She could never tell him...

March arrived, and with it more afternoons by the river near Brampton Mill, the moist fragrant greens of early spring transforming the woodland into a misty grotto. A long, quiet wander in softly dappled light. Just a few hours for them, then a whole week until next time.

Each Tuesday Coppelia arrived in Bedford, having time for a coffee before meeting him outside the centre where his course was held. The car was usually in the same place. How many times now had she made this journey? The familiarity of the bus route, then the same short walk to wait for him by the car, parked in that quiet back road behind the town, brought her a strange comfort. This small routine in the midst of her insecurity and the unpredictable nature of their life together, was relished as a still centre, holding her, something she could rely on in the face of whatever turbulence and fear rumbled around in her life.

Sometimes they would take a picnic to a hotel and spend the afternoon and early evening there, until he had to leave to return home. Coppelia would remain there all night, alone, and he would come back after breakfast and stay until the room had to be vacated. These were some of the most wonderful times for her - knowing she would sleep in a bed he had not long left, waking in the morning knowing that soon he would be with her again. More wonderful than words can express, special in a way that no-one could ever understand, unless they, too, have known the ache of a love that thirsts for so long in the desert.

Yes, such times were indeed wonderful, but they were short and infrequent and Coppelia hated the way he always had to leave. She ached with loneliness, but she could never tell him how hard all this was.