by Dee Yates
‘Hello, Liz. I thought I’d missed you. I saw you in the church. How are you?’
‘Fine, thank you. It’s beautiful here, isn’t it, though not easy to find. I’ve never been this way before.’
‘Haven’t you? I used to work not far from here, so I know it well. I would have rung and offered you a lift, but I’m calling on some friends for tea while I’m over this way.’
She looks uncomfortable. ‘I had better let you get off then. I don’t want to make you late.’
‘It’s all right. I’ve got a few minutes. Let’s walk along the pavement or I’ll get stopped by someone or other I’d rather avoid.’
They stroll slowly away from the church and he begins to tell her what he has been doing since they last met. Strange how easy it is to talk to her, he thinks. Not that she says much in reply. But he can tell that she is listening, giving her whole attention to what he is saying, unlike so many of his colleagues, who have half an ear cocked to what is going on in the rest of the room.
David glances unwillingly at his watch and sighs. ‘I suppose I’d better go. They’ll be expecting me.’ He hesitates, his eyes on the moorland stretching into the distance. Then he rests his eyes on her and smiles. ‘It’s been lovely to see you again. Do keep in touch.’ He steps towards her, minded to kiss her but uncertain whether she would welcome it. But she turns away and is gone, the opportunity lost. He watches her unlock the car and slide into the seat. As she leaves the parking space, she turns her head and waves. His eyes follow the car until it is out of sight.
The excitement of the encounter drains away, leaving him spiritless and depressed. For several minutes he stands. At last, he makes his way slowly to his car and drives off to meet his friends.
*
It is five months later. The phone rings. Absent-mindedly he lifts the handset, his mind still on the letter spread out on the desk in front of him.
‘Hello. David Penrose speaking.’
‘It’s Liz.’
His heart misses a beat.
‘Oh, hi! How are you?’
‘Fine.’ There is a pause. ‘Can I ask you a favour?’
‘Of course.’
‘Are you going to the service in the cathedral?’
‘Yes, I am. Are you going?’
‘Yes, but I’m not sure of the parking there. Do you think I could beg a lift? Please say if it’s not convenient.’
David smiles broadly at a grey squirrel that’s swinging on the empty bird feeder outside his window. ‘Of course you can have a lift. I’m glad you asked me.’
‘I can drive over to yours. What time will you leave?’
‘That would be a help. Do you know where we live now?'
'Along the main road and first right after the roundabout. Is that right?'
'Yes, halfway down on the left hand side – number thirty-three. Can you be here for nine? That should give us ample time to get there and find somewhere to park.’
‘Thanks a lot. I’ll see you on Friday then.’
‘Bye, Liz. Bye’
As he replaces the handset, he remembers with irritation that he has promised a lift to the church organist.
*
Raindrops are spattering his bedroom window as he watches her negotiate the narrow entrance in front of his house. A different house now, in a different town from the one in which they last met. By the time he has driven through the narrow terrace-lined streets with her at his side, rain is hammering on the roof of the car. He stops at a block of flats to pick up his other passenger. Liz offers to move onto the back seat and goes to open the door.
‘No. Stay where you are. I won’t be a minute.’ He splashes through the puddles. If he can’t give her his undivided attention, the least he is going to do is have her sitting next to him.
The city is awash. When they arrive, they have to skirt round puddles, ill-protected with a large umbrella. The cathedral strikes chill as they enter. By coincidence, he is seated right behind her. Once again, he can observe her without being noticed by either her or his colleagues.
It’s still raining when they emerge an hour and a half later.
They are quiet on the return journey. He is wondering how he can prolong their time together, picturing with dismay her car growing small as she drives away from his house. It is not until the church organist is retracing her steps up the path to her flat and they are covering the last half mile that he glances at her.
‘Do you fancy coming in for a cup of tea?’
She hesitates and he thinks again that she might refuse.
‘I’d better ring work and check that they’re not expecting me. Do you mind if I use your phone?’
While she dials the number, he puts the kettle on, singing in a low voice the words of an operatic aria.
‘I value your friendship. Please keep in touch,’ he says as she leaves.
*
The journey home from the Greek islands is delayed. A bird has flown into one of the engines of the plane. For twenty-four hours, Liz and her husband are stranded in the capital. She knows that she will miss a meeting of lay-preachers that has been arranged by David, but she can do nothing about it until her return. When, at last, she is back, she phones to apologise. Even now it is a mere politeness to do so, and a slight regret at having missed the meeting. Nothing more.
A note arrives.
Glad you enjoyed your holiday. It’s good to know you are back safely. You are a very special person, Liz, with wonderful gifts. Please keep in touch – you’re a great friend to have. Take care of yourself. Lovely people are scarce. Love, David.
The following week, she rings. He asks her to call in for a cup of tea. When she leaves, they hug, as they usually do now, but this time he bends to kiss her lips. And though she takes hers away immediately and then, to show there are no hard feelings, kisses him briefly on the cheek, there is no mistaking the upsetting of the equilibrium.
Is she naive? Has this tipping of the scales been developing over weeks and months? If it has, it must have escaped her. Now, though, thinking over their recent contacts, she can see how it might have come about. Panic swirls in her guts and settles there like a suffocating blanket.
The next day, like a bomber ringing to warn of imminent carnage, he phones to tell her he has written her a letter.
It’s the worst possible time – a cup of tea freshly brewed, her daughter just in from school, her husband bustling through the front door, demanding to know who is on the phone. She shakes her head, indicating that it’s not for him. Her voice is matter-of-fact, dismissive even. It isn’t how she means to be, but what else can she do? Had she been alone she would have asked him what was in the letter, though she has a pretty good idea.
‘I think you know what it contains,’ he says in a low voice. Later, she recognises this pre-empting of a revelation to be a way of lessening his turbulent emotions. The effect now is to increase her own anxiety even more.
‘Oh! Do I?’ She pretends innocence.
‘I’ll ring you tomorrow,’ he says.
‘Yes, all right. Bye for now.’ Her voice is carefully light.
‘Who was that?’ her husband asks again.
‘David. He might have to rearrange the next meeting of lay-preachers.’
‘Oh.’ He hurries past her into the kitchen. She lets out an unsteady breath.
‘Can’t stop. I have to be back at work in ten minutes.’ She gives an empty smile. She has heard these words or similar more times than she cares to remember. ‘I’ll try and finish for seven, so we’re not late for the dinner party.’
And pigs might fly, she thinks.
Unusually, he is true to his word.
*
It is a beautiful summer’s evening, shadows long across the fields, the sun sinking in a cloudless sky, dusk drawing sweet perfumes from flowers and trees. She balances on the edge of a settee. Through the open French windows, an intermittent light breeze wafts the scent of roses into the room. She feels another lurch o
f panic, like jumping off a cliff, she imagines, or waking from a particularly frightful dream.
The clink of glasses and coffee cups on the low table drags her thoughts back into the room and she tries to concentrate on what is being said. Maybe she has imagined it all. Perhaps she has read the signs wrongly. Yes, that is it. She has invented the whole nightmare scenario. Her heart gives another huge lurch. Why try and pretend? She has invented nothing.
The smell of roses makes her want to cry. She longs for home. Will the evening never end?
After a decent interval, they say their goodbyes. Her husband drives. He says little. Liz says less. Not that there is anything unusual in this. They seldom talk. Their minds exist on different planes that rarely meet. She is wondering how she will get through the remaining hours of darkness.
*
The sky is brightening now. It is only two days past the summer solstice. Tiptoeing into the kitchen, Liz fills the kettle and flicks the switch. When it boils, she pours water onto a teabag and silently opens the fridge door for milk. Then she retraces her steps to the study and sits down at her desk. Dawn is insinuating its fingers between the spreading branches of the oak trees in the cornfield that she can see from the window.
She is exhausted and her eyes sting with sleeplessness.
Now that she is out of her bed she can think more clearly, try to assemble her thoughts in some kind of order, even if such an order brings her no nearer a decision. At least the rampaging panic of the night can be brought under some kind of control. She sips her hot tea, scalding her tongue.
How has it come to this? She shakes her head in disbelief. How can this have happened? There was no hint of it when first they met. There was no hint of it until very recently. She did not encourage him, never thought of him as anything other than a friend, a friend whom she looked up to and admired.
The more she thinks about it, however, the more she begins to doubt her ability to analyse her feelings – her feelings for him and her feelings towards all the various people with whom she has come into contact over the years. It is rocking the cornerstones of her self-assurance, and her belief in herself has never been very strong.
The family are stirring now. She pulls her latest work in front of her. If asked, she has risen early to write. She does this often, writing articles for the church magazine and giving talks to various organisations in the church community. It is no different from what she has done so often over the last five years. The day begins. She bathes, dresses, eats breakfast, chivvies her daughter into piano practice, sends her off with schoolbooks, freshly washed games clothes and an eye on the clock, and drives to work. Is she behaving normally? If she isn’t, no one seems to notice.
Her decision is made – the first decision, that is. She will drive home as soon as her morning work is finished and check the post. That way she will know whether her worst fears are realised and there will be no possibility of the letter getting into the wrong hands.
With a detachment born of years of practice, she pushes her life into the background and concentrates on the lives of those who walk through the door and sit in front of her. As each one leaves, Liz glances at the clock. It is the only sign that she cannot totally dismiss from her mind the advancing tidal wave.
The letter is on the mat. She can no longer deceive herself into thinking that its contents are innocuous.
Dearest Liz,
How I longed to tell you all that was on my mind when we met last time. I couldn’t bring myself to, not knowing whether you would welcome it.
I love you.
I know this will bring difficulties, but I can no longer keep silent.
I think you may feel the same about me. If I am wrong, I apologise. If I am right, then you may be pleased that I have finally said it.
Love, D xx
15. A Beginning
June 1991
‘I have to see you,’ she whispers. Her voice shakes almost as much as her hand. Her eyes fasten on the window by the front door, in case her husband should unexpectedly come home. ‘Can I come over this afternoon as soon as I’ve finished my work?’
‘Are you cross with me?’ he says.
‘We’ll talk later.’
She knows what she will say. The letter has clarified her mind. All the same, she struggles to concentrate as she drives the car through the heavy traffic to his house.
He is apologetic, profusely so, for sending the letter. It is all true, he tells her, but he should not have said it.
His words take the wind out of her sails. She says very little; only sits next to him holding his hand in both of hers and stroking the back of it with her thumb. When she goes, they hug – nothing more.
*
She passes a second wakeful night.
The aftermath of the afternoon meeting, intended to clear the air and make plain Liz’s feelings, brings even greater turmoil. Now it is stirring up feelings that must have been there, dormant, for who knows how long.
He is in love with her. She has always dismissed the possibility of being loved. Even her husband has rarely admitted to any such feelings and never in such ardent tones. David’s declaration has stirred up a perfect maelstrom of desires she had no idea existed.
She is at her desk and writing a letter to him soon after sunrise.
Dear David,
This letter is not intended to pour cold water on all you said yesterday. I would not wound your feelings like that, but I had to write and say that the situation must go no further.
I also want to apologise for myself. This didn’t occur to me until I thought about it later. You were so busy apologising, but it is I who ought to apologise. I had no idea that being myself was such a dangerous thing to be. It’s in my nature to be open. Looking at myself, I suppose I’ve never been good at drawing boundaries – neither in my professional life nor between friends. And, yes, on reflection, I’m angry with you for crossing the boundaries that were there, even tenuously and putting me – us – in this position. I have to acknowledge that I feel very drawn to you too. But it must stop there because both of us have far too much to lose if anything more developed.
I’m very worried, as I said, that we will not be able to maintain the status quo. I suppose I’ve seen enough of family problems to realise that these things have a habit of developing – so I hope this won’t turn into a war of attrition. I’m hopeless at that, so I hope it isn’t in your mind.
I realise that what I’m trying to do here is build up boundary fences when they’ve all been broken down and the flock allowed to run amok. But I hope you’ll understand and agree to try.
I’ll be in touch soon. Take care – you are very precious.
Lots of love, Liz.
She knows that her thoughts are badly put down, but they are the right thing to say in such circumstances. She stares at what she has written. It is the first time she has acknowledged the feelings that she reads now on the page in front of her. The sentiments only serve to undermine the harsher words of the remainder of her missive. The letter might just as well stay unwritten.
He writes the following day, on receipt of her letter.
Dear Liz,
Thank you for your letter and for the telling-off. I deserve that and, as I think you know – being someone who understands people – I needed to be told off. After that I do feel better because I know that you have said what you mean.
I know that you have forgiven me, but I can assure you that it will be a very long time before I forgive myself. Putting my friendship with you and yours for me at risk was very stupid. I do not blame you in any way at all. I am amazed that you still want to be close to me after all this. Close friendship is a trust and I do feel that I have betrayed yours. Yes, there has to be boundaries and fences – perhaps it is right that events have meant that we draw them now.
Of one thing you may be very sure. The sheer fear of losing your friendship and your good opinion is enough for me. Over the past couple of days, I have suffered lit
tle short of total panic at the thought. So, no attrition, no wearing down, no secret plans – I’m really not that devious.
I’m not asking to start again but to build on what is past and go forward. We shall both have to set aside this week if we are to succeed in that. We shall need the humour and lightness that we shared before; I don’t think it is so very far away.
Ring me whenever you want – the number you have only comes through to the study. I’ll leave it to you – when you want to get in touch, please do. I am closing the book on the rest of this week, please do the same.
No more apologies, no more tears.
Lots of love,
David.
Like her, he is knocking down the fences before the fence posts have even been hammered into the ground.
She phones him. Four days after receiving his first letter, she is drinking tea on his settee and showing him her holiday snaps.
16. The Dance
August 1939
The music was well underway by the time Tam arrived. A band of four players, all of them more or less known to him, were grouped together on the stage. They were lads of a similar age to himself and his brother and they had been at school together.
He nodded to one or two of the young farmers and made his way across the hall to the kitchen.
‘Cup of tea, please. How much is that?’
‘Would you like a cake with it?’
‘Aye, I’ll take a bit of that cherry slice.’
‘That’ll be four pence halfpenny, please.’ The girl who was serving him looked up and smiled. ‘You’re Alan’s brother, aren’t you?’
‘Aye. Is he here?’
‘Och aye. You can rely on Alan to be here early. Likes to cast his eye over the girls and get the pick of the bunch.’ She lifted her gaze over his shoulder and looked round the crowded room. ‘At least he was in the hall a few minutes ago. No doubt he’s gone outside to cool off.’ Her eyes met his and she grinned. ‘Not at all alike, are yous? I can see you’re the silent, thoughtful one.’
