THE WHISPERING BOOK

It wasn’t the cover of the book that drew her to it, neither was it the title, which simply read: ‘Poems by E H Knightly’. It whispered to her.  Strange as that may sound, whisper is what it did.

The library was very quiet.  A few people sat at wooden tables, their owlish faces buried in books, and a couple of amorous students giggled behind a bookshelf; but Holly barely noticed them.  Unable to ignore the persistent hissing that seemed to emanate from the book, she tentatively pulled it off the shelf. As soon as she held it in her hands it fell open in the middle, as if she was destined to read that very page. 

Let me take your hand and lead you down, A path that takes us out of town, to fields of yellow and woods of blue, And there I’ll laugh and dance with you in moonlit clearings of bluebells blue. 

She smiled wistfully because many years ago George had kissed her for the first time in a bluebell wood; now he never kissed her at all.

She took the book to one of the armchairs. There, she read the poem, wistfully remembering a more innocent time, when they’d been lovers.  It brought back a cascade of tender memories – and induced tears because recently George had grown distant and those kisses among the bluebells belonged to another, happier life. 

She was unaware of the coming and going of people around her.  The poems resonated with something deep and forgotten in the very core of her being.  The part of her that had shut down a long time ago, perhaps because she had been so busy with her husband and her children she had lost touch with that carefree part of herself.  But the poem spoke of love amplified through nature and her spirit yearned to walk through that bluebell wood again and be the girl who had once loved with such abandon.

It was closing time when Mrs Gadfly tapped her on the shoulder.  “I’m afraid it’s time to go, dear,” she said softly.  “Why don’t you take the book with you?”

            “It’s a beautiful book,” Holly replied.

            “Which is it?” Mrs Gadfly peered at the title over half-moon glasses. “Gracious, I don’t think anyone’s taken that out for years.” 

Holly turned to the front page to find that no one had taken it out, ever. “Aren’t people interested in poetry?”

            “Obviously not,” said Mrs Gadfly. 

            “Well, I think it’s wonderful.”

            “Then you should write and tell him – or her.  E H, could be a man or woman, couldn’t it?”

            “I sense it’s a man.  I’m sure he wouldn’t want to hear from me.”

“Why not? He’ll be thrilled someone’s taken notice. Write to his publisher and they’ll pass it on. That is, if he’s alive.”

            “He’s probably dead, wandering in heavenly bluebells.” She smiled and closed the book.  “I’ll take it home with me, though.  It’s just the sort of thing I’d like to read to my children.”

            “Quite,” Mrs Gadfly agreed.  “Let’s put it on the system then you can take it for as long as you want. It’s not like they’re queuing up to borrow it.”     

When Holly returned home she was disappointed to discover that she was unable to find the book or the author on the internet. Amazon didn’t stock it and there was no reference to the author anywhere.  She felt sad that such beautiful writing was so unappreciated.  Fuelled by a glass of wine and the fresh scent of unearthed memories, she went onto the publisher’s website and tapped out a short message. 

When George came home she watched him sit down to help their ten-year-old son, Jack, with his homework.  Sometimes it seemed that they both used the children as deliberate obstacles to avoid engaging with each other.  When he finished, she asked him about his day at the office. He worked for a small Estate Agency in town.  Things were tough, the market was slow.  He was despondent.  “I’ve taken out a poetry book from the library,” she ventured, trying to make conversation.  “I thought I’d encourage the children to write creatively.”

            He looked appalled. “I don’t think that’ll get them anywhere.”

            “I think Jack is especially creative.”

            “Don’t waste your time, Holly. Nothing comes of writing poetry.”  He wandered over to the cupboard and took down a wine glass.  He seemed so distant these days. She wondered where the man she loved had gone.  She wondered whether she had changed, too.  Perhaps they had simply grown apart.

She bathed the children and put them to bed.  Then she sat and read them a humorous poem about a mouse in a hayloft. Lulled by the rhythm and playfulness of the words, they asked for another one.

When Holly climbed into bed beside George she wanted to tell him about the book.  Once they had shared everything, now they shared nothing but the children and the superficial perfection of their home.  But George switched on the television and Holly knew she’d lost him.  The T.V. was another obstacle that allowed them to live parallel lives without having to acknowledge that their relationship was slowly breaking down. 

That night Holly cried for the first time in years.  She cried for the love that she had lost – and for the man who lay beside her, a thousand miles away.

The following morning she was surprised to receive an email from the publisher who informed her that the author hadn’t written anything since Poems.  He gave her an email address, possibly outdated, and wished her luck.  Holly wrote to the author immediately.  Doubting that her words would ever reach him she poured out her heart. She told him how his words put her in touch with a deep and forgotten part of her soul and how he had inspired her to drive out of town to seek solace in nature.  Embarrassed to be writing at all she set up a temporary email address with Yahoo and signed her name Bluebell. 

At midday she drove to a nearby farm.  There was a footpath that cut through the fields and a bluebell wood beyond. As she marched up the track she noticed the white flowers on the blackthorn hedges and the little birds diving in and out.  She swept her eyes over the yellow fields and the phosphorescent green leaves on the trees, and wondered how she managed to drive down that lane almost daily and notice nothing but her own heavy thoughts. At last she reached the woods and there, in a lake of cobalt, were bluebells, rich and abundant, and her heart inflated with joy.

That night Jack and Esme begged her to read another poem.  George switched on the television but Holly declared that as the following day was Saturday, she was going to take the children into the countryside.  To her surprise George replied that he would join them. 

Beneath a clear sky, marred only by the odd candyfloss cloud, the family walked through the bluebell wood.  George was very pensive. He barely talked at all.  Holly wondered whether the woods reminded him too of the way things once were and she felt compelled to reach out and touch his hand.  But his expression was impenetrable so she kept her hand to herself.

That evening, while George was in the bath, she went onto her email to discover that the author had replied.  She was stunned.  He hadn’t written much, just a few lines to say how flattered he was that someone had appreciated his words.  He thanked her then signed his name, Edward.  His email was short but she sensed, reading between the lines, that he was bitter about his lack of success and so she wrote again, this time more profusely, encouraging him to write another book.

A few nights later, George didn’t turn on the television but opened a novel instead.  “I’ve been thinking, Holly,” he began.  “It’s a good thing that you’re reading the children poetry.” Then he turned to her and his eyes were heavy with regret.  “We should spend more time together.”

            “We used to love walking in the countryside.”

            “I don’t know why we stopped.”

            “Life.”

            He turned away and thrust his gaze into his book.  Holly rolled over and closed her eyes.

Over the next couple of months the strangest things began to happen.  Edward opened up like a sunflower.  He shared his bitterness with her. His father had thought little of his poetry and encouraged him to go into business.  His book hadn’t been a success and so, disillusioned, he had given up.  Since she had written to him he had read his book again and suddenly felt inspired to express his feelings once more in words. 

At the same time George seemed to have been reinvigorated by their walk in the woods.  He returned home in a better mood every evening and began to devour the books that had languished unopened on his beside table.  Holly was less hurt by his detachment because she had Edward - and little by little she was falling in love with him.

Then one day Edward asked to meet her.  He told her he was going to London the following week and hoped they might be able to talk face to face.  He suggested a pub on the Fulham Road.  He’d wear a blue flower in his lapel.  She’d wear one, too.  The romance of it was irresistible. 

But that weekend she began to have doubts.  George suggested another picnic and while they were walking up the hill he took her hand. It didn’t feel odd, but familiar, like home.  She smiled shyly. He squeezed her hand and smiled back.  “Do you remember?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied.  “I do.”

Thursday arrived.  George left for work. Holly took the children to school then sat in the car, wondering what to do.  She fingered the flower, feeling foolish.  It wasn’t Edward she loved but George. Edward’s poetry had exposed her longing, not for him, but for her husband.

She returned home and sent Edward an email.  I’m sorry but I can’t come.  I never told you I am married or that I love my husband.  Thank you for being a friend when I needed one. But my best friend is right here, he’s just been lost for a while. Your poetry has helped me find him. 

She decided to make a cake to calm her nerves.  How close she had come to losing everything dear.  As she was applying the frosting she heard the front door open.  George appeared looking radiant.  He was wearing a blue flower in his lapel.  Holly stood up tearfully. “Edward?” she gasped.  “Is you!” 

He nodded guiltily.  “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you.  But things have been so good between us that I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“When did you realise?”

He pulled her into his arms. “That I’d been an idiot? Oh, probably your third email. No one loves bluebells as much as you, Holly – and I saw you reading the book to the children.”

Her eyes brimmed with regret.  “I’m so sorry…”

“No, Holly, I’m sorry. I’ve been the idiot. To think I almost lost you because I was so wrapped up in myself and my lack of success. Your belief in my writing has changed everything.  I’ve started writing again thanks to you and I feel like a different man.”

“I don’t want a different man, George. I want the old one back.”

“He never really left. He just lost confidence in himself.” He grinned sheepishly.  “Thanks to Edward, I know you still love me.”  She didn’t have time to reply for his lips were on hers and he was kissing her with the same passion as he had first kissed her in the bluebell wood.  She closed her eyes and remembered. Let me take your hand and lead you down…