Chapter 22
Following that emotional stormy morning in late July I tried settling down to life as best I could. Urges to share my incredible experiences with the funny little fellow outside the confines of my mind grew stronger and stronger; if only to give some ailing folk hope. Luckily this tempting feeling waned as I recalled my promise, accepting a pact was indeed a pact. It wasn’t easy, it took time and discipline as these things tend to. As best I could I finally accepted Sir Ian had gone for good.
He’d always said once he left he’d never return to bother me till I’d passed my century, joking he had far better things to do! Despite knowing this there remained alive within me a small hope he may keep a certain promise made all those months ago, if only he was able. I’d been allowed access to so much that should have remained hidden and was eternally grateful, but yet to let this yearning die would have allowed a small part of me to perish also.
Edward, sometimes when the full moon hung high in the heavens and a faint shooting star trailed across our endless sky, I’d wake breathlessly from a wild dream, a faint flutter in my heart, imagining owls hooting in the trees was the misguided young fellow messing around with vegetables in the garden, or allow myself some comfort for a mere minute or two that noises in the misty meadow yonder were tiny little footsteps picking up the scent of catnip in an inexplicable effort to attract all cats in the area.
Of course one never got up to check, or dared speak his name out loud for fear that may shatter the delightful illusion. However, we are told when infants if one wishes selflessly and does so with a true heart, providing we are judged to deserve it, maybe just maybe, once in our lifetime we may be granted our hearts desires.
I’m extremely pleased to announce the last seven days of October 1920 were exceptionally sunny for that time of year. Not only were we blessed with no clouds to speak of during the day, there were widespread reports of the unusual brilliancy of our moon throughout that entire week.
I can still picture dear mother now with such vivid distinction it may well have happened only last week. Every morning for the last ten years since Rose had passed she’d tumbled into the kitchen, grabbing the local newspaper. A few minutes later she’d lay it down looking bitterly disappointed. Sometimes she’d allow herself a morsel to eat.
This Monday morning was distinctly different. If only I’d known during those earlier years what I know now, I’d have pieced it together in an instant. Seemed to me mother had been searching for something all this time in classified ads near the front.
Yes, today started normally enough, apart from a puzzled look at the paper as part of her daily routine. Tuesday came and went and she left the kitchen briefly, looking flustered. In retrospect, Wednesday the 27th seemed to be the turning point - a raising of her eyebrows and a quick, thoughtful glance. By Thursday night gone midnight she’d dragged father outside to stare wondrously at the curiously bewitching moon.
Friday morning I noticed she’d started making discrete, personal notes of her findings which she carefully kept in her pinafore, quickly transporting them to safety upstairs.
On the sixth day, a Saturday, there was no paper printed, so she sat peering at her clasped hands, nervously allowing her right thumb to continually rub the knuckle of her left forefinger. Every so often she glanced expectantly at the clock and the window. I looked her up and down, wondering fitfully whether it may be wise to start a conversation. I noticed father glancing her way from time to time too and it seemed he was experiencing feelings along these very same lines.
Before either of us could formulate any sort of plan, the decision was taken out of our hands. A beautiful robin redbreast fluttered along the ledge outside the window, chirping happily. Mother rose briskly to her feet, heading straight upstairs, where strange rustlings could be heard between deep rumblings of a neighbouring tractor.
Faltering engine noise faded away into the distance, and not thirty seconds later she returned, placing bacon on the stove and balancing thickly sliced bread on the side of her plate. This was most irregular. As sun rose gently over the horizon, for the first time in ten years I saw that winning, fulsome smile return, the one I remembered fondly back in her brighter days when I was a sensitive young child. This was unbelievable! Yet there was more. When she smiled she hummed a cheerful, warming ditty to herself, one bringing back more warm memories of aunt from my tender childhood. I’d had my suspicions since day one, but ‘twas still one hell of a shock nonetheless.
I looked at father; he glanced back at me. I peered over the table at Edward who gazed uncertainly at father. Father looked back over at mother as if to convince himself, gave us both the once over again with his eyebrows raised, during which I successfully deflected any involvement, then threw his hands up, blissfully content the situation was finally solved. He continued with his breakfast, thoroughly enjoying a contented little smile. Father was clever that way - clever enough to understand when to push and when to hold back. Strange times indeed he remarked as the festive period drew ever closer, for Christmas day itself was a roasting ten degrees.
Edward, parents the world over have their own tale of how they met. Some speak of pure coincidence, others are tragic and painfully short, a few feature true romance. Many are just downright hilarious. I find my own story particularly special, possibly even unique.
This very minute I finished reading Aunt Rose’s letter again, as I like to every wedding anniversary, for it never fails to grant me great comfort. Old times flood back and accompanying emotions are overwhelming. During this magical period I get excited, starry eyed, overly talkative and feel like screaming with joy. I also like to talk our amazing life through together with Constance, speak endearingly of endless love and hint of even happier times to come.
‘tis now the 17th June 1970 and vivid memories of those amazing days in the roaring twenties are now flowing freer than ever. Can you believe I almost forgot to include this!?
Rose’s Letter.
‘Dearest Sam,
This is one for you only. There are two things you need to know, please listen carefully as is your forte! One is the truth that you have eighty years left on earth. Sadly Brian and I barely managed to scrape that between us. Think what you can do, see, accomplish. Seize every opportunity, not always the one to make endless piles of money either – you’re old enough to understand that money doesn’t bring you happiness; merely security and increased options.
As for Mr Peters, try to allow the naughty fellow a little slack, after all he didn’t have to choose you, and I understand some of his points regarding work etcetera, remember!? I won’t mention the fact that the lucky chap’s blatantly far cleverer than any of us can ever hope to be. One only has to keep one promise to make us happy and that is to promise to try.
The second is perhaps the best. Brian and I think so. Remember Constance Gray? Stop blushing - you do too don’t you!? Once I came to pick you up from school as Margaret was busy. Passing the classroom window I saw you gazing in each other’s eyes, though ‘twas just for mere seconds. In that brief poignant moment of crystal clarity you saw something you recognised in her and her in you. At that early age it must have been extremely difficult to know just what it was or where you recognised it from, but Sam, as you grew older by God you knew. Yes, you knew and you understood the true significance of what had happened that special summer’s day.
At the tender age of ten physical beauty wasn’t part of the equation for either of you, so you simply recognised that Constance was attracted to the true you, and at that very moment she saw inside you, past any facade, finding the true, selfless part that possesses unlimited love with no end. Surely it goes without saying you saw exactly the same thing in her? I too know this wonderful, magical sensation and guarantee it’s extremely rare. Exactly the same thing happened to your uncle and I more than forty years ago, and we’ll be together for all eternity, longer!
I bet you’ve hardly spoken to her since, poor girl
. Sam, I can’t explain how I know this, but I promise if you question her she’ll confirm every last detail. Constance is a beautiful young woman now and still sits and thinks about you when alone, wondering of times to come. Each passing year her visions and hopeful future expectations fade a little more. She will not come to you the way you are now, leaving fate in your hands. She thinks you at present a trifle too selfish and single minded, though knows deep down that is not your true heart.
Go to her now child, when you have these points truly in hand, for soon it will be far too late - a girl of her sweet nature and singular looks will have a thousand suitors vying for her hand. We both know she will not wait forever - alas she cannot - she has too much love to give.
I know you’ll give these points the greatest of thought because of the person you are and where they came from. Aunt Rose would rather die than steer you wrong, my special little boy! Sam, I trust you’ll make the correct choice. So looking forward to seeing you lovebirds in Pine Meadows!
In the meantime,
Love from us both,
Always.’
I foolishly waited nearly three years before opening this amazing note, wrongly believing it contained something entirely different. Of course Rose’s words were perfectly true. I felt strongly there had been an unspoken agreement between Constance and I that special day to be together in the future. Apart from a simple lack of courage, I’d long wondered what sort of life I could provide such a rare beauty. Didn’t she deserve far more than such a work centred bore? And the way I was then, I couldn’t possibly hope to provide her the happiness she truly deserved. I knew then as I know now, if I wasn’t truly happy, then neither could she be. Breeding such a situation would have been exceedingly selfish of me.
By the time I’d opened the note I’d left my stifling office, moving on to exciting design work, feeling far more confident with life and my place in it. So at dawn next day I sprung out of bed, knowing it was now or never, praying precious Constance hadn’t given up.
Talk with mother revealed Constance had been travelling on the continent, but as fate would have it was now living with her mother, ten miles from town. There was no bus service out there, so I set out at a brisk pace, buying two attractive bunches of budding roses along the way, one white, one red. I gently coaxed a flower out in the middle of each bouquet, so perfume circulated freely.
When I arrived at her home, earlier confidence sagged. Old doubts slyly crept in and I thought how incredibly foolish I’d look turning up unannounced after all this time. I’d barely spoken to poor Constance since school and felt thoroughly ashamed of that. My being here - did that not make me a bit of a chancer, a cad? Why would she even talk to me? This bright girl may well think me mad and set her dogs after my worthless hide. She may well be correct and I may well deserve it.
I felt faint and weak. My stomach pulsed, tightening uncomfortably - a nasty, nagging pain crammed with nausea and sharp, stabbing pangs of hunger. So I stood at the end of the track, transfixed to the spot for a full fifteen minutes, shaking and willing the growing negative feelings to pass. After a while it became apparent they were here to stay, perhaps for good reason, and I was now of the mind that this may be part of my just punishment.
I shuffled nervously up to the door, knocking ever so quietly. An infant could have knocked louder. Several long minutes passed. If no one were home, then all would be for naught, I just knew it. An old door lock chinked in pain and the door swung open slowly. I recognised the elderly lady from schooldays as Constance’s mother. Whoever she was expecting, ‘twere most certainly not me, for she started backwards in genuine surprise.
“Constance please,” I mumbled, glancing uncomfortably at the floor.
“One moment,” she whispered, leaving her door slightly ajar. Bare wooden stairs betrayed hurried clomping and a rush of muffled voices echoed round the wide hall. My heart fluttered uncontrollably, hearing nimble feet negotiating the long staircase a fair few steps at a time. The door creaked open and there she was – beautiful Constance Gray. Rose had been unnervingly correct; the angelic young girl was totally and utterly perfect. A vision in a bright blue dancing dress that must have been tailor made in the city of high fashion she’d been lucky enough to visit. Locks of golden hair shimmered radiantly and bronzed skin gleamed with a healthy, heavenly glow in warm sunlight streaming across the doorway.
Constance’s beautiful chestnut eyes lit up brightly when she saw me, but then her eyebrows moved upwards and stayed, while her arms folded automatically. “Sam?” she asked, tilting her head and pursing her lips tightly. One terribly uncomfortable silence followed and my legs trembled. “Constance, I’m so very sorry,” I said, crestfallen.
She studied me closely for several agonising minutes. “I should say you are,” she declared, relaxing. “Are you here to stay Sam?”
“Yes, if you’ll have me.”
“Come in then, I’ll show you around,” she cried happily, taking my hand, granting me a gorgeous smile and accepting the flowers gratefully. ‘twas as if we were already an elderly couple, I’d been found guilty of a misdemeanour, had admitted it and been forgiven.
Her mother sat by the fire, disguising her great interest in proceedings by knitting furiously.
“Her gran always said she felt Constance was waiting for someone. Well, I never ever guessed it would be you Sam,” she confessed, smiling happily. “Here son,” she cried gleefully, rushing over to her dresser. From a specialised jewellery box she coaxed an antique golden necklace and an even older silver ring. Both had been sleeping there for quite some time. She hung the necklace around her beaming daughter’s neck and placed the magnificent silver filigree piece in my hand, pressing it firmly closed. “Mind you take good care of these precious gifts Sam Johnson, or gran and I will be back to haunt you!”
Edward, that was the most terrifying, surreal and happiest day of my life thus far. We married in a beautiful moonlight ceremony one year later, the 17th of June 1924 under the attentive gaze of a full and colourful moon. Constance confessed everything, confirming all Rose had said. That very week she’d almost given up on me ever courting her, blaming herself, wondering what she could have possibly done wrong. Just like me she’d told no one of her feelings, holding a crazy idea that if she did her life may not work out as planned.
Most folk married far earlier way back then, some at sixteen. So, at the age of twenty three I’d gotten there just in time. No matter how much your dear mother likes to joke, our life together has been pure, unadulterated bliss. In forty six years I can’t recall a single argument. And to think I nearly missed out on all of it and all of you. Luck? Destiny? If only there were words far greater in imagination and infinitely more descriptive.
Edward, I long for the moment when I’ll be able to discuss these events amongst many others in far greater detail. Please understand, due to time restraints I’ve simply been unable to tell of all events that transpired during and after Sir Ian’s visit, so have contented myself by setting down a few of the main events exactly as I remember them. I believe this is the best course of action for now. To finally be free to speak with a fellow human on this very subject with the gay abandon it begs would be nothing less than pure joy.
Your Loving Father,
Samuel Johnson.
END
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Other stories in my current collection include:
The Phantom of Pilberry Place
The Legend of Brandice May
Into The Light
All available as E books.
Pine Meadows 1920
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Sir Ian Peters Page 22
