In the autumn of 2023, Lockerbie Writers wrote love letters.
These love letters tell a story. A love story of admiration, inspiration, and connection.
Sadly, all the addressees are no longer with us, but we like to think they would have loved to have read them.
We hope you do too.
PS Thank you to Mslexia magazine for providing us with such a fantastic writing prompt.
A Letter to Charlotte Bronte by Andrea Roberts
Dear Charlotte,
I had the pleasure of calling at your house recently and, although you weren’t there, I was kindly welcomed in. Interestingly, despite your absence, I felt your presence everywhere. Whilst there something puzzled me and I now feel compelled to write and seek clarification. The thing is, I saw some of your beautiful bonnets and I was shocked at how tiny they were. I hadn’t imagined that you would be so petite. I see you as a tower; elevated and powerful in stature, as well as in mind.
You would have needed to be a tower of strength to do what you did Currer Bell. How did you manage to contain all that greatness tucked inside those dainty little headpieces tied up neatly with a bow? Did you suffer during the years when you had to wrap your creativity, intelligence, and dare I say, sexuality under that feathered millinery? It has always seemed to me that suffering was a common thread woven through your novels and shared by your female characters: a sense of being overwhelmingly stifled in a ‘man’s world’. Was that a correct assumption?
I speak to you directly Charlotte, rather than your sisters, as you were the one to finally reveal the female identities of ‘Acton’, ‘Ellis’ and yourself. How did you manage to keep a cap on it for all those years despite all that gossip over your identities? Did you really not want to shout from the rooftops that you were women? I can’t believe that the sole reason you finally revealed that you were authoresses rather than authors was to ensure that, after their deaths, your sisters’ good reputations be re-established after criticism of their novels?
Charlotte, did you write in answer to inquisitive critics and state, ‘I am neither Man nor Woman—I come before you as an Author only … it is the sole ground on which I accept your judgment’? If that is true, perhaps, contrary to my thoughts, you actually reveled in androgynous anonymity in the years that you kept your real identities secret. Was I wrong to believe that the struggles expressed by your female characters echoed your own frustrations regarding ‘a woman’s lot’?
I know that you were angry when Robert Southey said that, ‘The grand function of women . . . is, and ever must be, Maternity.’ But yet you also wanted to ‘walk invisible’ and asked, ‘Why can [the Press] not be content to take Currer Bell for a man?’
You famously said, ‘I am just going to write because I cannot help it.’ Does this mean you had really no aspiration to advance the position of women and the fact that you did was completely unintentional? Perhaps you were perfectly comfortable in your tiny bonnets after all. Well, as it turned out, whether you intended it or not, you, Emily and Anne, regardless of your reasons, all managed to step beyond the most popular women’s pseudonym of the time − ‘Anon’− to help pave the way for female authors to follow, and for that you all deserve bejeweled crowns!
Warmest regards,
Andrea
Brotherhood of Man by Kath J Rennie
I am, as I did as a child, writing my thoughts and wishes onto this computerised piece of paper. It will not be burnt on a fire, disappearing then in a puff of smoke up a chimney’s flue, in the hope, a mythical being receiving it, granting me that which I desire, for I fear it will never come to pass. And yet, the yearning within my soul has me stand steadfast. I will not give up hope, as you did not.
On the day your life was taken from you, I cried. I felt as though a family member had been snatched from my life. I wanted to hate the person who took you from me. I could not. You, John, would have insisted I did not.
Ten years after your untimely death on 8th December 1980, I married. A few days after the ceremony I’d realised the date of my special day coincided with the day you were shot. It seems to me now, that date was very unlucky for both of us.
At times on the 8th December, I light a candle in remembrance of you and ponder on this question … where did you pass on to? Your song, Imagine, provokes such a query. Is there such a place? And have you met up with George Harrison? Yet another great man whose lyrics hold great impact.
The world, John, hasn’t changed that much. Politics, greed, and especially religion, are still forces to be reckoned with. At this time of writing to you, conflicting wars are ongoing. It’s utterly sad and gutting-wrenching to bear witness to the many deaths. Would you? John, if still amongst us, sit again on a bed in protest with Yoko Ono (the woman who saved you from your demons) and write appropriate lyrics in defiance of these wars? Would you be joined by your two sons −Julian and Sean − musicians in their own right.
Very soon, my first true love, Christmas time will be upon us. Radios will play your song Happy Xmas (War is Over) and we mere mortals will sing along. I write ‘mere mortals’ for we do not, as you and your close friend Bob Dylan have the capacity to reach worldwide audiences with words of love and peace. In my estimation, you both were/are prophets. As wise as those men and women who came before you. And, also suffered for their sharing their truths.
I feel I must bring this letter to an end now John, but before I do, I must ask this question and hope that I, in some strange way, receive an answer for it really is questionable. You originated from Liverpool. I am Mancunian. It’s a well-known saying that ‘never the twain should meet’ unless of course, it’s on a football field. But a Scouser or not, my admiration of you will never diminish, and I hope someday we will meet, wherever that may take place
All my love, Kath.
Uncle Edwin by Geoffrey Lindop
Mr Edwin Lindop, The White Lion, Knighton, Staffordshire
Dear Uncle Edwin,
Grandad was even worse last night when they got him off the pony and trap. It is a good job the pony can find her own way home, as he is always far too drunk to do anything. I am sure he drinks more in the White Lion than with Uncle John at the Falcon even though the pony and trap have to find their own way home from the Falcon as well. Although, I suppose it could be due to the licensing laws being more strict for Uncle John in Shropshire.
Last night after he had been in the White Lion, I heard him mumble something about you giving up being a publican and moving to Everton.
Is that true? If so, please can I come with you?
I hate working on the farm. George loves it, but I find it hard work. I don’t mind hard work, and would love to work alongside you in the warehouse that you are going to. It is just that I get so embarrassed milking the cows, and they won’t let me make the cheese.
If there is no vacancy in the warehouse you are going to, there must be lots of other places in Everton I can work. Please Uncle. Take me with you.
Give my love to Aunty Mary.
Your loving nephew,
Geoffrey
The Virgin Queen by Paula Nicolson
Dear Elizabeth Tudor,
I got to know the real you during my A level history class in 1986, and as a teenager at the time, you left a lasting impression.
Unlike modern day royalty, you fought hard to just stay alive as a child when all around you plotted to marry you off to foreign kings, have you imprisoned or labeled as a ‘bastard’ with no claim to the throne. Double crossing, infamy and murder surrounded you as a teenager; your squabbling relatives used you as a pawn for their own personal gain, all while labeling your own mother as a witch. Allegiances were made and then undone, and so you were left floundering in a sea of secrets.
But you found a way out. You learned to have a voice when women of your time were not permitted free speech and you kept your friends close, and your enemies closer. And that helped you to eventually become Queen. I admired that tenacity within you.
You were an unusual Queen of your time too, and your ability and decisions were often doubted by men. You refused to be married because you knew if you did, your authority would be usurped by those with a misplaced hunger for fame and power. So, to reinvent yourself as the Virgin Queen was a stroke of genius. A message to your court, community, and country that you were pure of heart and mind, and stronger as a lone ruler. You were enough.
Then you surrounded yourself by Walsingham’s network of ‘special forces’ spies, scanning the horizon for any impending plots, and I dare say, it wasn’t easy when you had to put a stop to threats from your Scottish cousin.
I like to think that if your father could have seen you, he would have been so proud and realise his obsession to have a male heir was unfounded. Yet, I think you had more heart than him: resilient when our country was being invaded, but tolerant to differing religious beliefs. You certainly set the bar high for all future female monarchies, and although the second Queen Elizabeth wasn’t to come until some 500 years later, she lived in your shadow.
Thank you for your service, for keeping this country safe and for emancipating women that were to follow you.
Paula
Imagine by Rita Dalgleish
Dear John Lennon,
What you did to promote peace was amazing. What you and your group, The Beatles, did to promote the music that sent lyrics around the world of joy and excitement. The thought of you all performing was overwhelming.
You all went your own way eventually after individual identity.
You John sought peace. It cost your life.
The legacy you left touched the hearts of billions with true depth and longing in your song.
Unfortunately, not all want a fit world to live in. They couldn’t survive such love, imagine that.
Rita D
A Letter to Gertrude by Christina Openshaw
Dear Miss Jekyll,
I’m writing to you to say how much I admire your lifetime’s work of gardening. Sorry you couldn’t pursue your desire to paint because of your short-sightedness problem. It’s a shame that multifocal spectacles weren’t available to you, as I know mine are invaluable to me. Oh, what more could you have achieved should you have had them then.
I know that you’ve written 10 books about gardening and lots of magazine articles too, I’ve written a few pieces both poems and prose about my small garden; not a patch on what you’ve done of course. Having read that you have planned over 400 gardens during your working life here in Britain, Europe, and even America, but what a shame you never even managed to visit there.
Your idea of using bright coloured flowers in drifts set against a background of verdant greenery was new and inspirational − I also love my garden especially when it’s in full bloom. I delight in the way you feel about gardens and the way you’ve managed to put it down in writing saying, ‘A garden is a grand teacher − of industry, thrift, patience and watchfulness,’ which I unreservedly concur; I’ve discovered that too.
I wish I could have followed you around your gardens, I’m sure I would have learned much more than I know now, and of course much quicker.
There is a beautiful rose named after you now: the Gertrude Jekyll. You’d love it. It’s an old fashioned double, deeply fragrant and bright pink; just like my idea of you.
You once said, ‘The love of gardening is a seed once sown never dies,’ and, ‘To know the enduring happiness that the love of gardening gives,’ two statements with which I wholeheartedly agree.
With thanks for all your inspiration,
Chris Openshaw
Was it Worth It (Jean Armour)? by Betsy Henderson
Dear Jean,
Was It love at first sight? He certainly had a way with words and he was a bit of a looker. But did it last or did you just put up with it because you had no choice?
That first day when you chased his dog away from your washing, what did he say? Did he tell you how lovely you were? When did he write, That there’s not a bonny bird that sings, but minds me o’ my Jean? It was obviously very flattering, but did you ever wonder if perhaps your father was right – that Robert Burns was too fond of the lassies and would never make you happy?
I know Robert wanted to marry when you first became pregnant and you went through an informal marriage (which was later annulled by your dad), but by the end of the year, he had made someone else pregnant. That doesn’t seem like true love to me. He then went into hiding when your father tried to issue a warrant against him, but returned long enough to make you pregnant again, this time with twins.
Oh, Jean! If I had been your parent, I would have been very concerned. Had you no pride?
I know that after the success of the Kilmarnock Edition, your dad relented and allowed you to marry in a legal ceremony. That doesn’t say a lot for him, but perhaps he was only concerned that Robert might not have the finances to look after you until then.
Did marriage make you happy? Was it everything you had hoped for?
You seemed to spend your whole life being pregnant – only three of your children surviving into adulthood. What heartbreak that must have been, and Robert was still at it. He seemed to sow his oats with nearly every presentable female he met, and then he wrote a poem about them. How did that make you feel? You must be very forgiving as you even brought up one of his illegitimate kids.
It’s not as if Robert must have spent very much time with you – what with running a farm, working as an exciseman, propping up the local hostelries, running after women, and writing poetry – he couldn’t have been at home a lot. Was it worth it? Can you honestly say it was everything your heart desired?
Then his health started to fail – probably because of the excesses it had endured. You would have had to nurse Robert as well as everything else until he passed away. But at least by that time, he was famous and you would have some money.
Is life any better now? Do you ever regret wasting your life on a man who obviously didn’t appreciate you? Do you ever wish you had just walked away that first day instead of catching his attention?
Or was it worth all the pain and sorrow to marry the man of your dreams?
Only you can answer that.
Betsy.
Lockerbie Writers 