The parasol

The fragile hope of those days was accompanied by increasing restlessness. Somehow she continued to attend the meetings and events related to work, to fulfill the routine tasks. Yet she wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere but here.

Later that week she took the train to her sister's new home in Suffolk, where she stayed two nights and spent hours wandering in the lovely countryside under a hot, hot sun. She bought an Ordnance Survey map of the area and explored mile after mile - alone. Where was he, her walking companion? They had always studied the map together, planned the route, had such fun when they got lost, or couldn't work out the path. When she found herself puzzling over which direction to take, the fact that he was no longer there, with her, broke her heart all over again.

She struggled to comfort herself knowing that, as they had arranged to speak the next day, she could at least tell him all about it.

Late spring that year had been especially hot, and she had never been comfortable exposed to scorching sun. Together they had decided a parasol would be ideal for her, and also a fan. So on their travels they had searched for these but nothing suitable was found. He had promised her he would buy a fan for her if he saw just the right one.

After her long walk that hot day she strolled in to an antique and collectors shop in Needham Market, where several lovely fans were displayed - and there, in a corner surrounded by garden tools, old toys, broken furniture, walking sticks - was an exquisite parasol. She opened it out, it had a light wooden frame, cream, blue, green and orange floral shade, and turned wooden handle. She bought the parasol, and two of the fans.

On her way out, she noticed a remarkable black and white ostrich-feather fan, but this had a high price and she could not justify that. So dramatic, so unusual, so beautiful! She sent him a message to tell him about it and he replied that she must buy it and he would pay, but right then this did not feel the right thing to do.

Her time in Suffolk was good, the walking, her sister's company, the fresh air, the change - all served to burn away at some tension, sorrow, despair. His call to her the day she left for home again was reassuring, comforting, and so very loving. He, too, had been walking, deafened by the silence of loneliness.

H remained very unwell but was improving. He was to travel back to Peterborough that Sunday night, to see to affairs at home, to sort out more clothes and other things - this meant he would be there, alone, for three nights, before driving back to Winchester early on Wednesday. He asked if they could meet on the Tuesday, perhaps walk together? He would ring her to arrange it on Monday evening.

Coppelia knew this was the right time for him to read her letter, and she posted it first class on her return home that Saturday. The letter in purple ink, a letter setting out the truth of their relationship, her devotion to him, and how they might continue contact, even if only through writing, the occasional phone call.

A letter revealing the foolishness, the waste, of their never knowing one another again. A letter in which every word counted, every word would, she hoped, reach his heart and not let go. Nothing negative, or blameful, was included. No pity, sorrow, misery.

A letter to remind him of how great a gift their love really was, how thankful she was to have known him, how she would always love him whatever happened. How she realised the shock of H finding out as she did, had made him panic in fear. How she respected him for putting duty before his own pleasure. How she forgave him for treating her so badly, as she knew how hard it must have been.

He lost count of how many times he read that letter. After all he had said and done, Coppelia's words astounded him.

When she awoke that Tuesday, knowing she would set eyes on him, touch him, in a few hours, she could hardly contain her joy. Was it really true? It had happened! Whatever was to come, it had happened that whatever they shared was so much stronger than whatever might part them.

A hot day. He would drive to her village and wait for her by the church at 10am. She set out in a blue cotton summer dress and blue sandals, her hair in a pony-tail; and to shade her head from the blazing sun, she carried the parasol.