Highgate
                                                                                                   1 December 1989

Dear Henry:

     Do you remember that part in Tess of the D’Urbervilles where Tess posts a letter and it gets hidden beneath a carpet and is not found until it is far too late? I have always been rather divided about that. On the one hand it seemed a trifle pat. Hardy made his whole plot turn on that one unfortunate incident. But, at the same time, I knew that it was the sort of thing that happens often enough. It had truth all right, though in the novel it did not have the ring of truth.

     Well, I have to tell you that the exact same thing has happened to me. As the removers were sliding my hall cupboard onto castors during my move to Highgate, they found a letter. It was from Peter Thebus. I did not get round to reading it until this morning, and it has really taken the wind out of my sails. You will realise why when you read it.

     Of course, I am kicking myself for not having been in touch with Peter. It must be at least a year. But he is one of many I have not contacted. These days I fear what I may find, if you understand. Peter’s letter also made me feel unutterably sad, though you will probably agree with me that it is far from being a sad letter. But more than anything else I feel unhappy that I did not get in touch with him. It was not that I did not want to, but a day at a time I postponed it. It all slips past so fast, you see, in such tiny moments, and then suddenly there is no more time.

     When you have read the letter, please destroy the copy I have sent you. A part of me feels rather guilty in sending it to you at all. However, I am taking the chance because I think that if anyone will know what has happened to Peter, you will.

     All the best to you, Henry! Perhaps I shall be able to visit you again soon.

Sincerely,
Barry
 

New York City
                                                                                                         14 December 1989 

Dear Joel:

     I received a rather strange letter from that literary Limey, Barry Coe, we got to know through Peter Thebus a few years ago. He was asking about Peter’s whereabouts and enclosed the copy of a letter which he had received some time ago but which had gotten lost in a literary way that would appeal to Barry the Limey. I couldn’t decide from his letter whether he was more interested in Peter or in telling me that he was acquainted with Thomas Hardy’s novels. I think I already knew that he probably was.

     I can’t say I noticed anything odd about Peter when he passed through. I was his first stop. He arrived here about a week after he wrote the letter to Barry, stayed a week, did not eat me out of house and home, then was sent on to you. Are you still recovering from the visitation? Our dear brother Brits do seem to think that the colonies owe them extravagant hospitality when they visit our shores—must be a clause in the Marshall Plan with which I am unacquainted—and then treat us to a Gallery seat for Cats when we visit their country, staying like any self-respecting tourist, in an hotel.

     Still Peter does give good value. Being a New Yorker I’d have thought that I would have instantly recognised the signs. I didn’t. He was rather heavily made-up, of course. But one kind of expects that from someone who has trod the boards for half a century.

     Excuse the caustic tone. Three friends have succumbed in the last month and I am, as the saying goes, burnt out.

     Is he still with you, Joel?

Always,
Henry