‘After You Get What You Want You Don’t Want It’ – Marilyn Monroe
I have received a letter from Kat (written yesterday) in one of her dad’s ‘exclusive BBC envelopes’:
Hello, my darlin’! I’ve just got home and I’ve posted your acceptance off. I’m so stupid. There was a bus to Wisbech at 8.15am, but I was waiting at the wrong bus stop, so I ran up to the other one, but the bus had gone, so I had to wait till 10.30am to get the next one. I was soooo bored and got the 12pm bus to Drearham.
I miss you so very much and feel so much love for you I cannot explain it. Last night was lovely when we lay on that path. Everything was peaceful and beautiful and you seemed to cheer up and I felt really important to you and close. Oh Ritcherd, I love you so very much, you’ll never know. The week always drags by so slowly and it feels like the weekend will never come. My Mum noticed how happy I am now and what you mean to me! We’ll have to sleep outside, under the stars on a warm night, soon. Just you, me, and a kitchen knife.
I’m so happy we’re together properly at last. In your last letter to me you wrote:
“Soon, we will have to be alone together, away from anyone we know … JUST THE TWO OF US … REALLY TOGETHER … more than now … I PRAY IT WILL BE SOON…”
And so, my love, we are together, and every moment I am with you I love you more.
YOU ARE MY LIFE.
I’ll ring you on Wednesday nite.
If you need me any time this week, just say.
I’ll speak to you soon.
I love you now as forever;
you are my ABSOLUTE AND FINAL LOVE.
I love you, Ritcherd,
All my deepest love and
affection now and evermore
(yours and yours only xxx)
PS. Johnny Pardwee sends his bethst wisheths! X’
‘Dream Within A Dream’ – Propaganda
AN AUTUMN JOURNEY
IT HAD ONCE BEEN A HOME.
THE CORNERSTONE OF LORD’S LANE WAS ONCE THE SITE OF A RATHER SPLENDID LITTLE HOUSE. THIS HAD BEEN PERHAPS OVER TWENTY YEARS AGO, IN BETTER DAYS WHEN THE TOWN OF WISBECH AND THE PARISH OF WISBECH ST. MARY HAD PROSPERED. IN ITS TIME, THE HOUSE HAD QUITE OBVIOUSLY BEEN THE HOME TO SOME LUCKY FAMILY – BUT HAD THEIR LUCK RUN OUT?
DURING ITS FINAL, PERHAPS PIVOTAL DAYS, THE SAD BUILDING HAD STOOD DERELICT, GUTTED FROM HEAD TO FOOT, WINDOWLESS, BATTERED AND BROKEN. THE REASON WHY HAS NEVER PRESENTED ITSELF TO ME, AND I DOUBT THAT IT REALLY MATTERS. THE HOUSE ACTS MERELY AS A SYMBOL IN THIS STORY, A VENUE FOR ILLICIT MEETINGS OF A ROMEO AND A JULIET, NOTHING MORE INTEGRAL THAN THAT.
BUT BEFORE I REVEAL THE RATHER MEDIOCRE DETAILS OF THE HOUSE’S ROLE IN THIS, MY RETROSPECTIVE, I FEEL COMPELLED TO EXPRESS THE SINGLE VITAL FACT THAT REMINS: THAT IT HAD ONCE BEEN A HOME WAS STILL APPARENT IN THE AUTUMN OF 1985. YET, HERE IN 1988, IT HAS GONE. IT NO LONGER EXISTS.
UPON ITS GRAVE, THE EARTH IS TILLED AND HOME TO CLUMPS OF WEEDS. NEARBY, SIT THE FOUNDATIONS FOR A NEW HOME. BUT TO ONE SILENT, SOLITARY MAN, THIS OFFERS NO HOPE, NO CONSOLATION.
HIS HEART IS LOSING GRIP ON HIS BODY, AND THE HOUSE’S DESTRUCTION HAS MERELY SERVED TO UPSET HIM IN A HUGE WAY. THE DERELICT HOME THAT HAD ONCE STOOD ON THIS CORNER HAD BEEN A MONUMENT TO THE LOVE HE KNEW IN HIS YOUNGER YEARS, FOR HE HAD SPENT MANY MAGICAL HOURS THERE WITH HIS ONLY REAL LOVE.
THE LOVE HE HAD BEEN DENIED. QUITE INADVERTENTLY, SHE HAD TAKEN HIS SOUL. SHE WAS BEATRICE MIRANDA WASP, AND HE WAS RITCHERD WINTERFOOD, AND THE DERELICT HOUSE HAD BEEN THEIR HAVEN. BUT NOW IT IS GONE. LIKE THEIR LOVE, CAST ON THE FOUR WINDS OF CHANGE; EVER TO RETURN?
‘P-Machinery (Polish)’ – Propaganda
It’s going to be three years since we met. And I feel so drained by it all. She will never understand the love I have felt and still feel. How could she? It’s just ‘the way the cookie crumbles’, isn’t it, folks?
Today, there’s absolutely no way of Miranda and I communicating; that’s basically because she doesn’t want to. It’s been a long time, and as far as I’m aware, she believes my being in touch with her would only cause a strain on her relationship with Mark Dalton.
So just how magical was our relationship?
I guess, at the time, it was ‘just a relationship’ – and quite a strained one. It came along and I treated it like it was supposed to happen, like there would be an abundance of Mirandas in my life, for all of time. I was unfaithful – but hey, I was 15, what did I know? (What have I actually learnt since?!) But I came to realise that what I wanted in a woman – beauty, fun, intelligence, imagination, breeding, and a face I could die for – was there in front of me. Once I saw the truth, the relationship found the right footing – and then, when I got lost in spiralling emotional uncertainties that I couldn’t control, it slipped and fell. And there was even a final opportunity to get it on its feet again, some long-awaited redevelopment, but I let that opportunity slip through my fingers like fine sand and it never happened.
So why is she still etched into my heart?
I suppose only I can tell, and only by looking retrospectively at the life and emotions keyed to my love of BMW will I find the real answers…
THIS WAS MY STORY.
Ritcherd J Winterfood, NORTH BRINK, AUG 16TH 1988.
(BMW: AUG ’85 – FEB ’86)
bmw BMW bmw
‘The River of No Return’ – Marilyn Monroe
REBIRTH might be a beautiful thing, the chance to live life over again. With the power of HINDSIGHT, this would be even better, just so you could rectify all those mistakes. I suppose you’d have to have a map of your life to navigate by, though. Something that explains all the actual things you did do.
I think if I had the opportunity, I would – if this was at all possible, which it clearly isn’t – take the original course of my life to the letter, right until about 20th August 1985, when I would begin to readjust certain moments of truth – moments of Miranda. I would strive to make things much better for the two of us. I would give her the life and love of a queen.
False hopes, daydreams and impossibilities have always been something of a problem with me.
I am alone on North Brink, a stone’s throw from the house of the Wasps, wondering whether or not psychic powers exist and work.
Surely, they do not.
I have been sitting here, willing Miranda to leave the house and come to me here, by this wall.
Someone just left the house and got into a car. Perhaps it was two people?
Who were they?
I cannot tell. ALL I KNOW IS THAT NEITHER OF THEM CAME OVER AND SPOKE TO ME.
DREAMS DIE HARD. DREAMS DIE HARD.
Oh god, I feel guilty now.
The poor, unsuspecting girl’s got me, pining over her. NOT WHAT SHE NEEDS.
What is my purpose – TO GO OUT WITH HER AGAIN?
NO! I just desire one hour alone with her, in some suitable café (esp. BACCHALLY’S), just to put my mind and heart to rest over so many unsaid things. Then we can both go off and live our lives.
IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK? DARE I ASK?!
Time for some more hopefully Telepathic Contact, then home to bed.
I sense I am of no use here. I am foolish.
I love Miranda, though. What can one say?
I have written a new song/poem called ‘The River’.
Cold air and sandalwood smell
Distant noise of man and machine
Darkness falling and strange silhouettes
All these at once are here
These grey shores of memory
Are drowning in the river of loss
The loss of a time now washed away
All things at once were here
This tide of loss grows greater still
To silence the memories below
All bound by the algae of dead moments
All things at once drown here
My love was rough, a jagged storm
You calmed beneath your sun
That dying ghost is my reflection now
All things at once die here
My love is dead, while the river runs
While the urge to swim here grows
To breach the tide of cold remorse
But all things at once fail here
I pray for a time of shallow tide
Where love can start again
I will return in spring and hope
New things will yet grow here
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Next time: ‘Dear Miranda…’