by David Evered
‘Peter, I can’t judge the last but your analysis of my position is uncomfortably perceptive and, irrespective of where our futures might lead us, this year will always remain a treasured memory for me. I think I should go now.’
‘That’s not necessary and I should be sad if you were to leave now.’
‘Maybe – but it would be better and it would be good for you to be with friends. I shall be going back to France in a week or so and have various things to do while I’m here – but please remember that you are a free agent and I have no right to make any claims on you.’
‘Sally, Michael and Sue are not simply my friends; they are our friends and remember, I have a modest triumph to celebrate to which you have made a significant contribution. If you were to leave now I should be very sorry and very aware that there is a great void in my life, even if the exact dimensions of that void are not known to me at present.’
* * *
At the end of the evening, she kissed Peter and said, ‘I don’t know when or if we shall meet again but you know very well how to find me. I think it would be right to say “sayonara”. As I understand it, it has a sense of destiny about it, meaning “it must be thus”. It doesn’t presage a return, like au revoir, but neither does it overtly deny such a possibility. It doesn’t offer a benediction, like farewell, nor does it have the finality of goodbye or adieu. We must just pause for a time to see what our destinies might reveal to us.’
* * *
Peter found it difficult to settle to anything over the next week and filled his time in trivial displacement activities. He called Sally’s flat several times but there was no reply. The May Bank Holiday weekend was approaching and he felt a pressing need to escape from the confines of his flat and London.
Following a restless night, and on a whim, on the Sunday he drove to Newcastle and checked into the hotel where he had stayed the previous year. The compulsion to return to Dunstanburgh and recall the start of his odyssey was overwhelming. He drove slowly to Craster the following day, as he had done nearly two years before. The warm, cloudy and oppressive weather matched his mood as he walked along the coast to the castle. Sitting in a secluded corner of the ruins, he was quickly lost in thought. The repetitive thunder of the waves striking the base of the cliff sheltered him from the ambient sounds generated by those walking through the site. This was where it had started – this had been his gateway to a future which was still uncertain, a future which was now unalterably different from the life he had foregone. Would reflection on this spot help him to identify the next faltering steps into this future? Had he learned by going where he had to go? The learning process, initiated and driven forward by events over the previous two years, was far from complete. Would it ever be complete? Would he want it to be complete? Would he even wish to reach an endpoint, a final destination, a terminus? Had this period in his life reshaped his mindset and liberated his thinking irrevocably and, if so, where might this take him? He reflected that, if this was the case, this particular question was unanswerable. Incertitude was an immanent element of learning by going. His writing might or might not flourish. It would be judged by others but it had become a major component of his being. But this was only one component of his emancipation. There remained a void, a vital element missing, a sense of partnership which he had experienced and sampled freely but had never been able to imbibe to the full. It had been a unique and distinctive relationship which he had enjoyed and revelled in with Sally. But there had always been a barrier, literally a no-man’s-land, a zone of exclusion to which he had been denied entry. He longed to see her again and once more enjoy her company, her challenges, her humour, her intellect and her body. Was this enough? His instinctual reaction was that it would not be sufficient. Would or could the relationship develop and deepen further? If not, would a freedom to establish other friendships be adequate compensation for an inability to diminish the distance between them? He could not be sure that this was so. Did he also lack the ability to make unconditional commitments? It was not clear in retrospect that he had ever done so with Ann. Was this simply a question of time, maturity and person? Would a freedom to develop other relationships diminish his ability to commit himself wholly to one in the near or more distant future? There was also Jenny, who had walked here with him a year earlier. She had become a warm, uncomplicated and understanding friend – or was she destined to become more than a friend? He thought back to the evening in France when she had suggested joining him in his bed and the memory evoked a sharp pang of desire.
He had arrived back where the odyssey had started. He was revisiting the place yet sensed he was also seeing it for the first time. It was also a different place. It was not simply a location and an environment but it was an amalgam of a physical environment imbued with actual and virtual human presences, emotions, memories and future aspirations and fears. This place was, and would forever be, full of memories and each of those in turn would generate flashbacks and remembrances of times past and possibly glimpses of times to come. Too many of these memories reflected a sense of loss or hopes and aspirations as yet unfulfilled.
He was startled out of his reverie by a voice from behind:
‘We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time’.
He turned to see Jenny standing close behind him. ‘T S Eliot,’ she said. ‘It seemed so apt seeing you sitting in this place meditating.’
‘You were in my thoughts and you have materialised from my daydreams and, more than that, you have read my mind. How did that occur?’
‘I came up to the North-East to see Mum. I tried to call you in your flat this morning as I needed to talk to you and see you. I then called Sue as there was no reply. She said that you had left early yesterday, simply saying that you would be away for a day or two. As it’s a bank holiday, on a hunch I called the hotel where you stayed last year and discovered that you were indeed in Newcastle. It wasn’t difficult to deduce after that that you would come here. It was clear to me last year that this place has acquired an iconic significance for you and I know you have a sentimental streak.’
‘Yes, and as last year and the year before, I’ve been reflecting on the uncertainties in my life. The only difference is that one cohort of doubts has simply been replaced by another!’ Peter looked closely at Jenny. ‘I sense that this is more than simply a cliff top reunion – you said you needed to see me. You sought me out for a reason?’
‘Yes, let’s sit. A lot has happened since Sally left you ten days or so ago, which you should know about. She didn’t go back to France as soon as she had planned. I so much wanted to contact you but it will become clear from what I am about to say why I haven’t done so. I think you know that Sally and I have become close. She called me after leaving you and was in a hell of a state. I would have called you then but she expressly forbade me to do so. She needed support and I went over to her flat and stayed there until I had to leave to come north. She was cursing herself for what she had said to you and for what she described as her intellectual and emotional detachment. She worries about her inability to express her deeper feelings and it’s clear to me that her passions run deep, deeper than you might ever imagine, and they are intensely felt. I didn’t know where to turn for help or advice. Eventually I persuaded her to see my doctor who put her on some medication and she became considerably calmer.’
‘You should have called me.’
‘I wanted to but she got so upset when I suggested it that I didn’t feel that I could. She wouldn’t even pick up the phone when it rang as she felt unable to talk to you in the state she was in. I guess you were probably one of the more persistent callers.’
He nodded. ‘Where is she now?’
‘She returned to France yesterday. She asked me to give you this which she wrote just befor
e she left.’ She handed over a sealed envelope. ‘I think you should read it now.’
He opened the letter.
‘Dearest Peter,
This is the most difficult letter that I have ever had to write but writing seems the most straightforward way of communicating with you after our many lengthy and difficult conversations over the last few months. They have been painful and challenging for me and also, I suspect, for you. I felt so rotten after I left you the other day that I delayed my return to France and rang Jenny. She is an amazing friend. She came to stay with me. I needed both her shoulders to cry on and she generously made them available. I felt that I had been a fool and that I might never see you again. Saying sayonara implied that I saw my destiny as being determined by the lottery of life rather than by choice. I have cursed myself again and again for my blindness and my feigned intellectual and emotional detachment. We have shared so much joyfully, companionably and lovingly and I have not treated you well. It is for you to choose if you wish to see me again, as a friend or a loving friend, but I find I cannot just walk out of your life unless that is your express wish and I hope that you will not decide to walk out of mine. Ultimately, the next steps are a matter for you to decide – or even whether there are to be any further steps. I might wish it otherwise but I know that any plans for your future must now be left in your hands.
I shall be back in France by the time Jenny is able to pass this on to you. You know you are welcome here at any time.
With my love as always, my loving friend
Sally’
Peter sat with the letter in his hand for many moments and then looked up at Jenny.
‘You look bewildered,’ she said.
‘I think that’s because I am.’ He hesitated. ‘Do you know what Sally wrote in that letter?’
‘No, of course not. All I do know is that she’s one hell of a confused lady and that her feelings for you run very, very deep. It looks as if it has disturbed you. Do I have one hell of a confused man on my hands as well? Do you wish to share whatever it is with me?’
‘I think you should read the letter for yourself.’
She sat on the stones and read and then re-read the letter. Finally she looked up and asked, ‘What do you plan to do?’
‘I’m not sure what to read into that letter – reading between the lines has never been my strongest suit. Whatever my response and whatever I do, it places a heavy responsibility on me. I certainly have no wish to walk out of Sally’s life but I just can’t foresee if and how my relationship with her will or should develop.’
‘Peter, I can only repeat that Sally’s feelings for you run very, very deep. I cannot determine what you should do – that has to be down to you. As she says, how your relationship develops is largely in your hands. I sense that there is still a disturbed and confused lady behind the words in that letter. She has bestowed many gifts on you – I don’t say that to place a burden or an obligation on you – and you also should not underestimate what you have given her. She has made as strong a commitment to you as her history and her emotions will permit. Sally’s right; any further steps, or at least the next steps, must be down to you.’
‘Jenny, I’m very confused and anxious. My first instinct is to leap into my car and drive to the Dordogne. But I’m also fearful – will I cause more confusion and distress in her mind, and, perhaps also in mine, although that is far less important? If I were to re-enter her life or if I were to exit her world, would I simply reinforce her presumptions that relationships which touch her are doomed to be transitory and evanescent?’
‘Peter, I really can’t answer those questions, pertinent though they may be. I simply don’t know the answers to them. In fact, they are unanswerable.’
‘My instincts tell me, urge me, to go to France. Five weeks of my sabbatical year still remain. I cannot simply walk out of Sally’s life – I need to see her.’ He thought for a moment and looked across at Jenny. ‘Would you be able to come with me? It’s clear that she trusts you as a friend and confidante,’ he paused and added, ‘as do I.’
‘Sally suggested before she left that I might go out for a few days in June but I said I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do so. It would not be straightforward to take time away from work just now and I’m not sure I’m necessarily the best person to dispense advice. I feel that I would just be in the way.’
‘I have no ambitions to offer advice to Sally – I simply want to provide support and, without wishing to put you under pressure, I am sure your support would be invaluable to both of us.’
After a few moments Jenny said cautiously and hesitantly, ‘Alright, I’ll see if I can arrange to have some time off. I too am worried. Do you think we should let her know we’re coming and run the risk of rejection or should we just arrive unannounced?’
‘I think we should let her know – I’ll drop her a note as soon as you’ve been able to fix a date when you can have some time off work.’
34
Peter posted a card to Sally simply saying that he and Jenny would be coming to Sarlat and planned to arrive late in the afternoon of 12 June.
The drive south evoked vivid memories of the journey which he had made the previous year. On that occasion, he had been exhilarated by a sense of release and adventure but now he was more reflective, more uncertain and more anxious. So much had occurred since then and during the preceding twelve months. They spoke little during the journey, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. They reached Souillac and turned westwards along the well-remembered road by the river, the late afternoon sun irradiating the houses and throwing their reflections onto the luminous water. They left the river and headed towards Sarlat and Sally’s house. The house was locked and her car was not in the driveway. It was evident she was not at home.
Jenny looked at Peter and asked, ‘Did you tell her when we would be arriving?’
‘I didn’t give an exact time, I only said we would arrive late in the afternoon. I didn’t receive a reply, but I only wrote a few days ago when we knew that you’d be able to take time away from work. She’ll have just gone into Sarlat and will be back soon, I expect. Let’s sit on the terrace and enjoy the sun.’ They sat there for an hour or so, relaxing and dozing in the early evening sun. Finally Peter said, ‘I guess it’s possible that she has gone away for a day or two and not received my card. We should go and see the Brownings. They’ll know if she is away and they also have a key to the house.’
They drove the few miles to the Brownings’ hotel and rang the bell at reception. Tilly came down a few minutes later. She put her arms around him. ‘Peter, thank God you’re here. We’ve been trying to reach you at your flat in London. You’ve obviously heard the news – I am so sorry.’
Peter looked at her, his heart sinking. ‘Tilly, what are you saying? I’ve heard no news of Sally for a fortnight or so.’
Tilly stood back and looked directly at him with her hands on his shoulders. ‘Oh God, Peter – come up to our lounge.’ She looked across at Jenny, ‘And you too, please come up. Did you come with Peter?’
Tilly led them up to their private quarters. Peter introduced Jenny and explained that they had both come to see Sally as they had been concerned about her. ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry – you don’t know.’ She went across and put her arms around him again. ‘There’s no easy way to say this. Sally’s car left the road two days ago and struck a tree full on. Peter, she’s dead. No-one knows exactly what happened.’
Peter looked at her silently, uncomprehendingly. Eventually he said, ‘How could this have happened?’
‘We really don’t know. Nobody knows. It was early in the morning, very early, and it was a clear dry day. She was on a fairly straight stretch of road and nobody saw it happen. There were no other cars around. As we understand it, there was no mechanical problem with the car but it is still being examined.’ Peter fell back into a chair, his head in his hands.
Tilly crouched and put her arms round him. Jenny, also in tears, knelt beside the chair and put her head on Peter’s arms.
They remained like that for some minutes. Eventually Peter said haltingly, ‘Where is she now? I should like to see her.’
‘The police came to us as they found our names in the address section in her diary. Jonny went to identify her formally – he said she looked very peaceful.’ She paused. ‘I’m sure they will allow you to see her, if that is what you want to do. It would probably be a good idea for one of us to go with you. It will help with the language and access. We could perhaps do that on Monday after the weekend is over.’
‘What do you think, what do they think might have happened?’ asked Peter apprehensively.
‘We really don’t know – she might have been distracted by an animal running out or I suppose she might have fallen asleep at the wheel or it may be there was something wrong with the car – even something as commonplace as a sudden blow-out of a tyre. It does happen.’
‘The alternative is too awful to contemplate. But had you seen her since she came back to France two or three weeks ago?’
‘Yes, several times. She came over for a meal about a week ago. She seemed to be more relaxed than when she was here in May but, as you know, Sally can, oh God, could be very reserved.’
