‘par avion’. It was destined for Marie Reynaud in Paris. A yearning for this distant city overcame her. Strange, as when she had visited Paris it had rained a perpetual, grey drizzle that soaked through her clothes. The hotel had been cheap and draughty with a mattress so hard she would have been more comfortable sleeping on the brown linoleum flooring. Twice a day the landing filled with people queuing for the shared bathroom in their dressing gowns, slippers and hair nets. And of course, there was Simon, with a face to match their wet weekend, refusing everywhere to tip the waiters; but somehow not even cold reality could dent the sheen the city held for her. As they marched around the guidebook’s recommended sights she had said to herself over and over: This is Paris. This is Paris. This is not my usual path.
    She raised the letter to alert the owner to its whereabouts but the young man had merged with the crowd. She considered dropping it back onto the street but by some strange default the letter was now her responsibility. The gleam of the red post box a few steps away seemed the logical solution. Letters were meant to be posted, but perhaps this letter wasn’t intended to be read. There had been such a strained hesitation in the young man as he approached the post box. Polly ignored the neatly positioned stamps full of their purpose to carry the letter safely to the address; and ran her finger over the sealed flap. She wondered if reading it would be so bad – just to check.
    Simon made a cautious progression towards the car, unwilling to spill a drop of tea from either polystyrene cup after having spent twenty minutes queuing up for them. There was no sign of his usual neat parting as his fine hair blew uncontrollably about his head. His eyes were half closed and his mouth was pinched against the biting wind as though he was observing the world with a look of displeasure.  
    “No sign of them then?” he said.
    Polly tucked the letter protectively into the pocket of her jeans and shook her head.
    “Bloody AA.”
    He held out one of the cups.

    “One tea, no sugar.”
    With this action the hot liquid sloshed over the brim and formed a dark spot like a malignant mole on her thigh.
    “Shit. It’s burning me.”
    He looked hurt as he rested the cups on the car bonnet and rubbed at the spill with a paper napkin. She felt her body tense in response. His touch felt intrusive.
    “If it stains we can claim back the cost from the holiday policy.”
    He worked for an insurance company; a stop gap he’d said, when they’d met. He was going to save up and see something of the world but he found he had a flair for it, a knack of foreseeing the worst possible scenario in every situation and affixing it a cost.
    An old couple sat down in the bus shelter, both buttoned up to the brim in thick wool coats. They looked ahead at the slow progression of traffic; her feet crossed and contained, his apart and sprawling. He looked surprised as his body lurched from the effort of a loud sneeze. Silently she unzipped her handbag and produced a neatly-folded handkerchief, the motion synchronized exactly with the moment he reached out his hand to her.
    Polly took the polystyrene cup from the car bonnet. The cup’s heat against her cold fingers burned. She was suddenly aware of her bare arms in the gnawing wind, a contrast to the envelope padding out the pocket of her jeans. It seemed as though the letter’s unread words were seeping into her tissue like the spreading stain of an ink spill; dispersing a warmth. Finders-keepers she silently decided.
    It was in a nearby café where they had first noticed small details about each other; that he stirred two sugars vigorously into his tea, that she slowly turned her teacup around on its saucer when daydreaming. After a week of long lunches, they strayed outside the familiar surroundings of the café and into bars, restaurants and then each other’s flats. In the beginning, while he slept, he would grasp her long hair, winding it around his fingers, an act of possession from deep in the unconsciousness of sleep. She had mistaken the control in his touch for security; he, that her disorder could be regulated – each was an unintentional fake.
    They were silent, Polly observing the people passing, Simon counting his change from buying the teas in his gloved hand.
    “A quid short. Bloody typical!”
    The coins clinked as he dropped them into his trouser pocket.
    “I’ve a good mind to go back but they’ll only deny it.”
    “And if it had been too much?” Polly asked.
    She couldn’t help provoking him, in sabotaging the remnants of their relationship. He looked at her blankly.
    “If they had given you too much change. Would you have gone back then?”
    The raised eyebrow and tight lips were back.
    “Of course not. If they can’t employ staff who can count they deserve to lose money.”
    She took a sip of the hot tea but had to spit it back into the cup; it was sickly sweet with sugar.
    Simon walked around the car to close the door that Polly had left open.
    “These young joy-riding types are on the look out for an open car door.” He eyed the teenager lounging by the bus stop warily.
    Polly felt her imaginary wings twitching with a desire to be used.
    “The car can’t be stolen. It doesn’t work.”
    “They know all the tricks, hot wiring, that sort of thing.”
    If the solution to catching their plane was so easy why not approach someone?

    Simon checked his watch. “Bugger! It’s check-in time already.”
He folded his arms tightly over his chest like a sulking child. He liked to be there first for check-in, exuding triumph as he chose the pick of the seats in the boarding lounge, never quite realising that waiting in the lounge or in the queue equated to much the same thing really.
    “That’s it! We’re going to miss the plane.”
    Polly deflated like a punctured holiday lilo. She slipped her hand into her pocket and rested it over the waiting letter. She had gripped onto the possibility of this holiday desperately as though in fresh surroundings she would be renewed, re-created to her choosing. She poured the sweet tea into the gutter and watched it dilute, disappearing into the dregs of rain water that trickled towards the drain.
     “What’s wrong with it?”
    His voice was quiet, a distant sound against the wind.
    “Sugar.”
    She noticed how tired his face looked.
     “Shit. I did tell them no sugar.”
    He reached for the now empty cup she was holding, allowing the contact of their hands in the exchange to linger.
    “You’re freezing.”
    His hand moved along her bare arm.
    “Why don’t you put your coat on?”
    Polly felt his need to take care of her and she wanted to retract all the venom she had spat out at him. 
    “I found a letter,” she blurted out: to share it was her peace offering. “I was just deciding whether to read it. You know, just a sneaky peak before I post it.”

    Simon looked bemused.
    “You can’t read somebody else’s letter. It might be private.”
    She pulled the letter gently from the cocoon of her pocket and held it in her wide open hand.
    “Just imagine what it might contain; a glimpse at a whole other life completely different to your own.”
    Her face had lost its normally closed expression; it was unfamiliar, the look of a person who had discovered something long searched for. For a moment he was captivated by her, as though he was seeing her for the first time; the same disorderly beauty that had made him stop as he had passed the café window and wonder who she was? Where was she from? It was a recollection soon lost and she again became strange to him.
    “If I don’t know them then why should I care what they’re writing about or doing with their life.”
    He took the letter from her. It creased it in his rough grip as he scrutinised the address. She could see his mind jumping ahead – cause and effect. There could be a consequence to keeping this letter. There were laws against interfering with the mail.
    “Just post it or, better still, put it back where you found it.”
He passed it back to her as though it were as inconsequential as the empty polystyrene cup. She studied him, a stranger she was inexplicably married to.
    “I’ll get you another tea – no sugar.”
    He turned away from her, striding against the oncoming wind then ducked back into the doorway of the café to re-join the queue.
    The wind pushed at Polly’s back, a persuasive nudge making her body feel irresistibly light. She thought of the vibration of a butterfly’s wings causing a tsunami on the other side of the world. She was unable to stand still any longer. She could feel the tiny wings she had been cultivating for so many months tickling her shoulder blades. She could see their luminosity as they unfurled, glimmering like a colourful shoal of reef fish, their collective stirring breaking the waters surface under a foreign sun.
Polly leaned into the car and dragged out her suitcase and flight bag. She flung the car door shut behind her even though there was little point: the car was going nowhere for either Simon or the joy riders he spent so many hours worrying about. No need to wait and tell him. She would soon let him know where she was; she would send him a letter – by air mail.
    She wheeled her suitcase towards the nearby taxi rank, pausing only to slip the letter into the post box as she passed.

*

    It is October. There are no more stories of hurricanes in the newspapers. The weather has been appeased and warms us with sustained moments of winter sun. Whatever the wind was looking for it has found or given up on.
    A man stands motionless on the edge of the pavement, his face obscured by a thick, striped scarf. He waits, shoulders hunched and defensive, but his eyes search the high street with expectancy. He checks his watch, smoothes down his hair then almost immediately he ruffles it back into disorder with his fingertips. Relief flickers in his face. A young woman walks towards him. In her hand she grips a letter, crumpled from frequent re-reading. He unwinds his scarf, suddenly warm in the unexpected sunshine.

* * * * *

Biography

Previously to undertaking her MA course at Goldsmiths, Clare worked extensively in theatres across London and the South West in the role of Community Theatre Director and Education Manager. Her work provided many opportunities to write plays and dialogue and she is now keen to explore prose fiction also.

clarelewis128@yahoo.co.uk