One year

One year had passed since they first met and they had a day in London on Thursday September 13th, catching the same train home - the 19.23 to Peterborough. He had booked a table for two in the very same restaurant where they had spent that first magical afternoon, sinking into each other as if they had always been together. This was where he had first mentioned H, and Coppelia had faced that blinding moment of warning deep inside.

Now, a year later, Coppelia pondered all that had happened as she sat with him, and realised she did not regret a thing. This anniversary day in London was a delight to them both, a whole, long day together after all that had happened.

Yet those hours fell short of being the joyous celebration they might have wanted. As H was still quite unwell from time to time, he had to ring her now and then, and Coppelia knew he was troubled.

He still looked unwell, and she took care not to cause him further distress in any way. For the first time Coppelia took account of the fact that he would soon be 79. She wanted to make him happy. Over their drinks during the meal, he took her hand and kissed it, telling her that, for the first time ever, he could now imagine there being a second Mrs D. This was something he had not believed possible, that he should feel able to marry again - but he could see Coppelia as his wife. This stunned her and she asked him to repeat his words. But he would not, saying it hurt too much to know it could never happen...

Coppelia later pondered those words many times. They told her that whatever was thrown at him, and however he reacted at the time, from now on she understood beyond a doubt that his feelings for her would ultimately withstand such pressures. He would always come back.

This quiet certainty came to rest in her battered heart and seeped through her like a balm.

The following weekend he and H stayed with his daughter and her family in their huge rambling farmhouse in Suffolk. Recent events were much discussed, he faced more questions, as Coppelia's letter to his daughter had prompted difficult debate.

On his return he met with Coppelia for just half an hour, to tell her he couldn't cope. Meeting again would be too risky, maybe it was best to just speak on the phone and leave it at that.

His daughter had insisted he couldn't possibly be in love with someone so different to him; he was mistaking lust for love - he must put all this behind him as a big mistake and move on. What would his grandsons think?

She listened but said nothing. He was telling her how much the photo album meant to him, he frequently took it out from its secret hiding place, and would sit in his study and bask in memories. He said it had all been like a 'fairy story' that could not last. Who was he trying to please? This did not convince her. She thought, these are his daughter's words, not his! this will pass. His real feelings will prevail...

Watching his face, Coppelia thought he looked more unwell than ever. His face seemed longer, his mouth drawn down, his spirit greatly diminished, like a man being slowly emptied. Afterwards she realised this was the one time they had not laughed. Even that morning back in July when they had met to say goodbye, some small laughter had punctuated their sadness.

She prayed for him in his utter misery, and part of her hated his family - and H - for not believing, for not appearing to care about his happiness. If their ages had been similar, how differently things might have turned out! How might H, and his family, have behaved towards him, if the woman he loved was not 47 but 77?

Yet, even as she watched him drive away that sad afternoon her heart remained anchored in the certainty that it was not over. They spoke on the phone, the pressure he was under still very real, but all Coppelia could do was keep loving him, listening, being there. He so looked forward to talking with her. 'Twice I have tried to leave you, and twice you have seen the truth,' he said.

Coppelia's faithfulness and compassion were unlike anything he had experienced before. His dearly beloved wife came close, but he said he was not sure if even she would have endured what Coppelia had endured for love of him. He so wanted to make Coppelia happy.

Whenever the hurt of missing him became too much she would take out her photographs, all in small albums, and look again on all those joys, on the reality of their love. Though this often made her cry, somehow she was reassured to see this small tableau of their lives. He came back to her through those pages. A picture of him on a bench by the beach at Scarborough, with the imposing Grand Hotel behind him, made her smile. She had gone for a wander on the empty, misty beach whilst he had a rest to read his paper,and on her return she took the picture whilst still at some distance from him. His legs crossed in that characteristic pose, his head tilted as he studied the page. The man she loved.