Our last competition of 2018 tasked entrants to write a letter to someone who influenced you, whether for good or bad, intentionally or unwittingly, true or fiction. Historical Fiction author Clare Harvey kindly judged the pieces and awarded the top three places to Anne Howkins (3rd for the beautifully evocative “Dear Grandad“), Nick Rowe (2nd for the dark and twisted “Jimmy Jameson“) and Linda Cooper (1st for her entertaining letter to Scarlett O’Hara, entitled “Gone with the Wine”). Here they all are for you to read – enjoy!
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Dear Grandad
I went back to Sutton-on-Sea today. I’d seen a post on Facebook about a plan to demolish the colonnade and beach huts, and that a group of residents are fighting the plans. I have so many happy memories of holidays there with you and the rest of the family, so I thought I’d go and have a look around the place and sign the petition.
As I was driving along those half-remembered roads, past the windmill at Alford that meant I was almost there, I thought about the time I spent with you and Nana, and how the things we shared have been the foundation of some of the strands that run through my life. It’s only now, when I am the age you were when I used to stay at Sutton with you both, that I can properly appreciate the influence you had. You always made me feel special, because to you I was – your first grandchild. Today I visited some of those places we went to, bowling along the lanes in your cherished red Jaguar XK150 sports car.
I walked along the promenade from the paddling pool to the house you built, that had enough bedrooms to house all eight of your grandchildren. When we all there, we drove you and Nana to distraction with our feral ways. We were usually despatched to the beach to play cricket, or paddle, or build dens in the dunes. We learnt independence in those halcyon days, and only came back when we were hungry or if someone was hurt. I am glad that we had that freedom, that you trusted us enough not to get into major trouble. The times I was there on my own, away from my sisters were totally different – I became your shadow and we went everywhere together.
The sea was quiet today. It hasn’t got any bluer, still that flat gun-metal that turns to boiling mercury when the weather systems track in. I don’t listen to the shipping forecast any more, except by accident, but, for you, it was an evening ritual. I loved those October half-term storms, when the waves pounded the sea defences and you held my hand tight as we went to get the papers every morning. The sky and sea melded into one tempestuous element, and words were wind-ripped from our mouths. Even now I prefer the cool British seas to be violent and noisy, leaving the beaches littered with detritus when the tides have subsided. There’s nothing like struggling along bent double into a head wind, with sand whipping your face and the tide roaring its power. You taught me the pleasure of walking with head bowed, searching for treasures along the high tide line. Today there was no seaweed mounded on the sand, concealing driftwood, fish bones and sea glass, but it’s still not time for the equinoctial storms to shake the water into action. I gathered shells, which are now sitting in a jar on a windowsill. Just ordinary shells, but they hold a myriad of memories and the whiff of a briny cold North Sea.
The stretches of sand were punctuated by elderly men walking dogs. I chatted to Fred and stroked his elegant black Labrador, telling him of my grandfather Albert, who walked that beach every day with his beloved Night fifty years ago. Dad told me that he and mum went to Sutton for the day about twenty years ago, and they passed your double strolling flat-capped and walking-sticked along the promenade. So maybe that’s where your spirit lives – walking to fetch the morning papers in a brisk Wash breeze.
Then I went to Anderby Creek, one of my favourite outings with you, and somewhere I’d never been to without you. It was always a highlight of any stay in Sutton, but I knew better than to pester you to take me. Another lesson – ‘asks doesn’t always get’ – I had to be patient, keeping my excitement wrapped tight inside me. Even at four years old I knew that your old-fashioned views didn’t allow for exuberant children. And then one morning you’d casually ask if I wanted to go to Anderby, and off we’d go. There’s nothing special about the place, although now there’s a Cloud Appreciation platform with angled mirrors for cloud gazing. I think you’d like it. But in those long-gone days, the secret draw was the mynah bird who lived in a cage in the café porch. Sometimes he’d talk, depending on his mood, but more often he sat imperially on his perch, gazing into the distance. I would stand entranced in front of his cage, until you’d say we had to go to the farm to fetch eggs and honey, so there would be a sweet treat for breakfast toast in the morning. My sisters never got to see that bird, it was a special secret you and I shared. I went into the cafe today – the walls were covered with old photos, but sadly none of that magnificent black bird…
You took me birdwatching too. We’d sit for hours on the beach or in the dunes, and you’d pass me your binoculars, signalling where I should look. I never mastered the art of focusing them, so invariably I would never see whatever avian had caught your attention. And when we got back to your house you’d get out your bird books and tell me all about what I hadn’t seen. But sometimes I would see the avocet or the plover, godwit or snipe and revel in that delicious thrill of discovery. And your love of birds spills through into my life now, especially in my writing.
Thank you, Grandad, wherever you are, for teaching me to look at our world with wide eyed curiosity, to see the extraordinary in what seems mundane. Thank you for teaching me that the best things don’t come easily, that a bit of discomfort is worth the reward.
Your loving granddaughter
by Anne Howkins
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To Mr Jimmy Jameson
25 November 2021
I hope you don’t mind me writing to you – and please excuse the fancy vellum parchment and calligraphy; I am an archivist by trade and thought this would be an appropriate vehicle for correspondence with someone who has made such an impact within the media and some sections of the population. I trust that your accommodation within one of Her Majesty’s establishments is, if not to your liking, at least commensurate with your status as the public’s ‘bête noire’.
I have been fascinated by you ever since your audacious attack in that shopping centre some eighteen months ago. What drives a man to butcher innocent women and children with a machete? Your claims of diminished responsibility were rejected during the trial but part of me wonders whether there is something within you that really does see things in a more simple, child-like way. Mind you, children are such difficult little beasts to understand. They can be totally naïve and trusting, building friendships with anyone and everyone. Or they can fear and dislike anything ‘different’. I think we all know which type of child you were.
It’s no coincidence that almost all of the 27 victims of your assault were ethnic minorities when one learns of your burning hatred of, well, anything you deemed ‘foreign’. And yet you still ate pizza, drove a clapped-out Audi Quattro, jetted off to Spain and enjoyed a hot vindaloo every Friday night. The term ‘cognitive dissonance’ could have been explicitly created just for you: the man who rails against the threat of Islam to the Christian values of this country, but who wouldn’t know the values of Christ if they were tattooed on his chest. And Heaven forbid that anyone points out to you that Jesus was a Jew from the Middle East. However, I fear that such high-brow discourse is not going to engage you, so let me change tack .
My name is David Camm. If that hasn’t got your attention, let me remind you that I was married to Mandip Camm and was the father of Aisha Camm, names that you should recognise from the trial. And before you throw this letter away I’ll also add that I was recently in a relationship with your wife, Shannon. Well, ex-wife now.
I tracked her down, initially with a view to get back at you somehow. But she’d already dumped you before you played out your sick fantasy – talking of sick, she told me that she actually threw up when the police arrested you. Maybe her leaving you was one of the catalysts, turned you into more of a lonely loser than you already were? Who knows – perhaps if you hadn’t shagged her best friend Tina you might still be together and my family would still be alive. Cause and effect, dominoes tumbling, lives being destroyed. It makes you think, doesn’t it?
Anyway, back to me and Shannon. She didn’t know who I really was and she fell into my arms after one meticulously planned night in the King’s Head. My initial plan to cause you pain through her petered out when I realised that you both hated each other. I could have posted her ears to you and you wouldn’t have batted an eyelid. More likely, you would have made fun of them, like the charming wit you are. No, it turns out that you’re a completely self-centred individual with no empathy or compassion for anyone else. Or, almost anyone else.
You see, Shannon told me all about Rosie, your precious little sister who you brought up after your dad had gone to prison and your mum died from an overdose. Big Jimmy Jameson, actually looking out for someone other than himself – who’d have thought it? I suppose you being almost twelve years older than her made you fiercely protective and antagonistic to every perceived threat. Or so I tell myself, still trying to rationalise your actions. Well, it didn’t take me too long to track down little Rosie. As I said, I’m an archivist; research comes with the territory.
She’d just turned seventeen, a little young for my taste but needs must, eh? I won her over with effusive charm, gifts and some rather high grade skunk . Soon we were, as the saying goes, ‘an item’. And can I just say at this point that she really was up for it at a surprisingly early stage. There I was, all flustered about how to get to ‘third base’ and before you know it she’s giving me a blowie. I’ll just let that image nestle in your head a moment.
Well, things got really quite steamy after that. She accepted my suggestion of bondage play with a wicked grin and I’m afraid there may have been a few whip marks on both of our buttocks. It was the handcuffs that were the most fun, though, but I think the motif was lost on her. There she was, lying naked before me, chained to the bedposts and it was so easy to sit astride her and take her neck in my hands. The gag worked reasonably well as I started to squeeze and she began to feel her throat closing, her eyes as wide as a startled deer. I shushed her muffled screams and told her that it would soon be over. Shannon had told me that, when Rosie was a little girl, you had apparently had the knack of calming her nightmares by tickling her back and getting her off to sleep again. Well, little Rosie was having quite a nightmare and you weren’t there for her, Jimmy.
But perhaps you can tickle her back now. You’re holding it in your hands. Such a fine piece of beautiful, white skin; it was almost a shame to write on it.
Tickle her, Jimmy, tell her it’s all going to be okay…
by Nick Rowe
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Dear Scarlett,
I started reading ‘Gone with the Wind’ today. I love your strong impulsive character; a girl after my own heart if ever there was one. Mind you, I can’t see the attraction in that Ashley Wilkes; far too timid and indecisive for you. I’m not particularly worried as it’s obvious you’re idolised by every male in the district and I’m convinced someone will come along to turn your head away from the insipid Ashley. I’ll enjoy my coffee and fig roll imagining the wonderful romantic affair the future surely holds for you. My washing basket’s full but I’ll think about that tomorrow.
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Tuesday’s arrived and I’ve been reading more of your story. I can understand you being angry with Rhett Butler initially, but can’t you see he’s the perfect match for you? The Civil War’s created awful conditions; I can empathise with your revulsion at nursing those dying soldiers. But Rhett did offer to take you away from it all. How could you turn him down? He secures a horse and carriage for you, risks life and limb helping you escape the dangers of Gettysburg, confesses he loves you and what do you do? Tell him you hate and despise him! I know he’s no saint Scarlett, but you’re no angel either if you don’t mind me saying so. I hope you see sense soon. I’ll have a drop of whisky in my coffee today; I feel a bit edgy. The washing basket’s overflowing now and the sink’s full of dirty pots but I’ll think about that tomorrow.
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Wednesday’s come round fast. I didn’t sleep well last night and feel tired today. A bit tearful too. Your journey back to Tara with sickly Melanie upset me but I suppose under the circumstances I’ll forgive you for whipping that poor horse until it dropped. I’ve poured a glass of wine to calm my nerves, but it’s rapidly disappearing as I read your mother is dead, your father’s lost his marbles and Tara’s in a state of disrepair. I know you have the determination to restore her to her former glory, but things don’t look good right now, especially with that Yankee soldier lying dead at the bottom of your stairs. You sure made a mess of his face when you shot him, Scarlett. My wine glass is empty, my sink and washing basket still brimming and surfaces need dusting, but I’ll think about that tomorrow.
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I’ve a thick head this morning; it’s a very dull looking Thursday so I’ll just read today. I can’t believe your father’s gone; what a terrible riding accident and how tragic for you. But marrying Sue Ellen’s beau Frank in order to pay your taxes is a bit heartless. Now look what’s happened. You’re attacked by thieves in your carriage, Frank’s killed trying to seek revenge and you end up a widow again. Just how many men are going to expire before you realise you should be with the enigmatic Mr Butler? My wine bottle’s drained; my washing basket and sink are still full, the layer of dust’s thickening and the grass needs mowing, but I’ll think about that tomorrow.
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It’s Friday already. Congratulations, Scarlett. At long last you’ve agreed to marry Rhett, though I suspect it’s more for money than love. How kind and considerate he is; comforting you when you have nightmares, returning to Tara when you become homesick and presenting Mammy with that beautiful red petticoat. What a charmer. And now you have a beautiful daughter too. Look what a fine family you have and how happy you’ve made Rhett. I think I’ll crack open some champagne and celebrate before reading on. Cheers.
What on earth are you doing? Put that photo of Ashley down. Why are you thinking of him when everything is perfect? I can’t believe you’ve decided against more children just because you want your figure back. Depriving a man like Rhett of his oats can only lead to disaster. I can’t stand any more today. Maybe we’ll both think more clearly after a good night’s sleep. I’ve opened the champagne so I suppose I’ll have to finish it off or it’ll go flat. I hope it drowns my sorrows. It won’t get the washing, dusting, hoovering or gardening done, but I’ll think about that tomorrow.
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Thank goodness it’s the weekend now. I had to go shopping this morning as there was no food left in the cupboards, but I felt so depressed I bought a bottle of brandy instead. It was the shock of reading about your fall and losing the baby you were carrying as a result of your one night of passion with Rhett. I honestly believed things might turn out right after that. I didn’t think they could get much worse. But now I’m sobbing because Bonnie has been taken from you and Rhett’s out of his mind with grief. I can’t see the print too well what with the tears and the brandy, but I just have to finish this book.
Poor frail Melanie’s lost her fight now but wonder of wonders, you’ve finally realised it’s not Ashley who floats your boat, but Rhett. I’m convinced he’ll take you back with open arms and all will be well. But now it seems the promise of a happy ending is as empty as my brandy bottle. There’s no food in the house and they’ve just been to cut my gas off as I forgot to pay the bill. Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise as I was contemplating putting my head in the oven. I can’t face the washing basket, pots, dusting or hoovering. The grass is six inches long and the borders full of weeds. The bin needs emptying and all these bottles need recycling. But frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.
In Deepest Sympathy,
Your Inebriated Friend.
P.S. Good luck with Tara. I’d offer to help you but my own house needs putting in order when I’ve sobered up.
by Linda Cooper
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