A long road

Coppelia did try really hard, that summer. How grateful she was for all those good, kind people in her life, who were there for her. Ready and willing with their company, their caring, their love. She later wondered if she would have survived without them. Too many to record here, not all knew everything, just that she needed help, she was low...they didn't ask. The Franciscan Order she belonged to kept in touch and were praying for her situation regularly all that summer. She had broken down at a prayer meeting some time ago. Who knows how love holds us, carries us, at times like these?

Yet another trip away had been planned for that weekend, she was staying a short while with two friends in Lincolnshire, under an hour's drive from Peterborough.

It was near here that he met her for a long lunch and a long talk. He was early. She saw his car at the far end of the huge, empty car park. Only a car. But even the sight of it made her heart jump. He had seen her and came out from the pub to meet her. That night H would arrive home. He was lighter, he looked better, but she saw for the first time that he had lost weight, and there was a strain in his expression that hadn't been there before.

He told her of his daughter's reaction to the phone bill. His son had been more understanding. 'I know you are a good man, dad. If you have been doing this, there is a good reason.' They decided that, despite his decision, they would continue as before but with much greater care on his part. With H's health still in the balance, if they were patient, and did their best with the opportunities available, maybe it would not be too long before...they were free to be together.

But, as Coppelia listened, she made up her mind. She would write to his daughter. She needed to show this woman the truth about their relationship, about her, about everything. If he could not stand up to his daughter's words, then she would.

She never received a reply. In the letter she had offered to meet, should his daughter wish to question her face to face. After a week, Coppelia phoned. His daughter, by all accounts was a strong minded, wilful and forceful woman. A magistrate, a university lecturer, a successful businesswoman who stood no nonsense.

When Coppelia spoke there was silence on the other end of the phone. When the words came they were calm, measured. Have you also rung my brother? No. Why not? Because you were the one who was angry with your father, not him. Your father did not feel he could tell you about me, he thought you wouldn't understand, especially as I am two years younger than you.
Then his daughter fired just one bullet.
'My father is weak! He has always been weak..'
With that, she declined Coppelia's offer to meet. They said a curt goodbye and ended the call.

Whilst she hadn't really believed a meeting would be agreed, she was glad she had phoned. Whatever happened now, this woman was bound to see her differently.
She had left no stone unturned. She never would.

Now before her was a long, long road, one they had committed themselves to travelling together. The seesaw was slowing down.

See-saw

This was something she had not dared to dream of. There he was, a tall, slim figure, white short sleeved shirt, sunglasses, his arms loosely folded, his head slightly to one side, as he watched her approach. She tilted the parasol to see him better.

After everything, this was like a meeting outside of time. They were the same people, yet they were not.

She was strangely calm, focussed, relaxed. It just seemed so right, the two of them side by side in his car. They held hands, pressing their fingers hard together. As he drove, she kissed the left side of his neck as she always had. Just talking, laughing, looking at one another. He said he found it hard to concentrate on the road. He loved the parasol, it was exactly as he had imagined, and she looked so lovely peering into his eyes from behind its brim.

They headed for a nature reserve a few miles away, and once walking amongst the trees on the path by the river they kissed as if they would never stop. Coppelia's hot tears trickled down around her mouth and they could taste the saltiness, but carried on, kissing each others faces, necks, hands...they had reached a small wooden bridge over a narrow stream, the water sluggish and low due to the prolonged hot weather.

He was telling her how he had not understood just how awful life would seem without her. How trapped he felt. How he knew he could not, ever again, insist on a total separation - he just couldn't bear it. They talked of her letter, and agreed they would speak each week on the phone and take it from there. All depended on how - or whether - H recovered.

In silence they stood, in a fervent and long embrace, their bodies touching in every possible place, the heat bearing down even through the tree canopy. Their arms pressed each to each, as if to let go for one moment might mean they lost each other. Coppelia could not remember ever feeling such sweet relief, like a long hard hunger being satisfied, like gulping down cool water after almost collapsing of thirst.

The tenderness with which he again kissed her, lifted her heart at last from those frozen depths where all joy had hidden, afraid and broken. So slowly they wandered, holding hands, stroking each other's arms, gazing again and again into each other's eyes. As if they had never seen one another before. They so needed this. So very much. To drink each other in once more. To be together.

Soon after his return to Winchester, H was able to return home and there she made a slow recovery. He was terrified of her discovering he and Coppelia were still in touch. Her family - and his - were angry with him to learn that his affair had very likely brought on the heart attack. They made him feel selfish, ungrateful. Coppelia understood how hard this all was for him.

Coppelia's gradual recovery from her despair was haunted by the vivid memory of the blackness she had known, and her joy was never again complete. Whatever had died in her, did not regain life. Yes, hope was flickering now - even, sometimes, burning again - but her heart was unable to soar, her spirit could not take flight in the way it always used to.

She was afraid of that despair returning, it seemed so close at times, hovering behind her shoulder, ready to smother her should anything go wrong. She allowed herself to be cautiously happy, but the restlessness remained.

This was like living on a tightrope, looking both ways, not belonging anywhere, too aware she could fall again at any time. One minute the colours returned, the next a shadow would cover her. One minute she again knew the brightness of living, the next all energy drained from her and she would take out the pills again.

What made Coppelia most afraid - and today, sometimes still does - was knowing she was capable of falling into that place. Now she had been there, she knew it existed, that it was possible to find herself in the midst of black, full of black, drowning in black. Rather than risk that, would it be best to take her own life, after all? She could not, ever, ever, face being there again. She would rather end it now. Just in case. Like a violent see-saw her perception swung from hope to despair and back again, nearly driving her mad.

Then there was that dreadful ache of missing him, of needing to just be with him - even if only for a moment. Oh how that ache hurt! She was still compiling the photo album for him, selecting pictures and having the negatives printed was taking some time, as she wanted it be just right. Doing this brought her comfort, seemed to make him real to her again when she felt so alone. One of her favourite pictures was of him in shadow, just visible, in an armchair reading a paper in a pub in Pickering. Taken during their very first trip to North Yorkshire. She had a copy of this enlarged for herself.

So she survived the days, using everything and anyone she could find to get her through, trying to silence those seesaw voices in her head.

She must get away. Anything to stop it. More distractions.

She had a short holiday by the sea with a good friend, she had another short holiday with her daughter. Late in August she was due to help run and organise a peace event at a four day festival, and she went. He rang her there with some bad news.

He had overlooked the fact that all numbers dialled were recorded on his phone bill. This had arrived in the post the day before, and H had found Coppelia's number listed several times.

It hardly needs to be said what followed this - H broke down, had two angina attacks and needed the doctor. He assured her they had not met, just spoken on the phone, and begged H to at least allow their friendship to continue, if nothing else. He told H how he had missed Coppelia so badly, he could not face having no contact at all. But H insisted, despite his pleading. She would go away to leave him space to decide what to do. If he chose Coppelia, she would not come back.

While away, she again had an attack - more serious this time, and ended up back in hospital.

Whilst H was still away, he and Coppelia met by the river in the small town where he had said goodbye to her all those weeks ago. He was grave, his face drawn. What am I to do? he asked. His family had again seriously criticised him, for doing this to H. There had been murmurings of his daughter not letting him see his grandsons again, if he left H for this 'harlot, who must only want you for your money.'

They walked arm in arm, they kissed, but he was quiet and troubled, and told her he felt he had no choice. He would ring her on Friday to confirm his decision.

Coppelia had finished her album, and handed it to him, wrapped in rich violet tissue paper. He opened it, and she saw his hands were shaking. 'I will always treasure this, more than you know.'

Then he handed her a gift. The day back in July that he had spent with Ralph in London, he had searched for a fan and found this one, hand painted black on cream, a Japanese brush design. It was beautiful. You will remember it was that same night he had returned home to the nightmare of H's discovery, so the fan had been hastily hidden away....

When he rang that Friday, it was as she expected. He couldn't do it. He was so sure the distress would kill H, and if it did, he could not live with himself. He dare not take the risk of leaving her. Coppelia felt she had been on a furiously swirling roundabout, round and round, now she was at last thrown off.

They arranged to meet before H's daughter drove her home again - to talk over where they might go from here.

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.

The will to live

She attended church the next morning, her communion accompanied by silent tears, and found herself praying for H. If she was to live, she must will herself to do all those things that her mind 'knew' were right, things that would help, even if her heart was constantly pulling at her in the opposite direction. She didn't want company, she didn't want to eat. But if she was to live, these things must be endured. She left the service before the end, too many tears...

It was then the message arrived.

'H has had a heart attack. I feel so guilty. Please pray, I don't know what to do.'
Coppelia's heart lurched in disbelief, and she asked God's forgiveness even as she heard her inner voice exclaim 'this is the answer to my prayers!'

Later that day she rang him. He was still at his brother's, and he told her how H's daughter had not rung until the day after the attack, as they had been advised to save H from any further stress. H was still in hospital in Winchester, where further tests were to be done.

He poured out to her just how life had been, how he was doubting his decision, how he felt confused, how life was empty, lonely, how he ached for her.

He said that Coppelia's compassion and understanding - for him and for H - reassured and strengthened him. They spoke at length of all that had happened, of the almost physical pain of loss that they were each feeling.

And - despite everything, or perhaps because of it - they were soon laughing, as they always did.
Almost two hours passed before they ended the call. Time that brought to each of them enormous comfort and relief. To just have that contact meant so much. Even if they could not meet. Contact. It had been the shock of going from so much contact to absolutely none at all, that had so wounded her. And, she now knew, him, too.

He would drive to Winchester the next day and ring her to let her know how H was.
It was a short call, and she could tell he was shaken. I must now just wait, she told herself. We are communicating again, it will be alright.

Coppelia remembered the railway track. She thanked God for her will to live.

H 's condition stabilised but she remained seriously ill.
It was never said, but they both knew what the other was hoping for.