André and I sauntered down the moonlit road, breathing in the heady summer air. My flat was about two miles from the hostel through the peaceful sleepy suburb and on fine nights I loved the walk back there under the stars, with André holding my hand. I was entirely happy.
We reached the bridge across the river and leaned over the parapet, looking down into the dark water rushing far below. Only the occasional flash of white showed in the gloom as a wave hit the rocks.
André put his arm round my shoulder. ‘Suzie, there is something I must tell you.’ His tone was ominously serious. I turned to him and waited without a word.
After a moment he went on. ‘I have been offered a job in France, Suzie. It is one I want very much.’
That was all he said.
I looked down at the water again, trying to bite back the tears. After all, I had known it could not last, but I had not expected this. I had thought he would grow tired of me and find another woman and that my own cynicism would be there to comfort me, but no. He had said the words as though his heart too would break.
I glanced sideways. He was looking down as though the river would hold his attention for ever and in the luminous night I could see his profile with its firm nose and chin, the high forehead, the irrepressible curly hair. Somehow I stifled a sob. He must not know that I was crying.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’s late.’
He didn’t come in for a coffee and as I shut the door I felt as though my whole world was shattered. He had gone off without another word.
In my living room which was really more of a studio – I was a painter as well as a teacher at the art college – my portrait of André stood on the easel, nearly finished. I gazed at it for a long time, pleading silently with those warm brown eyes as if he could really see me. I felt empty; dead. Then I blew a sad kiss towards the glistening oils and turned for my lonely bedroom.
The next two days were busy ones as a rule for both of us and we had agreed not to meet until the Friday. I don’t know how I prevented myself from ringing him in the interval, but I did.
As the hour approached when André would be picking me up at my flat I grew more and more nervous. Tonight I would find out when he was to leave and whether I would ever see him again. I grew increasingly depressed as I dressed in one of my prettiest summer dresses, one which I knew he particularly liked, but to my surprise André himself looked anything but depressed when he had at last appeared at the door.
‘Bring a coat and scarf, Suzie,’ he commanded. ‘I have borrowed a car.’
We were swiftly in the country and as we roared through the fragrant evening with the roof of the car folded down I lay back and closed my eyes. Wherever we were going I was not really looking forward to it. There was too much talking to be done over the meal.
When we at last drew up in the forecourt of an old pub my cheeks were burning from the rush of wind and my hair, in spite of a scarf, felt tangled.
‘Wait, I have something for you.’ André put his hand on my arm as I leaned forward to open the door. From the glove pocket in front of me he produced a single white rose, its petals creamy against the tissue paper in which it was wrapped. ‘I hoped you would wear that dress,’ he said quietly. ‘It is for that dress that I chose the flower.’ Gently he tucked it into my bodice.
Our table was in the corner by the windows which opened out onto a mossy lawn, bordered with sweet smelling heliotrope.
André ordered with his customary efficiency and as the waiter poured out our wine I sat bemused, unwilling to break the spell of silence. Then André spoke.
‘I have given in my notice at the university; next year I commence my job at Toulouse.’ He waited, looking at me hard, but I refused to meet his eye, too bleak and miserable to make any pretence of being glad for him.
‘Suzie?’ He took my hand. ‘What is the matter?’
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
‘You are disappointed it is not Paris?’ He closed my fingers around the stem on my wineglass. ‘But that may follow after a year, or maybe two or three.’ He looked at me hopefully.
At last I managed to say something. ‘I am glad, André. Truly glad. I know it’s what you wanted.’ I took a sip of wine.
‘You are not glad, Suzie.’ He sounded hurt and reproachful.
‘Yes I am.’ I took some more wine. ‘It’s just that I shall miss you, that’s all …’ My voice cracked as I spoke the words and I fought to hold back the tears. I would not spoil a beautiful evening by crying like a teenager. I clenched my fists.
‘But, chérie,’ André looked amazed, ‘aren’t you coming with me? I thought you had said so often you would love to live in France?
It was my turn to look amazed. I hadn’t thought; I hadn’t understood.
We were silent as the waiter brought the vinaigrettes, but as soon as he had gone André pushed away his plate and took my hands in his. He looked so earnest, his brown eyes pleading.
‘Suzie, I had not meant it to be like this. I had planned it to be so romantic, later. But I have decided. You will marry me. We will be married next month before we leave, then we have the rest of the summer to find a flat in Toulouse. See,’ he fumbled in his breast pocket, ‘I have brought you the ring.’
On his palm lay an exquisite little circle of sapphires and diamonds in a red gold Victorian setting.
I was speechless.
He smiled happily and took my hand. ‘Let us see if it fits.’
He slipped it on and I gazed at it, enchanted. I was still looking at it when the waiter came to take our plates. He reappeared a few moments later with a half bottle of champagne and bowed in front of André.
‘The compliments of the manager, monsieur. We could not help noticing the little ceremony just now and he hopes you will accept this with our congratulations.’
Amazed, we looked at each other and then round the room and to my intense embarrassment I found that everyone at the other tables was looking at us. They had been watching the whole thing. One man raised his glass in salute. ‘To the happy couple,’ he said smiling and one after another the other people followed suit.
It was I think the happiest evening of my life. It passed so quickly, in a haze of wine and food and good wishes. Then there was the scented moonlit drive back in the early hours of the morning.
It was an anti-climax to realize that I was to spend the next afternoon with my parents and my sister and her family at home. They had met André only a couple of times and knew nothing of my relationship with him.
Before I left to go to them reluctantly I took off my ring. I wanted to break it to them gently that I was going to live abroad and I wanted to be able to pick my moment.
I was still walking on air when my father opened the door to my knock. ‘Come in, Susan darling,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Tea’s all ready. Your mother is just bringing it through.’
I bent to fondle the little Jack Russell which had bounded out to greet me and then followed my father into the sitting room. My sister Gwen and her husband Phil were already there, curled up on a sofa by the fire.
‘Hi,’ Gwen said when she saw me. ‘I hear you’ve got yourself a gigolo, Sue. I can’t think how you managed to tear yourself away.’
‘Gwen.’ Father automatically stepped between us, but I saw at once from his amused face that it would only be minutes before he joined in with the teasing. With Gwen I could cope. We had been at each other’s throats all our lives and I was used to her catty remarks. I put them down to jealousy – but Father – that was too hurtful.
My cheeks flamed. ‘I can’t think what you mean,’ I said as repressively as I could and to forestall any further remarks I headed for the kitchen.
In the hall I stopped in front of the mirror. My face was flushed and my eyes suspiciously bright. How stupid not to be able to hide my feelings at my age. If only I hadn’t known what Gwen meant. I wondered who had been gossiping.
Taking a grip on myself I went into the k
itchen and kissed my mother fondly. One look at me told her something was wrong of course and before I knew it I had poured out the whole story. She listened quietly and then put her arm round my shoulders. ‘Poor Susan. It must be dreadful for you to take such a decision.’ She turned to the kettle. ‘But I think you are right to turn him down. It might seem hard now but in ten years you’ll be glad you did it.’
‘But I didn’t turn him down,’ I sobbed, anguished. ‘Mother, I love him. I want to marry him.’
‘But dear, think.’ She put the tea things down and looked at me hard. ‘Think very carefully. There is not only the difference in your ages, as if that wasn’t enough, but he’s foreign. He wants you to leave this country and all your friends and go off with him heaven knows where. Oh Sue darling, you can’t do it.’
In my heart I wondered if she was right but at the same time I was indignant and angry. How could she talk like that about André? He was mature well beyond his years. He was responsible. He would not ask me to do anything that would leave me unhappy.
Eventually I dried my eyes and gave her a watery smile. ‘I’ll think about it a bit longer,’ I said as steadily as I could. ‘Let’s not talk about it any more now.’
Obviously Gwen and Phil and my father had reached the same conclusion because nothing more was said on the subject the whole afternoon. We just chatted about various things and I tried very hard indeed to ignore the deepening depression which was hanging over me.
My mother’s words had reawakened my own terrible doubts about the difference in our ages. It was something I had tried to forget, but as I walked slowly home from my parents’ house I remembered all the little things. André was still childishly optimistic and irrepressible and in some ways yes, he was a little irresponsible too, while I was cynical and inclined to be weighed down by cares. Possibly these were differences of character rather than age but to me they pointed to one thing only – my approaching senility, his carefree youth. I thought of his hard lean body; his cheeks and eyes, young and bright and I remembered the way I had to throw my shoulders back and pull in my stomach when I appeared before him naked. He told me that my body was beautiful, but I never quite lost my self-consciousness before him and dared not relax for one second.
We were not going to meet that evening so I let myself into the silent flat and went straight to bed, worn out with misery.
I knew I looked pale and haggard the next day when I met André for coffee after his last tutorial. I saw him give me a sharp look and then as we sat down he let out a sharp exclamation.
‘Suzie, where is our ring? Why are you not wearing it?’
I jumped guiltily. That morning I had slipped it on, tried to recapture the joy of having it on my hand, had worn it all the time I was making my toast and coffee and then just before I left for work I had taken it off, kissed it longingly and placed it in the drawer.
‘I didn’t want to wear it to work, darling,’ I lied hastily. ‘I was giving pottery lessons and I didn’t want to get it covered in clay, or take it off and have to leave it lying around.’
He accepted my explanation with a smile and a squeeze of the hand, but he still looked crestfallen. Like a disappointed schoolboy … I stopped myself abruptly. There I went again, harping on his youth. I forced myself to smile.
‘Where are we going this evening, André?’ I said, trying to change the subject. ‘What about that French film you wanted to see?’
But he shook his head. ‘Suzie, I know something is wrong. You must tell me.’
I glanced up at his anxious face and sighed. ‘All right. But not here. Can we go back to my flat?’
‘What is wrong with here?’ His chin suddenly took on a stubborn set and he gestured round the dark café with its intimate little tables. The atmosphere was fragrant with coffee and cigarette smoke and there were only two other couples there.
‘All right,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ll tell you here. Darling, I love you more than I can ever say, but I don’t think I should marry you.’ To my surprise the words sounded very calm and reasonable.
André’s expression did not change. He had obviously been expecting this. ‘Can you tell me why, chérie? Is it that you don’t want to live in France?’
His hand was trembling as it held his cup and I felt a lump come to my throat.
‘No, no. Of course not. It’s because I am so much older than you. Don’t you see? I don’t think it would work.’
He gave a pained sigh. ‘But we have been over this so often, Suzie.’ He sounded a little impatient. ‘I told you that for me this is not a problem. It just does not matter.’ He accentuated the words by striking the table with his fist. The cups rattled on their saucers and there was a moment of silence at the other tables. Then the muted murmur of conversation continued.
I looked down at my coffee, embarrassed. ‘It doesn’t matter now, but in ten, fifteen years’ time, what then? When you are forty and I am nearly sixty; how will you feel about it then, André?’ My voice cracked as I spoke and immediately his hand caught mine. It was reassuringly firm.
‘In France a woman is considered to be at her most attractive in her fifties and sixties, chérie. That is when she has the experience to please her man. She is mature. She is no longer just pretty and frivolous; she is beautiful!’
He gazed deeply into my eyes and smiled suddenly. ‘Look at Deneuve. She is fifty!’ He shrugged his shoulders in the very Gallic way he had.
I had to laugh. ‘But I do not have quite the same advantages as her.’
‘No,’ he snorted. ‘But for me you are much better. Listen.’ He captured my other hand and leaning across the table gazed at me earnestly. ‘You are worrying about what will happen in twenty years’ time. My love, if we have so much as twenty years happiness we shall have a great deal to thank God for. Do you not think that to ask for more is being greedy? You are saying, “I want a promise of half a century perhaps of perfection” – but who knows what will happen then? Let us take our happiness now, while we have it. We will leave the future until it comes, eh?’
He was silent for a minute and then abruptly he released my hands and began to drink his coffee.
I sat for a while unable to think of anything to say. I wanted so much to be convinced, but somewhere deep inside me there was still a niggle of doubt. His argument sounded so reasonable. I was facing problems which might, probably would, never occur.
‘What would your parents think?’ I said at last, cautiously.
André’s face broke into a beaming smile. ‘Enfin,’ he said triumphantly, ‘she has seen how foolish she is. They will love you. I have already written to maman and she is longing to meet you.’
He stood up. ‘Come on. Let’s go to see that film.’
He was irrepressibly happy for the rest of the evening and eventually I cheered up too. We laughed and much later as we wandered back through the warm night towards my flat, we began to make plans. Once more he left me at the door. He had a few more essays to mark, he admitted with a grimace. He blew me a kiss from the corner of the street and was gone.
I opened the door of my flat and was amazed to find my father sitting there sipping coffee.
‘Your mother lent me the spare key,’ he explained lazily. ‘Where’s young André got to?’
‘Young …?’ My heart missed a beat. ‘he’s gone back to the hostel. Why?’
‘Just as well.’ My father heaved himself to his feet. ‘Your mother told me all about it, Sue. You know it just won’t do, don’t you?’
‘Why not?’ My hands were suddenly terribly cold. ‘We have discussed it a great deal. I’m going into it with my eyes open.’
‘Yes, but is he?’ He put his arm round my shoulder. ‘Listen, Sue. The last thing I want to do is hurt you; but think of him. He is young and in love. He sees you as some perfect English dream he’s thought up for himself. But when he takes you home, what happens? His friends are married to girls fifteen years your junior. Are they going to be your friends? He i
s bound to make comparisons. He will be too loyal perhaps to hurt you if he can help it, but one day you can bet he will take a little mistress …’
‘Father, how can you! I was furious. ‘How can you be so horrible and unkind? You make me feel ugly and old and unloveable.’
He held me close. ‘Sue, Sue. I’m sorry. It’s because I’m trying to save you from being hurt later.’ Sadly he looked at me and then he smiled. ‘But of course, it is for you to make the final decision, my love. Whatever you decide we’ll stand by you.’ He dropped a quick kiss on my forehead and then said, unbelievably, ‘Have you ever thought of having an affair with this chap, Sue? Just to get it out of your system.’ He looked embarrassed. And I felt suddenly horribly ashamed. I had been having ‘an affair’ as he meant it, with André for months now and here he was suggesting it! Putting aside all his principles and suggesting something which would shock him so profoundly. I wanted to cry and after he had gone I did. I cried myself to sleep.
Next morning I sat for a long time at my dressing table gazing at the mirror, my fingers gently trying to coax the lines of exhaustion from beneath my eyes.
I had considered André. I had considered my mother and father. I had even considered Gwen and Phil. Now at last wasn’t it time to consider myself? Wasn’t André right to say think of today? Who could tell what the future would bring? What did I want? Now.
Slowly, deliberately, I reached into the drawer, found my precious, beautiful ring and slipped it onto the fourth finger of my left hand. I stared at it for a long time then I stood up. Today I would wear it. Tomorrow could take care of itself.
A Window on the World
Mrs Benton was old and very frail and she seldom went outside her house, relying instead on Mr Folkestone, the ‘paying guest’ who lived upstairs to do her shopping for her. But she didn’t feel cut off from the world for she had her front window. For hours at a time she would sit in the rocking chair which had been her mother’s gazing out at the road, occasionally moving the net curtain aside so that she could get a better look.
Encounters Page 46
