Stricken with a kind of grief, she felt as if her heart was being torn from her as she stood, trying to stay somehow rational. The man who professed to love her so dearly, was allowing her to slip away so easily and appeared indifferent to her suffering. She could no longer contain her despair.
The day's heat was by now unbearable, and he suggested they might go somewhere to eat and have a drink, to continue discussing this and maybe find a way to resolve the situation. How funny this sounded, in the circumstances! But H grew almost hysterical, insisting she wanted to go home, she had had enough. Coppelia told him she had to see him alone, another day. If they were to say goodbye, they at least deserved to do so in privacy; it was no-one's business but theirs.
Coppelia had journeyed to the town by bus, but he offered to take her home as she was so distressed . H protested at this, but he ignored her. She realised she would have to sit behind H, who now sat in the passenger seat in which she, Coppelia, had spent endless happy hours on their many travels together. How deeply that pierced her ! As she tucked her legs in, the view of grey hair, permed, a prim white collar underneath, faced her like a slap. Know your place, Coppelia, you are behind this woman now.
As they drove to her home village, she challenged him again. These were her final moments to do so, and she stopped at nothing. What about the poem he had written for her, only the week before, in which he told her his heart would never rest without her? How could he now tell her that poem meant nothing?
At this question, H cried out and sobbed loudly- 'you've written this woman poems?! ' His response stunned Coppelia. 'Now see how you've upset H! Don't you dare say things like that! I didn't mean those words, I only wrote them to practice my poetry.'
She guessed panic and fear had driven this reply, but was incensed to think that he could speak so hurtfully to her. She didn't say another word. All was lost. Did he really not see her pain, or care?
His denial, his cold words, his refusal to offer her any crumb of comfort, should have made her hate him so much she never wanted to see him again. She wished she could feel that angry.
She asked him to drop her at her mother's home, a short distance from her own. She could not face her daughter. He had met her mother earlier that year, also her sister. 'Official introductions' to the man she believed to be her future partner. Her mother was a safe place to run to. Her mother had always understood.
On the seat next to her was a carrier bag containing her green wellington boots. ' I put them there for you, I thought you'd want them back,' he said, as the engine stopped running. The wellingtons had been kept in the boot of his car, along with his own, in readiness for any walks where the going underfoot was very wet.
Miles and miles they had walked in their wellingtons that rainy spring, through mud and huge puddles, walks full of such laughter and joy. How incongruous - those wellies, symbols of carefree days, long hours of laughter, adventures, kisses in the rain, holding hands, splashing through mud like children - handing them back to her was like handing back the memories. No longer required.
She told him she couldn't take them back, she wanted him to keep them, just in case. 'I cannot accept that we will never again go on our walks together,' she said, and left them there, in their bag, on the seat.
For all that had happened and been said, she knew he was not happy, she knew he was acting not out of what he wanted, but what he believed was his duty. How she wanted to scream at him "you fool!" ... for all the pain in her heart, she knew that he, too, was in pain. Yet all was in his hands - not hers. She was now powerless.
She had just turned away to leave, when H reached back and took the wellingtons, opened the door and hurled them furiously into the bushes by the front of the car. She then got back in, slammed the door and they drove away.
The day's heat was by now unbearable, and he suggested they might go somewhere to eat and have a drink, to continue discussing this and maybe find a way to resolve the situation. How funny this sounded, in the circumstances! But H grew almost hysterical, insisting she wanted to go home, she had had enough. Coppelia told him she had to see him alone, another day. If they were to say goodbye, they at least deserved to do so in privacy; it was no-one's business but theirs.
Coppelia had journeyed to the town by bus, but he offered to take her home as she was so distressed . H protested at this, but he ignored her. She realised she would have to sit behind H, who now sat in the passenger seat in which she, Coppelia, had spent endless happy hours on their many travels together. How deeply that pierced her ! As she tucked her legs in, the view of grey hair, permed, a prim white collar underneath, faced her like a slap. Know your place, Coppelia, you are behind this woman now.
As they drove to her home village, she challenged him again. These were her final moments to do so, and she stopped at nothing. What about the poem he had written for her, only the week before, in which he told her his heart would never rest without her? How could he now tell her that poem meant nothing?
At this question, H cried out and sobbed loudly- 'you've written this woman poems?! ' His response stunned Coppelia. 'Now see how you've upset H! Don't you dare say things like that! I didn't mean those words, I only wrote them to practice my poetry.'
She guessed panic and fear had driven this reply, but was incensed to think that he could speak so hurtfully to her. She didn't say another word. All was lost. Did he really not see her pain, or care?
His denial, his cold words, his refusal to offer her any crumb of comfort, should have made her hate him so much she never wanted to see him again. She wished she could feel that angry.
She asked him to drop her at her mother's home, a short distance from her own. She could not face her daughter. He had met her mother earlier that year, also her sister. 'Official introductions' to the man she believed to be her future partner. Her mother was a safe place to run to. Her mother had always understood.
On the seat next to her was a carrier bag containing her green wellington boots. ' I put them there for you, I thought you'd want them back,' he said, as the engine stopped running. The wellingtons had been kept in the boot of his car, along with his own, in readiness for any walks where the going underfoot was very wet.
Miles and miles they had walked in their wellingtons that rainy spring, through mud and huge puddles, walks full of such laughter and joy. How incongruous - those wellies, symbols of carefree days, long hours of laughter, adventures, kisses in the rain, holding hands, splashing through mud like children - handing them back to her was like handing back the memories. No longer required.
She told him she couldn't take them back, she wanted him to keep them, just in case. 'I cannot accept that we will never again go on our walks together,' she said, and left them there, in their bag, on the seat.
For all that had happened and been said, she knew he was not happy, she knew he was acting not out of what he wanted, but what he believed was his duty. How she wanted to scream at him "you fool!" ... for all the pain in her heart, she knew that he, too, was in pain. Yet all was in his hands - not hers. She was now powerless.
She had just turned away to leave, when H reached back and took the wellingtons, opened the door and hurled them furiously into the bushes by the front of the car. She then got back in, slammed the door and they drove away.
Coppelia looked at the bag, one boot had fallen out. She stood in the middle of the road, watching the car until it disappeared. 'Throw away my wellies, throw away my heart," she whispered through a new veil of tears, now unstoppable and choking her every breath.
She picked up the bag as if it were a child, tenderly, slowly, studying the contents as if the boots were about to work some kind of magic.
She then ran to the house, flung herself into her mother's arms, and for the first time since his call the previous morning, found herself attempting to tell another living soul just what had happened to her. Every part of her stung, as she grasped around in desperation for a way to accept the unacceptable. A way to live like this.
His phone off.
Her texts ignored.
Rejection.
No way of contact any more.
It was all she could do to walk back home, appear reasonably normal, say she felt unwell
due to the heat and go to bed, where sleep would not come and tears would not stop.
Coppelia wondered how a human being could feel such pain and remain alive.
'If an animal suffered this much, we would put it to sleep' she sobbed.
He had condemned her to a waking nightmare, and right then she really hated him for it.
She then ran to the house, flung herself into her mother's arms, and for the first time since his call the previous morning, found herself attempting to tell another living soul just what had happened to her. Every part of her stung, as she grasped around in desperation for a way to accept the unacceptable. A way to live like this.
His phone off.
Her texts ignored.
Rejection.
No way of contact any more.
It was all she could do to walk back home, appear reasonably normal, say she felt unwell
due to the heat and go to bed, where sleep would not come and tears would not stop.
Coppelia wondered how a human being could feel such pain and remain alive.
'If an animal suffered this much, we would put it to sleep' she sobbed.
He had condemned her to a waking nightmare, and right then she really hated him for it.
