Shaping the Ripples

by Paul Wallington

  The Cajun chicken we had both ordered was excellent, and the conversation flowed surprisingly easily. Liz regaled me with some anecdotes about the hunt for rare books, and I told her some stories from my job. It was almost a shame that it had taken divorce to bring us back to a point when we got on so well.

  As we both tried to make a start on the massive puddings, Liz looked more serious.

  “I can’t put off asking any longer,” she announced. “Is there anyone special in your life?”

  “There hasn’t been since we split up,” I began. “But there is a girl at work. We went out together for the first time last week, and we’re going to the pantomime together on Monday. It’s probably not going to go anywhere though.”

  “Why not?” Liz asked. “What’s she like?”

  “She’s great,” I answered simply. “I really like her. But I’m pretty much set in my single ways now.”

  Liz clearly wasn’t going to let me off the hook that easily. “I don’t believe that for a moment,” she said. “You’re someone who has a lot of love to give, and who needs to be loved back.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” I answered. “I haven’t exactly got the best track record, have I? It was my needing to be loved that broke us up. Perhaps I’m supposed to learn from my mistakes.”

  “Perhaps you are,” Liz agreed. “But I don’t think that you’re supposed to learn that you’re this dreadful person who will never be able to have a relationship. All that you told me earlier says that your childhood is what makes it harder for you in relationships. But now you’re aware of that, and the person that you’re with will be as well, so you can learn to control it.”

  “Maybe,” I said, unconvinced. “But just because you know why something’s happening doesn’t mean that you’re going to be able to change it.”

  “Jack,” Liz said, her voice more compelling. “ If you’re going to give up on love because of us, then all you do is let the abuse win. I don’t know if this girl’s going to be the right one for you, and I can’t promise that you won’t get hurt. But I do know that someone will be the one, and if you don’t give it a try you’ll make yourself miss out on all that happiness and all that love.”

  “You could be right,” I said, trying to bring an end to this part of the conversation. “I’m just going to play it carefully with Katie. I don’t want to rush things just because I’m feeling lonely and a bit frightened at the moment."

  “Fair enough,” Liz agreed. “And remember that you can phone me any time if you need to talk.”

  “I’m sure Peter would love that,” I joked. “It’s one thing letting you pay me a visit, but I’m sure his patience would soon wear out if I was on the phone every five minutes. Thanks for the offer though.”

  “I mean it,” Liz repeated. “That letter really frightened me. I want you to let me know if anything else happens. OK?”

  “Alright” I promised, and went to pay the bill.

  I walked Liz the short distance back to her hotel. We stood together at the bottom of the steps which led up to the main entrance.

  “I guess this is goodbye again,” I said.

  “Hopefully I’ll see you again in the summer,” Liz responded. “And maybe I’ll get to meet Katie then as well.”

  Her head suddenly bobbed forwards, and she kissed me. “Goodbye, Jack,” she said. “Thanks for a nice evening. Make sure you take care of yourself.”

  She turned and began to walk up the steps. I stood, looking after her. I watched her back all the way into the hotel, and then she disappeared from my view.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The weekend that followed Liz’s visit was mostly one of introspection. Her final comments about my attitude to relationships had gone deep. If nothing else, she had made me realise that I wasn’t being fair to Katie if I hadn’t worked out whether or not I wanted a serious relationship before things developed further. The problem was I didn’t know.

  Another confession. I’ve always been a big Star Trek fan. I know this immediately identifies me as a sad loner living in a basement (dangerously close to the truth – except my flat is on the top floor) but I still maintain they are great programmes. I’ve enjoyed the original series, the Next Generation, Voyager and the prequel series although for some reason never took to Deep Space Nine. It’s not just the interplay of the characters which, if you’re a dedicated enough viewer, feels like being part of a somewhat eccentric family. Sometimes they manage to come up with a really thought provoking storyline as well.

  It was a particular episode of the Next Generation that came to mind this weekend. In it the crew rescue a small boy (I think he’s a Klingon but it doesn’t really matter) whose parents have both been killed. Despite their best efforts, he remains silent and refuses to respond to the care that they are trying to show him. Eventually they realise that his grief has taught him that it’s safer not to care for anyone. Loving always comes with the risk of pain and grief. To love is to make yourself vulnerable. Of course, the show had the usual happy ending, with the child learning that being a shell might be safe, but it’s not very satisfactory either

  Even at the time, it struck me as a fairly profound issue to raise. Once you’ve been hurt badly, it takes a lot of courage to risk being hurt that much again. I suppose in my case, having survived the abuse and then a failed marriage, I’d come to believe that it was a courage I didn’t have.

  Besides that, what was the point in loving if you already knew it would end badly? That Liz had genuinely loved me had been confirmed by her mercy dash to see me. If I’d managed to ruin that love, wouldn’t I be just as effective in destroying any other love directed at me?

  Then I had to take account of what Rebecca had said to me about Katie. The last thing I would ever want to do is to hurt Katie. I could already tell that she was going to be an easy person to fall in love with. Maybe I would be better calling off the whole thing now, before she got too emotionally involved with me.

  And then in this mental tennis match, I was back to Star Trek. To tell Katie that we couldn’t see each other would be to close off any possibility that my life could be more than it has been for the last three years. I was back to my last ever conversation with Jennifer, and her question “Don’t you deserve something more?”. Maybe Liz was right and now that I knew what was causing my behaviour, I could work at changing it. Perhaps I could love and be loved like a normal person.

  And so the ball went back and forwards over the net, without my ever getting any closer to make a decision. I suppose the positive by-product was that I wasn’t spending time fretting about the anonymous letter. Eventually I decided that I needed to get out for a while.

  So it was that on the Sunday evening I ended up sitting at the back of York Minster. It seemed as good a place as any to think about love. The service of evensong was just beginning at the front of the church, attended by a handful of people. The haunting sound of the choir floated around the church.

  The Minster itself has the most incredible feeling of space and peace. It apparently has the widest Gothic nave in Britain, is impressively high and is all white, giving a sense of light and air. Looking down the church beyond where the service was taking place, is a large marble screen, onto which are carved all the kings of England from William 1st to Henry VI. The message it is intended to convey is that through the often bloody and turbulent history of this land, the Minster and the faith that it represents have remained constant. Actually, this isn’t quite true, as the current version of the Minster is the fifth one to stand on this site, but it’s still an impressive screen.

  I hoped that something of the peace and calm of the setting might lead me to some answers. Is love always worth the risk of hurting or being hurt? Is solitary life always a poor relation to a life shared with someone else? To be honest, at first, all it seemed to do was give me a few more arguments on either side.

  I completely understand why most people reject Christianity. A look at the atrocities committed
through history, or at the shallowness and mean-spirited nature of many who claim the name of Christian, seems an overwhelming indictment of its worth. And yet, I find myself drawn irresistibly by the message that lies at its core. The picture of a God who comes to the world not to judge or to oppress, but with His arms open wide in love hits me with a new power every time I think of it.

  I know the damaged child that is still inside me was bound to respond to the idea of unlimited, accepting, forgiving love. Maybe my tentative faith is nothing more than the fact that I want that picture to be true and so have convinced myself that it is. But I don’t think so. The accounts of Jesus – his life death and claimed resurrection – seem to me to be a strong witness. So, if I believe that the nature of God – the thing we are all created to strive for – is to love no matter how much that love is rejected, then surely we are meant to try and live with the same open, vulnerable love.

  But no sooner have I thought that, than my eyes are drawn to the banner displaying where trying to live in that love brought Jesus. And I am again faced with the question that if crucifixion is the ultimate price of real love, then why would anyone risk it? Especially me, with a heart that life has already battered and shrivelled.

  The service had finished, and most of the people had drifted away. There were a few visitors left, but the most noticeable presence now was that of the cathedral police, prowling around and scrutinising those who remain to try and detect any signs of malice. The police are unique to York Minster and have existed ever since someone tried to burn the place down in 1829. In these days when religion is far more likely to provoke indifference and boredom that hostility, it strikes me it must be one of the easiest jobs there is.

  On my way out, I stopped and lit a candle, although I had no idea what prayer I meant to accompany it. Back at my apartment, I fixed myself a snack of cheese on toast and settled down for an evening watching the American Football play-offs.

  Part way through the first of the evening’s two games, the phone rang. I already had a sense of who it was before I picked up the receiver.

  “Jack,” came the welcome voice. “It’s Katie. How are you?”

  “Hi Katie,” I said with pleasure. “I’m fine. Have you had a good time?”

  “It wasn’t too bad,” she answered. “I’m just ringing to say that I’ve arrived back safely, so I’m all set for tomorrow.”

  “Good,” I said. “The pantomime doesn’t start until half past two, so I thought we could perhaps meet up and have some lunch first.”

  “I’d love to. What time do you want to meet?”

  “Have you ever been to Betty’s tea room?” I asked. “I’d wondered about pretending to be tourists and getting a sandwich there.”

  “I’ve been once with Rebecca, but we only had a drink and a cake,” she replied. “It was very nice but it’s a bit expensive.”

  “It’s my treat tomorrow,” I said firmly. “It tends to get quite busy, so how about if we meet outside at twelve to make sure we get in fairly quickly?”

  “That’s fine for me,” Katie answered. “Jack, are you sure everything is OK? You sound a bit shaky.”

  I thought for a moment before deciding that it was probably better to be open about the letter I’d had now, rather than hiding it or casting a cloud over tomorrow by telling her then. So, I told her the story, but toned down the note’s contents.

  “That’s really scary,” she said when I’d finished. “No wonder you sound a bit shaky; I’d be totally freaked out. And the police don’t seem to have any ideas who might have sent it?”

  “No,” I answered again. “It seems to have come from whoever killed Jennifer, but I think I was at the top of their list for that one. At least the letter might have changed their minds on that.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Katie asked. “I wish I hadn’t been away when it happened.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I told her. “It’s just really nice to hear your voice now.”

  “Yours too,” she answered softly. There was an intimate feeling silence for a few moments before she continued. “I’ll see you tomorrow at twelve then.”

  After we’d said our goodbyes, and I was once again stationed in front of the television, I reflected on how those few minutes had made the questions I had wrestled with throughout the last two days seem completely irrelevant. The one truth that I was completely sure of was that I really liked Katie. I loved hearing her voice and I loved being with her, and I wanted to do a lot more of both.

  I had no idea where it was going to lead and at that precise moment I didn’t care either. I just wanted to be with her as much as I could. Perhaps that was the answer to my turmoil as I lit the candle in the Minster. Time would tell.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The last day of the year started out as if it was determined to also claim the accolade of coldest day. Standing outside Betty’s Tea Rooms a few minutes before twelve, I was having to hop from foot to foot in an attempt to keep warm. So it was with relief, as well as pleasure, that I saw Katie walking up past the small fairground, that had been set up in the middle of the pedestrianised area.

  “It’s so good to see you,” she said, giving me a hug. “Shall we go in and eat?”

  Betty’s Tea Rooms are a deliberate throwback to an earlier age. It was a meeting place for local girls and airmen during the Second World War when I suspect it was a fair bit more rowdy than the genteel tea rooms which are there now. It’s gone for a turn of the century kind of feel, and the waitresses all wear the Victorian garb of black dresses and white pinnies. You can either sit upstairs in the main part of the shop or underground. I think it’s more prestigious if you’re put upstairs, but I’ve never been keen on people staring in through the windows at me while I eat. Downstairs is much darker, but the chairs are plush and comfortable. Besides that, on the wall downstairs is a large mirror with many of the airmen’s signature on it.

  When you go into the shop, there is a roped in corridor down which you queue for a table. Often this queue stretches all the way out of the shop and down the street. We’d obviously timed our arrival just right, as we were able to walk almost right to the front. Within a couple of minutes a waitress had ascertained that we wanted a non-smoking table downstairs for two, and led us to one.

  Once we’d ordered our sandwiches, Katie chatted for a while about her week with the family. The sandwiches arrived, each of us receiving a plate with four triangular white-bread sandwiches with the crusts carefully cut off. Both looked good, so we traded two of Katie’s prawn and avocado sandwiches for two of my chicken, and munched contentedly for a while.

  “Come on then,” Katie said suddenly. “Tell me what’s so special about this pantomime.”

  I thought for a moment about how to answer this, and then said “I think I’ll let you find out for yourself.”

  She crinkled her nose at me disdainfully, and carefully poured herself another cup of tea. “It better hadn’t be full of big-breasted women wearing next to nothing,” she teased.

  I mimed pulling a zip across my lips, and she laughed. We both ordered a coffee éclair, and began to talk about films we had seen in the last year, and which ones we’d enjoyed most. Our top five wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close.

  Even after the pudding, barely half an hour had passed before we stood up to pay and go. Back on the street, I glanced at my watch.

  “It’s way too early to head for the pantomime,” I observed. “What do you fancy doing now?”

  “Today’s your plan,” Katie answered. “I am totally at your command.”

  I cast my eyes around, looking for inspiration, and found myself faced with a sign pointing the way to the Jorvik Centre. Once I’d checked that Katie hadn’t ever been there, I lead the way.

  “We may as well really act like tourists,” I said, trying to justify my choice.

  The Jorvik centre is a celebration of York’s Viking past, and has just gone through a massive refurbishment. Built
next to an excavated Viking street is a faithful reconstruction of how this part of York would have looked, sounded, and even smelt in about the 11th century. You get to travel through this mesmerising place in a time-car – a small carriage for two. This proved to be an extra attraction as Katie cuddled tightly up to me as soon as we moved off into the dark. I must admit that while Katie was staring out of the car at the tableaux of Viking life, I spent much of my time savouring the closeness of her, and the smell of her perfume. That was until it was overpowered by the recreated smell of Viking sewage!

  We wandered through the archeological exhibits at the end of the ride for a time.

  “That was really fun,” Katie said as we emerged back into the world of the twenty first century, and kissed me on the cheek. I was learning quickly that Katie was a girl who was given to a lot of spontaneous shows of affection. As someone who is always very tentative about initiating physical contact, I loved it.

  The Theatre Royal is situated at the very north west edge of the city walls. Although there was still half an hour to go before the performance began, the foyer was already packed with people. Eventually I managed to fight my way through to the bar to get us both a drink, and then we searched for a clear bit of floor space where we could stand together and drink them.

  We both jumped when a loud voice called out from behind us.

  “Jack, Katie! I didn’t expect to see you both here.”

  We turned around to see Ian Jacobs smiling across at us. He was standing arm in arm with a very elegant lady with golden blonde hair. By their side were two immaculately dressed children who had both clearly inherited their mother’s striking hair colour.

  They moved across the room to greet us. Ian made the introductions.

  “Family, this is Jack and Katie, the friends from the Crisis Centre that I was telling you about. Jack and Katie, this is my family. My wife Lisa, and our two monsters, Rachael and Ben.”