Flying

A gift arrived for them soon after... H was invited on holiday with her daughter in late March. They did not hesitate in using this time by choosing to be where they could walk the hills together - a dream they had spoken of so many times. A few days in the North York Moors - who could believe heaven was found here? An unexpectedly warm sun shone as they wandered each day for miles and miles in wild country, drank real ales in cosy inns, enjoyed such fun and laughter, and shared great awe and wonder at the beauty unfolding around them as they walked. Becoming ever closer. Her new-found security glowed deeply within her, releasing her to really live and love in those days like a free bird. A bird no longer caged, but flying.

Her 47th birthday. A decision.

She wrote to him to say how unhappy she was. He knew, as she did, that it could not go on like this, so he thought of a plan which he believed may cause the least suffering to H, yet allow them more time together and eventually a free life together.

He would tell H how unhappy he had become, that he wished to have more freedom and believed they should live their lives more separately. Over time, she would become accustomed to this, and when it seemed H had come to terms with living more independently he would tell her he had fallen in love with someone he wished to share his life with - whilst assuring H he would continue to provide for her as he had promised.

He stressed that this may take some time, maybe a year or more. He had to make sure that H had adjusted, to leave too soon may upset her so much that she had a stroke or heart attack - or worse. H had saved his life all those years ago when he was in such despair over the loss of his wife. He must make sure she was content.

"My leaving H could destroy her. If it did, I could never again look into your eyes and feel we deserved one another," he had said.

When they reached this decision, it was the day before her 47th birthday, and the best gift he could have given her. At last, a way through. At last, she could endure this because she knew a proper life together lay before them. She now had hope. Real hope.

So the month of March began. As H was to be 80 in late April, they decided the best time for him to speak to her would be after then. The first weeks after telling her would be the hardest, he could not cast a shadow over the big family party that was planned. However, he did arrange a meeting with H's daughter to talk with her about what he planned to do. She understood, and was not surprised as many people had been aware for some time, that things were not working.

There was nothing more to be done now but wait.

Stealing an hour...

Their time together was dictated according to his life with H. Some weeks they might steal only an hour- for this she might take a train for an hour each way to be with him. Some weeks they might enjoy two whole days, a night. Last-minute changes, cancellations, so many lonely waits at stations, so many nights leaving the train in the dark, coming home without him. Leaving his arms, seeing his waving hand disappear in the crowd as she boarded the train to carry her miles away from him, grew to hurt her more than she could bear, for she could see no end, no change. Peterborough station grew to symbolise immense joy for her, and immense sorrow. Arriving, leaving. Sometimes never knowing how long it would be - two weeks? two days?...Why had she not listened to those inner warnings ? Constant uncertainty, the loneliness, ate away at her, and she knew she was trapped, slowly suffocating in misery. She wrote in her diary at that time...

" Cupid, don't you ever watch where you fire your arrows? Why do you shoot into hearts that cannot fulfill the desires you bestow? I swore I would never again enter a liaison such as this, where I always take second place to another, where I must dodge and dive and be grateful for crumbs from his table...Is this an obsession? I don't think so - just that familiar ache of a deep need for closeness, for touch, for knowing he is there - remaining unsatisfied.

The cruelty of being given an itch I cannot scratch. All I long for is the twinkle in his eyes, to hear him laugh, breathe in the smell of his skin. Ah, the searching heart, whose restlessness is hidden from the world, whose restlessness plays on, a silent and unseen accompaniment to the outward existence of my days.."

It was soon after this that she wrote him a letter.