Published 'Xizquil' 1994
Dear Suzanne, Why do you keep ringing me? I’ve got nothing more to say to you, Love, Antony x == I know that last night we spoke again at length on the phone, trying to work it all out. But, really, when you get down to it, what is there left between us — merely a touching of strangers on an underground train. So, Suzanne, I’ve come down to Brackensea in an attempt to forget you. The ocean ( as my mother always said) is a fine companion at such times — taking stock, while watching waves make and break. Loneliness is listening to the surf at dead of night from a one-bit lodging. It is strange how I can never express myself properly. Yet words could not even hope to connect two skulls socket to socket. My tongue’s in knots when you take me unawares with your phone calls — I always end up saying things I never intended and then blaming the words themselves for having clandestine meanings.. == As you haven’t rung since my last letter, I thought you must be dwelling on my fanciful talk of waves and words and so forth. So I have decided to scribble out a few more thoughts, in case you’re still under the impression that there’ll ever be anything between us again. Those loud friends of yours, those who always seemed to be drunk - they never took to me, did they? They were never able to get me to play their games. Fucking stupid (excuse my French!) games, if you ask me. Colin lying on the floor pretending to be a dead cat. Hannah —that was her name, wasn’t it? — allowing anybody to undo her bra straps (she’d got nothing to speak of up top, anyway). And Bruce, he tried to make me jump from the box at an Albert Hall live broadcast - said it would make those wireless listeners sit up. Whatever next! I know they’d have grown out of it in time, but not before someone breaking his or her neck in the process. I suppose I loved you too much, Suzanne, to wait around and perhaps see you hurt. We only kissed once, but I’ll remember it forever. == Not hearing anything, I assume you must have gone off with your family to Florence – something which was once planned (in my hearing). Upon reflection, it was rather cruel of you all to sit around making arrangements, without even realising that I might wish I’d been invited to accompany you. You readily accepted my advice on the travel details. Has it occurred to you that we only knew each other in the winter? You must look nice in summery clothes. Brackensea will soon be closing down for the winter. Even holidaymakers with their silly kiss-me-quick hats have tears in their eyes — from the cold wind perhaps — or from a grief which only holidaymakers can feel at the end of the season. The amusement arcades have shutter-men making preparations. The Ferris Wheel almost seems to roll along the promenade in search of its hibernation. And I must go now, too. == I tried to ring your flat, but the phone didn’t answer. You must still be away with the family. The moment I realised you were going to a foreign country, I thanked heaven that you’d be away from some of those godawful friends of yours. See? — my first thoughts were for your well-being, not mine. Your father said he’d always wanted to go to Florence. Hasta la vista! (excuse my Italian). Your father was certainly young for his age. Did I tell you that I can actunlly see the beach from my window? It was cluttered with wind-breaks and crouching children for most of the summer. Now, it’s almost deserted. I can just make out the dark shapes of a couple throwing pebbles into the sea —trying to make them skim, no doubt. They’re now walking along by the sea’ edge – it’s the blurring of the late afternoon which makes them seem joined at the waist rather than hand in hand. I wonder if their romance will last. I can’t stop giggling. I just imagined that couple out there were two of your so-called friends. That’s why they’re now lying down, pretending to be beached whales, presumably! I didn’t know until recently that all your friends were really what people call ‘yuppies’. I’ve read about them in some old colour supplements in the lounge. That they go around saying ‘Yah!’ and ‘Crikey!’, wearing pin-stripe shirts with studs through the collars, and sloane-ranger costumes. Seems to fit them, eh? But, now, a dying race - quite out of fashion. I wonder if Colin, Hannah, Bruce et al have sobered down, too. Anyone reading this letter in a few years’ time will probably never have heard of the word ‘yuppy’, let alone its meaning. I still can’t stop giggling — better than crying, I suppose. == I expect you’ll get my letters all in one go, when you return from abroad. If I’d known, I’d’ve numbered all the envelopes. The lodgings are suddenly full of people — come here for Christmas. (Incidentally, while I think about it, when you’ve been abroad for a long time, don’t you think your own street is either narrower or wider, like a foreign country itself, don’t you think? (excuse my English!). Anyway, that couple on the beach I told you about last time — they wave at me sometimes when they see me with nose plastered to the window. I can just see a flicker of black at their shoulders. During the night, I expect they’re no longer there. The sea sounds more brittle in the winter — no longer the hissing strains of the spume running over the shingle,but more like glass shattering — each wave a suddenly crazed car windscreen. All this is to give you a sense of ambience, Suzanne. And I sit in the corner of the dining room at my own separate table. The other guests stare at me. Surely, I should be staring at them, since they are the newcomers, after all. Most of them are downright obnoxious, as silly as your so-called friends used to be. In fact, one of them reminds me somewhat of Hannah (if that was her name). I begin to wonder whether it may indeed be Hannah. She often smiles my way (underneath the stare), when I look up from the soup. After Christmas, I wonder whether I should leave Brackensea and return to London. I expect Florence is wonderful at this time. A renaissance of a place. == It’s too cold even for that couple to be on the beach. Snow instead of sand. Chunks of frozen lumber being landed from the sluggish sea (excuse my sudden ambition to be a poet!). The whole place looks like a fucking dump. The Christmas roisterers left the lodging yesterday. The one who looked like your friend Hannah had a most unfortunate accident. During a party game, she had an eye pierced with a knitting needle. The ambulance was here relatively quick, despite the weather. We’re currently awaiting news as to her condition. The girl’s friends told us they would try to return in a few weekends’ time - to visit her in the local hospital. later. — You won’t believe it, Suzanne, but I’ve seen that couple again. Not walking on the beach hand-in-hand, this time, but actually cavorting in the sea! I don’t judge the incident, merely describe it, and leave it at that. (Excuse my sang-froid). The lodgings are quieter now. The landlady and I often have a hand of whist. Mrs Tidy is her name, if I haven’t mentioned it before. == Dear Suzanne, Nice of you to ring, after all this time. Yes, I can confirm that I’m still in the land of the living. It is peculiar, however, that you never receved my letters since the first one - especially as you never went away as planned. Little matters it, though - I never had anything more to say to you really. I’m writing this in the dining-room at my separate table. No guests – except for another man who grunts under his real words. I can’t say I like the cut of his jib. No, I don’t think I’ll be able to accept your kind offer to accompany you and your family to Florence this spring. It would never work out, you with your sparkling personality and me with mine. Sorry to hear about Hannah. And about Colin and Bruce developing pneumonia. I’m nothing, if not in love with you. Antony. x
