I was caught by an idea in a novel by :
“There had to be a place, some obscure address, for letters that remained unwelcome and unread.”
‘10 Minutes 38 Seconds in This Strange World’
The atmosphere did not seem entirely in keeping with the task at hand. But this was her first day and she was unsure what was required of her.
She had been welcomed, enthusiastically, by a young woman who seemed determined to move on quickly, back to the other young women who made up the majority of the Readers. The girl’s gaze flicked here and there, anywhere but in direct contact with her new colleague’s eyes. A generational thing, perhaps. The older woman tried to find a spark of something, anything, that would give them a reference point, a connection, but if there had been a smile in the younger woman’s eyes, it wasn’t possible to be sure. Who knows, maybe it was the flickering of candlelight making her see things she wanted to imagine into being.
She felt a moment of detachment. There was a melancholy about the place that gave the old woman pause, a brief hint of hesitation. It felt to her that there was a sadness in this room and those other girls were compensating, exaggerating their levity, over-emphasising the collective exuberance of their youth.
She was left with a sense that perhaps she had made the wrong choice but there was no escaping the feeling that this task was important. She believed, wholeheartedly, in the underlying philosophy of the Foundation. She was convinced, deep in her soul, that every letter should find a reader, even if that reader was not the one intended by the sender. And that was the whole point. The Readers closed the circle. Their eyes on the letters gave the words meaning, purpose. The moments they spent reading the correspondence replaced the emptiness of rejection. She was honoured to volunteer her time.
She had taken her seat at the long bench table, eyes flicking nervously left and right, looking to mimic the other readers. Where to start? Three wooden pigeon holes stared back at her, marked Personal, Business and Neither. ‘Neither’ confused her but the lure of ‘Personal’ saw her left hand snake out, ringless fingers closing on a red envelope. On closer inspection she saw that it was addressed to Miss Harriet Smythe and clearly marked ‘For Your Eyes Only’. A letter opener sat on top of the pigeon holes, its walnut handle standing out from the light oak shades of the box, its short stainless blade belying the lofty claims of Sheffield Steel. She buffed it on the cotton tabard she had been issued hoping to replace the discolouration with shine. The word ‘tarnished’ flew into her thoughts until the girl to her left piped up … “don’t worry about that, love, just open the letter and read”.
She blushed crimson, shyness lighting itself like a beacon; the woman felt certain all eyes were on her. The blade bit into the luxurious stationery, the thickness of the paper resisting her curiosity for a brief moment. There was a satisfying hiss as the folded page slid from the boldly-coloured envelope, a single crisp cream sheet. No opening address, just a bold and confident hand getting straight to the point. As her eyes took in the writer’s intentions, she was glad of the symptoms of the embarrassment she had felt moments earlier. The explicit tone was set from the very first sentence, the intimacy unsettling. A thought occurred to her that she was glad it was but a single page. She wondered too why it had not made it to the intended recipient. Had previous notes of a similarly salacious nature been intercepted? Did a guardian steam open a young lady’s correspondence, heading off such vivid language and thus protecting her virtue?
“Just read and file it”. The Senior Reader moved silently between the rows of desks, reading a few words here and there. “There’s no time to linger, even with the …”, a slight cough, “… ‘interesting’ ones”. The young girls either side of her giggled, in no doubt about the sort of salaciousness routinely encased in red envelopes.
The weeks drifted by and there was never a day when the pigeon holes weren’t full. She read everything, letters to lovers, estranged family members, old neighbours, and employers. Every one previously unopened; unwanted though? She learned to mask her emotions.
The cast of young girls changed daily but she never missed a shift. She overheard them plotting their ‘sick days’, friends covering, securing favours in return. There was a constant hum of gossip but she remained on the outside. They were pleasant enough, bubbly greetings, chirpy calls of ‘have a lovely evening’ at the end of the day. But she was never invited in. Sometimes, often, there was a feeling - no, more like a certain knowledge - that she was an apparition, invisible to the casual, indifferent glance. And indifference stings. It makes you question everything … is it me? Being punished for the crime of ageing … a late life sentence for being old. She would need sixty-seven offences taken into consideration; sixty-seven glorious summers creased into the laughter lines she would love to add to with these young girls. But perhaps the creases terrify them; so much easier to give them a wide berth than contemplate their own futures. But she once charged towards her Fridays as they do, thoughts caught in the moment, making the memories that sustained her now.
And the girls are taken on precisely because they are disengaged. Of course, they are in the team because it is highly unlikely they will have written letters or they will be reunited with dated correspondence intended for them. The safeguards don’t connect with their busy little brains; they don’t register the dates and the way Readers are separated from their era. They read the letters as a function, not - like her - as a way to feel alive, to share a fleeting connection with the humans who penned them, and who should have been reading them. The young girls thought the lives they are leading invented love, lust, friendships, acceptance and rejection. If only they knew. If only they would ask. She read the letters and memories were cracked open, emotions spilled, all because a life has been lived. Her life. Well-lived?
It caught her unawares, the day everything changed.
“Morning, love, you’re early”. She smiled, quietly noting to herself that she was, in fact, a little later than usual.
“Have you had your hair done? Suits you”. Before she could stop it the thought in her found its voice, “Just the same, but thank you for saying”.
“Fancy a cuppa”, a genuine-sounding offer from the girl who couldn’t wait to move on way back on the older woman’s first day. “Thank you, maybe later”.
And it was the same young woman who sidled up to her a few moments after she deftly opened the brown envelope marked ‘On Her Majesty’s Service’, addressed to a Mr Gareth Pugh, Esq. She had time to note that Mr Pugh had ‘two weeks to claim the compensation then the Department’s very generous offer would be permanently withdrawn’ before the girl interrupted, an unsubtle cough taking the place of polite enquiry.
“Charli can’t make it in til later … a bit of a wild one last night. We’re dividing up her allocation. Thought you might want to help out, love. Thanks”. A statement, not a request, delivered at a velocity and volume entirely in keeping with a strange nervousness.
She smiled, and nodded. “Of course, anything to help out a colleague”.
“Oh, cool. I mean, thanks, like … umm …”.
“Brenda … not the easiest name to remember after all these weeks. Shall I pass them back to you, Sally, once they’re read, so Charli can file them later?”.
“Oh, I didn’t think of that, Brenda. Great idea”.
The morning drifted by as she worked quickly and efficiently through her own allocation, a morning filled with the language of business and officialdom. It was easy to see why recipients might ignore such correspondence.
She sipped the herbal tea she was brought by the timid girl who worked opposite her, smiling as she looked up to see the girl staring anxiously, as if for approval. By mid-afternoon her allocation was filed and, after a quick set of stretches - “hey, love, I wish I could bend like that” - she settled in, ready to work through the pile of ‘personal’ correspondence from Charli’s pile. A note from an angry father stopping an errant son’s allowance; a vicar writing to a parishioner noting that ‘they hadn’t seen her in church since the unfortunate incident at the village fête’; a tear-stained note from a mother to her son suggesting his ‘friendship with Xavier’ was surely ‘just a phase’; an old school friend asking when he might receive a cheque to repay the loan … it has been some years now.
She settled into a rhythm. Open, read, file … open, read, file. The pile shrank until there were just three letters remaining. She smiled to herself, imagining an early finish and a chapter or two of her Elif Shafak novel, a book club favourite being re-read for the second, no, third time.
The envelope was nondescript, neither fine nor cheap. Basildon Bond, she thought, a brand from her youth. Letters to penpals, thank you notes to maiden aunts in the days before she became one herself, love notes brimful of passion suppressed in case her mother - or worse, father - ever caught wind of the contents. Familiar, with hints of nostalgia tinged with regret. Thoughts of ‘what might have been’ flashed in front of her, and questions of ‘why didn’t it happen?’. She had long ago reconciled herself to the cards dealt to her, a lifetime of caring for ageing, unwell parents. Cruelly expressed commitments and obligations. “Well, who’d want you anyway, Bren”. She sipped her tea too quickly, the slurp giving her an excuse to grab a tissue. “You alright, love”, a voice piped up. “Fine, thanks”.
Pale blue paper. Black pen. Biro. Cheap, blotchy. A blur of words, a familiar style. Wait, what, too familiar. No, wait … this isn’t …
Dearest Brenda
They’d messed with the safeguards, shuffled the pack, changed the dynamic.
Your words of love the other evening mean everything to me. I go to sleep dreaming of our life together, I wake up smiling because I know you love me as I love you.
Tears welling …
I know your father doesn’t approve of me but we will win him round. I will work hard to provide for us and my own parents’ support will give us a strong foundation.
She realised - at the same moment the timid girl opposite noticed - that she had stopped breathing, an aching hollow in her chest urging her to stop reading. But the words were a key, releasing memories locked deep inside. Those anxious waits for the postman. The offhand, dismissive comments from her parents, and a sense of pre-prepared, agreed ‘lines’. ‘He’s no good for you’ and ‘he’s not like us’. She’d wanted to scream … but that’s why I love him. He is not like me, he is not like us. His differences complete me, together we are one.
Meet me at the railway station next Tuesday, 9pm. I cannot wait to turn our dreams into our life together, my darling Bren.
Always yours,
“Anton”, his name escaping her lips, symbol of a life not lived, another life these silly young girls have no idea about.
She folded the letter carefully, sliding it into the pale blue envelope before slipping it into her old-fashioned handbag. Tears rolling down her cheeks, she gathered her memories about her, lost in an imagined life that might have been.
Heartbreaking! Fascinating concept, and thanks for sharing what sparked the idea for you - I love learning those sorts of behind-the-scenes craft tidbits. I also really enjoyed the way you played with tension between the main character and the young coworkers -- the perspective shifts and insecurities on both ends, and the ways those insecurities and worldviews manifest to others.
A really clever run with Elif's inspirational idea. Love the twist at the end – something you do so very well. An idea that could also work well with a much longer exploration, and more. Beautifully done, B. x