by Gervase O’Donohoe
Macaulay’s Cottage
Church Street
Buxton
Sunday 15th July 1984
Dear Phyllis,
May I call you that, now? I have wanted to for so
But, even as I put this into words I see, of course,
long. Last week I retired from my post at St George’s
that you were right. I needed you too much. You would
after thirty-seven years of teaching. For the final seven-have been sucked dry by the selfishness of my middle-
teen, I have wondered about you, ever since that sad
aged adolescent passion. It was out of weakness that I
September when you failed to return for another year as leaned on the hope of you. Yes, surely, that was why it matron. I was going to say ‘inexplicably failed to return’, took me so long to confess those feelings for you,
but perhaps that would not be quite honest, as I suspect because to declare myself was to admit and
that I was responsible for that decision.
acknowledge the emptiness of my days, the mechanical
And yet, I still find it difficult to regret that summer nature of my existence, the truth that a life had descend-afternoon strol ing around the school cricket pitch when ed into the mere performance of a duty. I realise now,
hesitantly, after two decades of unspoken admiration, I that you were right to walk away. The very fact that I have confessed to you that I cared about you more than any-not dared to contact you over the last seventeen years, thing or anybody else in the world. Stumbling, I spoke
surely also bears witness to my knowledge, subcon-
what had been stifled within me for those ages, and,
scious probably, that to confess my need would be to
hoped that you felt the same. Had I misread all your care confront it.
and kindnesses shown over the years to a bachelor
But, now I am free. I am not a schoolteacher any
member of staff – misread them as signs of affection?
more. I no longer respond to a timetable. That duty, that Your concern and advice when I showed symptoms of
imposition is passed. Now, I am free to choose my
tuberculosis in the early 1950s, and your careful dressing concerns and the pattern of my day. My life is my own for of my scars when I developed shingles a dozen years
the first time in living memory. I feel growing within me later.
the strength to give my life to whatever and whomsoever When without warning you left St George’s, I
I choose. In this new-found strength, Phyllis, I turn to you.
missed so much more than just the memory of your care. Not just wanting you, but able to offer you someone –
I realised that your presence in my life had awakened in myself.
me a desire for something beyond teaching and history. I Happily, the other day, exchanging a few parting
knew I was a man when you were around. Simply to see words about old times with the catering manageress (as I you in your neat uniform, always perfectly presented out believe she is properly cal ed, nowadays), she mentioned of respect for those you served, boys and staff alike, with your name and indicated to me both your present circum-your deceased father’s wrist watch pinned upside down
stances and the fact that she is in some sort of Christmas on the slope of your breast, was enough for me. Etched
card correspondence with you. Dear Phyllis, this chance into my memory are those ski-trips we took with the boys remark means that I am now able to decide whether to to the Alps in the mid-‘50s. It was an excruciating joy to bother you with this letter.
be so near to you all day, and stil to be calling you ‘Miss In case I do, it comes with undying affection,
Claypole’. Phyllis, you simply made me more alive. I was
dead without you. The echoing corridors of school were