by Tim Finch
But I loved you, darling.
I remember an interviewer in those early days saying that I must find Christmas a particularly difficult time, and I was reminded of your ambivalence – let’s make that downright dislike – towards Christmas. (Can we agree a moratorium on buying each other presents again?) The memory made me laugh out loud. The interviewer looked surprised and, in this instance, I did say, ‘The fact is Anna was not a great one for Christmas,’ and the interviewer looked sad, and I felt I must add, ‘But yes, I do miss her more at these special family times.’ Traitor, I could sense you snarling.
So, yes, I have been guilty of painting you, of memorialising you, and – as time has gone on – even remembering you, in softer tones than were true to the lived experience. With its more barbed edges. With you in the room. Who did nag and irritate. Who did pontificate and go on. Who at times I couldn’t stand. Who at times I wished would just …
Fuck off?
Quite.
It may seem strange but it is the memory of such exchanges that tears most keenly at my heart. You could be a bloody difficult woman (and you could be a bloody difficult man. Granted) but it is that woman – you – I miss the most. Perhaps I have contributed to the creation of a softer version – not you – for just that reason. It makes the public grieving – still a part of my life – easier to get through. I am remembering and honouring you at one remove. And I know you scorn and ridicule all that, but I will be attending memorial and named-in-your-honour events for some years to come, Anna Dupont. Like it or not, you were – or have become – a respected and almost loved figure in certain circles. It does sometimes make me laugh (and I have to put on a serious face because people look so taken aback) when I hear you described in these gatherings, as you often are, as ‘a believer in peace and reconciliation’, as someone who ‘brought communities together’, who was a ‘great healer’. True, you were pioneering in your field; you improved, even saved, many lives; you campaigned for and spoke out about many causes, most notably on mental health issues; but gentle, pacific, conciliatory?
Tell me about it, I can hear you saying. You’re to blame, Ed; it was your handling of my death that has led me to be remembered in this way. If it had been me, I’d have been calling for them to rip his bloody head off …
This is why Martin has been such a godsend: because from the start I have felt no pressure to portray you in any way other than the way you were. You would have liked him. He you. He often says as much.
‘Did she like other people’s children?’
‘Not greatly.’
‘And didn’t make a lot of effort to disguise the fact, I’d guess,’ he laughed. I laughed too. ‘I like the sound of this woman. My little ones would have adored her. There’s no one they love better than an adult who couldn’t care less about them.’
I visited the Frinks’ home the last time I was in Berlin. The house – a new-build – was one of those surprisingly modest homes that some quite senior people favour in certain northern European countries. The little ones adored me too, I might add, though I am not quite such a stern challenge.
The toddler, Ruthie, said straight out, ‘Your mummy is dead.’
‘That’s my girl,’ Martin laughed, appearing with the wine.
‘His wife, not his mummy,’ the older one corrected.
‘You can play with us, anyway,’ Ruthie said.
I was going to, but Martin hastened to tidy the children away. He left me with his wife, Fredda, while he did the bedtime thing. How much did we miss out? I sometimes wonder.
Let’s not go there.
You again.
Probably best.
I moved the conversation in Martin’s office on to the progress of the talks, what pressure the German government might apply behind the scenes, how things were seen in other capitals. We talked over sandwiches and coffee that were brought in. We had moved into the armchairs by the fireplace by this stage. The fire was not lit. Martin did suggest meeting for a drink in the evening. Fredda and the children were at Fredda’s mother’s house in Würzburg. But I was catching a flight. On to London, then Paris, then Geneva, then back to the mountain.
Later in the afternoon I walked up Unter den Linden one more time. Sleet was now falling and a day of relentless grey was blackening into night. Again, I thought of how many times I had walked up this avenue over the years – and this time I remembered to include you in the reflection. How many times had we walked up this avenue, never looking at the trees after which it was named (that went for you too), but also – and this hit me harder – never making the connection. Are you with me?
I take it from your silence – and forgive my juvenile delight – that you haven’t twigged, that I’ve stumped you – tree puns very much intended.
Unter den Linden. Den Linden.
Us doing the crossword together, do you remember? One of us working out a tricky clue and, instead of just telling the other the answer, saying – all smug now: ‘Oh, of course.’ And the other one (more often than not me) saying: ‘It’s no good saying “of course” like that, as if it is obvious; you’ve been staring at it blankly for twenty minutes.’ And you (it was generally you) saying: ‘I wasn’t staring at it blankly, I was studying it intently, and I can now see it is obvious. It was staring us right in the face.’
And you would laugh at the expression on my face – not amused – and would start saying (or singing), to take one example: ‘Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner … Eight times eight across serves up …’ Still a blank look from me. The look from you: pure elation, pure triumph. ‘It doesn’t get any better than this’ was written all over your face. ‘BATMAN. Eight across is “Dinner”. Eight times eight across is “Dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner, dinner …”’ ‘Okay, I get it. “Batman”. Very clever.’ Your delight was such that you might almost have devised the clue, not just solved it. But here’s the thing: as much I was exasperated with you, as annoying as you were being – deliberately, provocatively – I loved you so much at moments like these. (You can see a theme developing here.) And I loved so much being in the couple’s closed circle. The tight, taut drum. Purely in and of itself, intrinsic to a fault.
So, have you got it yet? Nope. You’re sulking. Still love you. Love you for ever. Perhaps I have been too hard on you today? Perhaps I have made both of us seem unlovable? Strange sort of love story, this, until you stop to think that we found each other. Not luckily, I like to think, but inevitably. It was nothing to do with fate or destiny. It was algorithmic. An equation that could only equal. An alignment that had to be. After all, who else would have had us?
The answer is: Philemon and Baucis. (Please don’t say it was on the tip of your tongue. By rights, this is flat-of-the-hand-against-forehead time.) Philemon and Baucis: the greatest love story of all time; the story all lovers should yearn towards and aspire to. Granted one wish: to die at the same moment and so never to be parted. The linden tree entwined around the oak.
It was you read it to me, remember? ‘The household consisted of two.’ In Ovid’s version in Metamorphoses. Sentimental old lovebirds after all. The fact that it is one of the great classical fables helped, no doubt. If it had been a Disney film it would have been a different matter. Though I also remember you mentioning that you were weary of books peddling their seriousness by reworking Greek myths. You’re going to have to bear with me on this one then. Because, under the lindens, their naked branches standing out stark in the winter night, I found myself retelling the old tale. To myself.
There was this fellow, Phil, that’s me, and his wife, Babs, that’s you. They were poor (well, we were never rich rich), and they were good (that again; more good than bad anyway), and they were devoted (true, unequivocally), and they were happy (ditto – most of the time). In many versions of this tale it might have been said that the gods were smiling on them. But of course, Phil and Babs didn’t believe in the gods. Or God singular. Or the fates or destiny. (We’ve
dismissed all that already.) Or even in good luck. At least, not to the extent that it extended more readily to good people. Luck was a brute. Unevenly and unfairly distributed.
And before we continue, let’s nail this good-people thing. Phil and Babs had once, for two months, had a refugee stay in their house, in one of their two spare bedrooms. Good for them, surely? Not quite. The fact was they found the experience most unsettling. Indeed, let’s turn that up a notch or two. They hated almost every minute of it. They wondered how it was that other people, friends among them, found putting up a refugee so rewarding, so uplifting. Frankly, they doubted these friends were being entirely honest about it.
The problem was he was always there. He didn’t want to be in the way and they were hardly ever in. But whenever they were, there he was. Ezekiel, his name was. On the landing, in the kitchen, in the living room. Though much more often in his room. Hardly making a sound, but still in the house, their house.
The three of them shared a few (awkward) dinners together, but mostly Phil and Babs were out in the evenings. They led busy lives and found themselves busier still during those two months. They left early in the morning and returned late at night. Ezekiel had a key. He had the run of the house. He came and went. And finally – it was a long two months – went. For good. He left a thank-you note and a small bunch of flowers.
They wanted to hug each other, to dance a little jig for joy, when they found that note and read what it said. That at least was what they both felt separately – and had one of them acted on this impulse, they would surely have done it. For later – years later – they admitted this to each other and found it was not too late. Hugging each other and dancing around the kitchen – admittedly, drink-fuelled – as they remembered the day poor Ezekiel left their home. Do these seem like good people to you?
Happy ending: a social housing tenancy had been secured for Ezekiel by the refugee charity. A place of his own. No doubt he was much more comfortable there than living in their home. Though of course Ezekiel thanked them very much for allowing him to stay and he hoped Phil and Babs would visit him one day.
They didn’t. And neither did they take in another refugee. What they did do was triple their direct debit to the refugee charity. There and then. The night Ezekiel left. They were thanked in the quarterly newsletter. It proclaimed them Patrons or Angels or something of the sort. They quickly disposed of the quarterly newsletter. But the flowers Ezekiel left behind as a token of his thanks bloomed seemingly for weeks. It was a relief when they withered and died, when Phil and Babs could finally chuck them out.
But here is the oddest part of their tale: Phil and Babs, for all that they had no illusions about their goodness, about good fortune and just deserts, still trusted that the fabled ending would enfold around them. In their version, they would live together into old age and then die, if not at exactly the same moment, then within a year or two of each other. Pretty painlessly and peacefully; accepting the end, happy they had had a good life. And yes, an oak would be planted somewhere, around which a linden would entwine. They had discussed making it happen. Could a municipal cemetery or public park be persuaded to do such a thing? For years after people would read the plaque and nod their heads and smile and say, ‘Ah, a real-life Philemon and Baucis.’ And Phil and Babs got a kick out of that thought, not least because it meant they would be recognised not just as a devoted couple, but a well-read one. Who knew the classics, who knew their Ovid.
There is a twist, though. And not that twist. A twist that precedes and supersedes. The fact is, I – the one left behind; the one disabused, one might say – still believe that the story of Phil and Babs should have ended this way. No matter that it didn’t. It would have been the more natural order of things – and so much more plausible. I cite any number of eminent reports and peer-reviewed papers showing ever-increasing longevity, rapid advances in medical science, improvements in palliative and end-of-life care, not to mention studies that prove that as we get older our fear of death reduces, such that we eventually wish for our end. We have every chance, we really do, that we will fade away with our loved one holding our hand, free of pain, free of fear, knowing he or she will follow soon after. We are white, Western, well-off, well-educated, living in the best districts of the most advanced cities in Europe in the twenty-first century – truly, for us, the story is supposed to end this way.
What stretches credibility so, what tips into the realms of the fabulous, is that a 55-year-old woman, a distinguished consultant psychiatrist, should leave a Central London research institute one afternoon in May, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, and be decapitated by a young, heavily bearded man, of ‘Middle Eastern’ appearance, wielding a mighty sword and shouting ‘Allahu Akbar’.
Off with her head, swish, gone, dead. Pouf! Like something out of The Arabian Nights.
How could that have happened? And to such good people.
To mention just one initiative, there are now hundreds of young women around the world who have benefited from Dupont scholarships. They write to me to say how inspired they are by your example. You did such good work. You were such a good person. And what a good person I am for creating the scholarships in your memory.
Yes, how weary one can grow of all this. The heavy mantle draped around our shoulders yet again. With the best of intentions, no doubt. But wouldn’t we throw it off in an instant for just a few selfish minutes more? For a snatch of time together against the world? And in your case – don’t deny it – the more pointed ‘me-time’? With me out of the picture. What would you give for that? All the good you did, I’d bet.
I was in a taxi to Tegel by this stage, looking out through lachrymose windows on a city in turns bleak and cold, light and warm. Black rivers, canals and waterways. Dark hulks of industry and tenement. The dazzle of finance, consumerism and lifestyle. Pockets of domestic, almost cottagey warmth. This is a spread-out, strangely underpopulated city. For the moment my own pocket, this overheated taxi, is a comfort – as, later, my seat in the plane will be. And the luxury hotel room in London.
But to return to Phil and Babs one last time. Phil has been left on his own, then. Feeling foolish or betrayed – or a bit of both. Though, as we’ve seen, he still believes. And at this point in the tale – the crux of it – he is confronted with a terrible truth, already hinted at. What if their one wish could have been granted, but with this twist? That he too is cut down in the street. A second swish of the sword and he dies in almost the same instant alongside Babs. Never to live into ripe old age, but never to be parted from his beloved wife. Deal? asks Mephistopheles. (The tale has turned Faustian for some reason.) Or no deal?
I have arrived at the airport. Gone through security into the first-class lounge. I like this time before a flight starts boarding. I order a brandy from the barman. The thing is, there are comforts. The treacherous comforts of life.
THE AFTERNOON OF THE WOMEN’S UNIVERSITY
One thing nobody has encouraged me to do is to start a new relationship. Indisputably ‘too soon, too much’: we can all agree on that. I suppose at some point there will come a time. Though, having said that, I wonder if there ever will. One of those touching care-home romances, perhaps? Even then …
For a start, I am still in a relationship with you. That relationship has suffered the most grievous shock and yet I am as committed to it, as intensely in love, as I have ever been. More so, in fact. What is going to change that? People say time – though thankfully never to me. I have found time to be a thin diluting agent. Or rather, it works to purge raw grief but at the same time bathes and beautifies and beatifies love. Steeps and essentialises it. What remains is a perfect distillation; love in its purest form – 100 per cent proof.
Not then the healthiest form?
I can hear you adding the qualifier. And here’s the paradox: more than anyone it is you I can most imagine urging on me a new relationship – not now … but in due course. Whatever that might mean? Look it up, why
don’t you. (See, we are squabbling in that way we so enjoyed.) And yet – here’s the paradox again – remembering and so missing you in this irritating form is just what will stop me, give me pause.
Aha! Weakening already.
But I raise this business of a new relationship, why? Given that I appear to have done so only to dismiss it out of hand. I suppose part of it is that it has allowed me to make these declarations of – forgive me – undying love. I have been reflecting on the implications of the story of Phil and Babs, my ‘Unter den Linden’ moment. But also, while I was in London – for the briefest stopover – I had what might be termed a ‘date’.
And having said that, albeit qualified by those quotation marks, let me correct myself. (Why do I keep doing this?) For the word ‘date’ was certainly not used, or even implied, either by our friend Jean, who suggested I might like to meet up with her friend Josephine, or by Josephine herself, who was my dining companion. Dinner was the word used. Not even dinner date. And there was no sense among the parties to it (I include myself emphatically) that if the dinner went well, sex, romance, a relationship would come of it at some point. If not there and then – nothing so vulgar as that – then ‘in due course’, perhaps. And that is what a ‘date’ implies. At least it does to me. Am I wrong? Ignoring your grin, I consult my much-thumbed Shorter Oxford: ‘An appointment or engagement at a particular time (esp. with a person of the opposite sex)’. I am wrong. Or am I? I think we can agree that a tantalising dot dot dot is left dangling off the end of this entry? All of which is neither here nor there in this instance, however, because we are not talking about a date. That is the point we have, somewhat tortuously, arrived at.
