to Sutty’s pen.
When I think of you in dreary old London in December my heart breaks anew. The sun shines so brightly here every day that we’re forced to shield our eyes. We are like moles who are obliged to live above ground when we have been bred by Mother Nature (as Mr. Darwin said) to exist in a gloomy netherworld called England. We are squinty-eyed and pathetic creatures, our skin turning red wherever it is exposed and our stomachs protesting at the unfamiliar food.
Ah, but I mislead you, my dear. I make this place sound like some kind of hell, when it is only that because you are not here. In fact, it’s a glorious place, full of trees and flowers most exotic, and the sun, the sun, is magnificent and warm. And when it rains, it’s usually a lovely, warm, soft rain, not like those sharp pellets of filthy water that fall from England’s skies.
As for the writing, I have been eking out a word here and there. Nothing like Sutty’s proliferation of prose, of course. But then, who else but Sutty can turn the most prosaic encounter into a story of brilliant proportions? He is a true genius while I am but a poor scribbler, aspiring to greatness but always sliding ever backwards because my feet are planted, not so firmly, in the mud. I cannot seem to land on solid ground again like Sutty, because … because … if you were here, you could tell me why.
My Annabelle, my Sweet Annabelle, I long to see you and to hold you in my arms. Come to me, my darling. Sutty wants you to come, too, if only so he can enjoy his beer without hearing me weep.
I love you. I love you.
Your adoring
Francis
Annabelle finished reading Francis’s letter and gazed around the dreary sitting room of her father’s house. She had grown up in these small, stuffy rooms and it was the only home she had known. Since her mother’s death last year, she had been housekeeper and companion to her father, a man once hale and hearty, now suddenly old and broken. “I’ll be myself soon enough,” he kept telling her. “Don’t you worry about me.” But how could she leave him and go halfway around the world? And how would Francis support her, with his wanting to be a writer and all? It was all right for Sutty; he had a small income from his grandfather. And people knew him and were buying his books. But Francis hadn’t yet made a name for himself. Who would pay good money for a book written by Francis Adolphus Stone when they could buy Edward Sutcliffe Moresby?
Annabelle had begun to worry about such things since her mother’s death. She was not yet twenty-four years old but already she felt the burden of life falling on her shoulders like the heavy old woolen cloak her mother had worn when she worked as a nursing sister during the war. Sometimes Annabelle thought she would suffocate just thinking about all the bad things that could happen to a person. She hadn’t wanted Francis to go to Singapore with Sutty. The ship would surely sink on the way; he would get a fever and would be buried at sea; or, if he did get to Singapore, there was malaria to worry about and no end to the diseases people were struck down with. She had heard the stories about cemeteries filled with the graves of babies and young women and men who had succumbed to the heat and the brackish water and the contaminated food.
Francis had laughed at her fears. Although Sutty, she noticed, had not. He was a more experienced traveller. He had seen things he didn’t like to talk about, but they were in his stories. She was sure he hadn’t made them up. She believed that they were basically true, they were so believable. Francis said it was because Sutty was such a good writer. Of course she thought they were true, he told her. You were supposed to believe them. Look at Shakespeare. He wrote about tragedy because people wanted a good cry, and he wrote comedy because people also wanted to laugh. It’s all about bums in seats and cash in the till. People wouldn’t pay for it if they didn’t believe it.
But Francis was an optimist, always seeing the best, and she was a pessimist, although she preferred to think of herself as a realist. The world was not a happy place and life wasn’t all happy endings. Even if you worked hard and did all the right things, you could still get run over by one of those beastly automobiles or lorries that seemed to be multiplying like rabbits. Or you could fall off of a bicycle and break your neck. Just last week she’d read about a woman who’d stepped into a lift where she worked and she’d fallen twelve floors to her death because the door had accidentally opened when there was no lift, just empty space. There were lots of words for these events — accidents, bad luck, providence, destiny — but to Annabelle there was only one word: life. Life was dangerous and if you ignored that fact, or chose to believe otherwise, you did so at your peril.
Oh, but she missed Francis and his foolish optimism and his dreams of being a writer. She loved him more than anything because he almost made her believe that life could be good. That she would be safe with him. That because they loved each other, everything would work out, somehow. She wanted to be with him so badly, but in Singapore? It wasn’t the last place on earth she wanted to be, but it was nearly the last. China was probably worse, or India, or maybe Russia. Thank God Francis hadn’t gone to any of those countries. Or Africa. Singapore didn’t seem so bad when you compared it to some of those places. At least there were English people there, but there were English people in India and nothing could induce her to go to India. Oh, what to do? she thought.
She knew Francis had no intention of coming back to England, at least not for a long time, and not unless something miraculous happened, like a rich uncle (if only he had one) dying and leaving him a fortune. He had counted up all his money to the last penny and told her, “It’s either five months in England or five years in Singapore, including the passage. And what can I write in five months? Think, Annabelle, think how much I could do in five years. Five whole years, if I’m careful.” If I’m careful, he’d said. Not if we’re careful. So did the five years include a wife or not?
And what about her father? How could she leave him alone to fend for himself? She’d be worried the whole time that he wasn’t eating or that he was drinking too much or smoking too many cigarettes. It was an impossible choice.
Maybe what she should do was go down to the P&O office and find out what it would cost for a one-way passage and when the next available ship would be sailing. That way she’d be able to tell Francis that it wasn’t possible for her to come. That it was too expensive or there wasn’t another ship leaving for four months. Then maybe he’d decide to come back and get a job and they could get married, and maybe even have a family. They could live with her father and they wouldn’t have to pay rent.
London
December 20, 1923
Dearest Francis,
I miss you so terribly and wish we could be together. I went to the P&O this week and they told me a one-way fare to Singapore would be fifty pounds, which we simply cannot afford. And the next ship will not be until the beginning of February.
Father is not doing as well as I would like. Of course, he always says he’s fine, but I know it’s because he doesn’t want to be a bother. But since Mother died, he’s aged ten years. I want to weep whenever I look at him. He shuffles about like an old man and falls asleep in his chair in the evening listening to the wireless. It breaks my heart, Francis. He’s not even fifty-five years old.
The weather here is nasty, as usual. A miserable chill that pierces to the bone. I envy you your sunshine and heat. The price of beef has gone up again, and soon we’ll be reduced to boiling the bones for dinner. As for butter and cream, we’ve had to cut in half what we usually take.
Francis, I hope you are eating properly and well, and not drinking anything but the boiled water. Always make sure they boil it well, because I’ve heard that they just take water from the tap and fill the bottles with it. Go into the kitchen, if you must, to be sure. Better to be safe than sorry. And always wear
