"Message in a Sealed Letter" by Adam Carlton

 

From ChatGPT

She sits in an old armchair, sits in the quiet of her living room in this modest house. The letter rests on the table next to its ripped-open envelope. The man from the pit delivered it - embarrassed, stern-faced - then departed with subdued and unheard words; glad to escape without further ado.

Her thoughts are jagged; do not cohere. She is consumed by memories - those densely-woven paths which led to that first meeting.

She had been a clever girl, top of her class in the village school, though that was not to say much: the pit village was small and remote. She’d passed the entrance exam for the grammar - the teacher had recommended it; her ambitious parents had urged her on - and was daily bussed there, back and forth, while her primary classmates trudged to the local comp.

Not just academically gifted, she was personable and good at games too. Some had thought her a candidate for head girl but that fate was undermined by her rebellious streak. That’s what they called it but not how she saw it. Her visceral instincts for justice and compassion formed her values; she would not compromise with the mealy-mouthed hypocrisy she saw everywhere. And as for boys - if you’re going to change the world, you don’t find much of interest in macho youths, strong of arm and empty of brain, noisily strutting the local streets.

At university she studied literature and history, had many affairs - none of which lasted - and became a committed feminist. And then she returned home. Her village was slowly gentrifying but that wasn’t it. Her father was ill but that was not the root cause either. She could not have explained it to herself, but back she came, to work in the library and organise a Women's Committee: in her opinion there was plenty for it to do.

She had been chairing a meeting one evening in the library: half a dozen women around a thin-topped table, the focus of aisles of books. They had discussed Equal Pay, were moving on to A Woman’s Right To Choose when there was a diffident tapping at the door. Discussion stopped as she went to investigate; eyes turned as she escorted back the slim young man who asked to address the meeting.

He was an official from the Mineworkers’ Union with a favour to ask. Perhaps her committee might be interested in linking up with Women Against Pit Closures - the Government was making threats again - and the local colliery was not very profitable: too hard to work, too unstable.

When, at his request, she took a drink with him in the local pub later that night, she found that his union had awarded him a scholarship to Ruskin College, Oxford. He had only recently graduated, moving here to work in the regional branch.

 “What did you study?” she challenged, expecting labour legislation, trade union law.

 “Victorian poetry,” he said gently, “Tennyson, Hardy, Arnold.”

With so much to unite them, their romance was whirlwind. Soon married, they found adjustment taxing: silences were icy, resentments strong, their reconciliations passionate. Yet in her heart of hearts she failed to grasp the essence of attachment. Campaigns she understood; they touched her very heart - but people? They came with vexing needs which never truly tracked her own. 

It has been days now since the accident; days in which the rescue gear had failed or hit on unforgiving snags. It was known that conditions were worsening and that the men could not hold out forever. The airshaft, all 2,000 constricted feet of it, was too narrow for rescue.

And now there was the letter.

---

Two thousand feet of fractured rock above

I do not know if rescue comes our way

One of my futures lies before your deep blue eyes

This message saying all that I can say.

Where do our thoughts go in these empty hours?

We eke out battery light, what’s there to see?

This black damp rock, encircling close, has no appeal

Nor does the water, slowly rising like the sea.

We are advised to huddle, blankets close 

Preserve the air, and so I choose to recollect

Ransack my memories for the happiest times

And from my life the brightest jewels select.

Do you recall that night in our first flat?

That couch which faced the flickering fire’s display?

Intense desire which overtook us both?

Commitment we had not yet dared to say.

And then there was that bright lit afternoon

In our new house when you'd returned from play

Your netball skirt was very short as you lay on the bed

Your nervous, happy smile sufficed to consummate the day.

It's colder now but that's just me, I guess

It's been a while since news and food and drink

We understand their complications: sure, it’s hard

And here, our bodies cold and wet, our spirits sink.

Do you recall that freezing northern shore?

That moonlit field where we made camp at end of day?

The wind was gusting, sputtering rain; the tent was like a kite!

We fought it down, secured our place to stay. 

And inside, safe, the bed inflated, all goods stowed

We rested, canvas billowing around

You looked at me, the shadows flicked across your face. 

We moved as one, dark energies unbound

There was no talk, no words, no dialogue

With urgent haste our clothes flew to the floor

You left your tee-shirt on despite it all

The cold which climbs our limbs and wants it all.

I wanted to outlive you, hold your hand

As you passed on, beyond the end of days 

But fate has chosen me to be the selfish one

Leaving you abandoned at the parting of our ways.

I'm thinking of you now as I write this

Your eyes so quick to glare and melt and shine

Flirtatious fingers curled around my own

Your eager lips caressing gently mine.

But time will bleach your memories, they’ll recede

The world needs your response - and people too.

Embrace it all, as we agreed, and put me to one side

And sitting here, in peace, I’ll see things through.

---

She finished rereading it. What was she feeling?

Not grief.

Her world had not turned upside down. She did not feel abandoned, or lonely in desolation, or any of those things.

She felt instead astonished; astonished that he had felt this way. This is what he thought their relationship had been? This had been the extent of his misapprehension, this shallow sentimentality?

Shock that at the last he had been impelled to write such shoddy, superficial rhymes.

She felt disappointed in him; shame that she had overestimated his worth. Not that she cared what people thought, of course. But had they believed she deserved better?

And now, steps on the path. The door opens, the visitor enters the room. Dry-eyed, they exchange glances, her mother still puffing from her hasty arrival, staring expectantly at her daughter: her mother who had privately mocked the too-earnest and so-serious young man; her mother who had been proven so right. Well, never again.

What does she really feel? 

She feels free.