I loved occasionally riffling through my mum’s letters from when she was young and living in Edinburgh, Scotland. That guilty pleasure started after she died 19 years ago. One of the treasures I inherited was an old 8×12 inch tan briefcase in crackled leatherette, complete with assorted stains and scratches. Her initials, ENK for Ellen Neilson Kinvig, were stamped in gold Celtic calligraphy on the bottom right. Inside it smelled faintly of smoke, dust, and old trunks.
Exploring the briefcase I discovered Robert Leslie Thomson—my mum’s boyfriend in 1946. She called him Leslie, and left him behind when she immigrated to Canada at 23 to join her fiancé (my dad).
The artistic Leslie still existed inside the briefcase. I found the many letters he drew, painted and collaged, for my mum’s birthday, Christmas, Easter, and appointments for tea. I opened one envelope addressed in flowing calligraphy to Miss Ellen Kinvig. Inside, a black ink drawing of a genie coming out of a smiling teapot in front of a pretty young woman sitting on a cake, and the words: “If when you waken you find you are free, please just meander to meet R.L.T. Same time, same place.” I imagined what it would feel like to receive a whimsical note like this in the mail. It would rarely happen today.
Another held a 3×3 inch card. The message, “Wishing You Many Happy Birthdays with love from Les” was simple. But there was love in the playful ink and water paint drawing on grey art paper. That’s my mum, I thought, looking at a dark-haired woman wearing a gown, straight out of an Emily Bronte novel, holding a parasol while stars twinkled overhead.
Some of the letters, in faded ink and ripped envelopes, contained fragments of their relationship. Leslie wrote: “I have had time to peruse your quite unexpected letter of Sunday afternoon. If you had told me the content the night before, I should have been in a much more receptive frame of mind. I realize how difficult it is to say things like that when you are actually confronted with the person.” The writing was so polite, clear and yet holding back so much. Heartbreak hidden between words.
My mum said my dad won her heart the first night they met at the Palais Royal Dance Hall. He could dance, and made her laugh. Poor Leslie didn’t stand a chance.
The lasting power of letters was intriguing. My mum and Leslie sent airmail letters to each for 58 years, until she died. Nothing romantic. Still, they kept the spark alive writing about politics, sports, books and family. Both were married and as far as I know they never saw each other again.
In one old letter Leslie wrote, “No one else means anything to me in comparison to yourself.” My mum saved Leslie’s early letters and cards in a battered little briefcase, and I was reading them 84 years later, gushing with emotion.
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Art by Lara Schaberg
