Not letting go

Coppelia could not let go.

She wrote him a letter, by hand in purple ink.
She did not post it immediately, she wanted it ready for when the time was right.

She made a photograph album for him.
She chose a beautiful dark pink book with black leaves, and filled it with their happiness, their laughter, their love, with memories she knew may pierce his resolve.

Restless, she felt sick, heavy and agitated. Unable to concentrate, to connect. Her friends and family were there for her but there was little to be done. She considered how to end her life.

That week he rang her from his brother's in Bristol. He was concerned about Coppelia, he wanted to know how she was. Such a civil conversation. She was honest but calm, he missed her dreadfully and wished he had an answer.

He and H had taken the doctor's advice to spend time apart, and at last he had space to think in peace. Could he ring her again sometime? She tried to hope. How wonderful to hear him, to have some contact!

The dark storm raging over her broke for a moment and she wandered in sunlight.

Coppelia, have faith - this cannot die.

She learned from him that they would not be back home until the following Monday.
So that Saturday, not able to rest, she took a train to Peterborough.

A locked red tin box.

The small black figure disappeared behind the cars, not once looking back to her. He would drive back to Peterborough, out of her life.

As usual, she had her camera with her and something made her take a picture of him. She wanted to record how he looked, walking away from her. She needed to hang on to him until the very last moment. A picture. Her darling, the man she loved with passion, devotion, with her whole heart. The man who loved her 'with my whole soul'...Such love could not die!

Coppelia's sister had driven nearly 100 miles to be with her after he left that day. She was in the car park waiting, and on seeing him leave, found Copplelia completely broken down, sobbing uncontrollably, still on the bench.

Grief...

They had lunch at a pub near Coppelia's home, a pub where, months later, she would take a part-time job. A job that would be one of the many stepping stones she placed to carry her across that sea of grief, a dangerous sea, always calling her into its depths.

But for now, she had no idea that this safe, quiet, familiar pub, would again provide for her a place of refuge. For now, being held, being listened to, knowing she was loved by the person next to her, was just what she needed, and talking with her sister helped her see how and why things had happened as they had. She also saw how this may not be the end, after all.

This small comfort of her sister's presence meant more to her than she could then express. After taking Coppelia home her sister drove the 100 miles back to her home in Suffolk. This offering of love and solidarity when she needed it the most, helped bring hope and reason to her despair, and she always remembered it.

As for life in those days after, it can only be described as numb, wearying and full of tears. Tears cried, or tears waiting to be cried.

Raging at God...

A prayer meeting in Cambridge. A church barbecue. A church service. A family outing.
Chores. Work. People. Things. Waking up, going to bed. Who was doing all these things?
Was it her? She was only watching herself do them. The real Coppelia was outside of life, somewhere black, haunting, empty. Empty, empty.

She wanted to cling to everything they had done, to all they had meant to one another.
She needed something tangible, real, to reassure her that something so wonderful might continue, somehow.
She needed the memories to stay alive.
So she bought herself a locking box to keep them in.
The tickets, papers, letters, poems, the photographs.
Touching them, seeing them, somehow made her feel she was still connected with him.
'Look- you've done all this together, how can it just come to a stop? '

Whether or not she could ever bear to look through them again, she wanted to know
they were all together, safe, secure, that should she need them, they were waiting for her.
A red tin box, locked.

That's all she had now.
She cried and cried and raged at God.

The whole world was falling...

It was a cool, misty dull summer morning when they sat and talked for just an hour, on a wooden picnic bench, facing one another, by the river in a small town.

Market day, the riverside car park full, the world carrying on as it always does in the face of intense human drama. Those on the stage are always incredulous that the earth can still turn, people still drift by, the wind still play in the trees...

Knowing this may be the last time she ever saw him, yet the very idea filling her with disbelief, she felt she was being buried alive. The whole world was falling on her. It was hard to breathe.

He was already there when she arrived. He was dressed in black. She in purple velvet, wearing the earrings he had bought her. If this should be the last time he set eyes on her - please God, no! - she knew exactly how she wished to be remembered.

The grave expression in his eyes chilled her, his voice sounded broken, how it hurt not to fling her arms around him, kiss his cheek, and hold his hand as they walked towards the bench.

Underneath the grass was wet, above, the sky dark grey but the rain never came. She was shaking and so full of tears she was afraid to speak. So she remained silent, hanging on to every word, listening for any sign of hope...

Full of regret...

Of course he was full of regret for his behaviour, for panicking when H had confronted him out of the blue. He had suddenly been hit with the reality that the shock could kill her, so was terrified of causing her more distress. He confessed that this had overwhelmed him to the exclusion of imagining the impact on Coppelia.

In the months to follow they would talk of this time, and Coppelia did understand how, faced with H's reaction, it was all he could do to make the decision to stick by her. The only way he could cope without Coppelia was to try to 'board up his heart', to will himself to cast her away from his mind.

Coppelia learned from him that, on finding out, H had suffered a serious angina attack, and had continued to behave hysterically. She had stood beside him when he had phoned Coppelia that morning - H had insisted he 'never see that woman again - I want to hear you tell her so- now!'


Later that day, H had had another angina attack and the doctor advised total rest from emotional disturbance or distress. In the circumstances, he also suggested they might spend some time apart for a while for H to recover. (this they later did, she staying with her daughter in Winchester, he with his brother in Bristol.)

His fear that H would suffer an attack that would kill her, drove him to avoid this outcome at all costs - even the cost of losing Coppelia. As Coppelia cried quietly, he offered her a tissue which she refused. She knew this tiny gesture of self-reliance may help her hold herself together during the time they had left to talk.

Losing Everything...

'I do love you, and you will always be my lovely girl'...looking into her eyes, as she had asked, and she knew he meant it. She also knew he was bound by the notion of 'duty' over being true to himself. The one difference in their generations that DID matter.

She pointed out to him that his own happiness, too, counted - wasn't H thinking only of herself, not of him? But he replied that even if this were the case, he couldn't forget that he had an obligation to H. She had saved his life, he could not risk her life for the sake of his own pleasure. He regretted very much their plan had been thwarted by H finding out far too soon, but this changed everything - and Coppelia had known from the start that H's welfare was paramount.

Coppelia's mind understood his reasons, and part of her admired him for his sacrifice, but he wasn't just sacrificing himself - he was sacrificing her, too. He was choosing to hurt HER when he didn't have to: willing to inflict great suffering on HER, in order to save H 's suffering.

She felt rejected and worthless. Her sister told her afterwards that often guilt has more power to drive our actions than love, and Coppelia hung on to this when she tried to make sense of what happened.

He conceded that it would be harmless enough to maybe meet for lunch every few months and suggested they do so- but there must be no phone contact, or letters. Coppelia 's anger was channelled in cool, controlled sentences of biting words- how could he even contemplate their being apart for so long, no contact, nothing. Everything they had shared, their plans, their relationship, wasn't it worth more to him than this? They chose a date in September, close to the day they first met. He would contact her nearer the time to arrange it.

The hour was up and he rose to leave, but Coppelia stayed seated and turned her tearful face up to him. Her heart could not accept it was over. She studied his eyes, his mouth, his hair, everything she gazed upon as if seeing him for the first time. How she would ache for that face, that voice, his touch. She wept for him, not just for herself. She saw his effort at struggling against the pain of his decision.

He looked like a man who had lost everything, the sadness drawn over him like a veil. He took her hand and kissed it, and in a voice barely audible she heard the word

'goodbye'.

And through tears she watched him walk away from her.