Sunshine and tears

The cool blue of the shady space under the portico of the Fitzwilliam Museum. Here Coppelia watched for him one glorious morning in early April. As it was half term week they arranged to spend a day in Cambridge, where he had taken H and her friend leaving them to shop whilst he visited an exhibition at the museum - something he had always done regularly. They enjoyed a quiet hour studying portrait drawings by Van Eyck, followed by a long pub lunch and an afternoon in the botanic gardens. They spoke of his forthcoming short holiday to Ostend, a coach trip to visit the Dutch bulbfields. This four-night Easter break was arranged through H's bowling friends. It would be 10 days before they met again, and that would be only for one hour. Did he hurt at these long separations? More and more Coppelia felt he was able to take them easily in his stride. Of course she wished him no distress, but her own grew more and more each time this happened. This wonderful day was over so soon, they headed back towards the town, then a quick pot of tea before he had to leave to collect the shoppers. She stayed in the restaurant, opposite the museum, still sipping her tea. He waved to her as he passed the window, and she turned to see the striking white of the back of his head as he hurried away.

Two lovers played around outside the window, laughing and kissing each other. She knew she should be happy, thankful, at peace. But Coppelia was none of these things. She hated the sunshine, the light, the joy of those lovers. How glad she was, though, to be wearing sunglasses, for they hid the streaming tears that burned her eyes and throat as they fell and fell, all the way to the railway station.

A window, late at night

The moment of departure. A shadowy figure in front of the mirror, the camera's slow shutter speed capturing the room's low lamplight across his back. Those nights she stayed behind in the room, alone, would pierce and delight in equal measure. This is not how it should be. The man she loved so much, needed so badly by her side and in her arms tonight, was leaving yet again.

She would often go to the window, late at night, knowing he was out there somewhere, not very far away. A mile or two at most. The Al, visible from the window, dazzled and hummed. Very few vehicles by now, the acid yellow-green from rows of streetlights standing like sentinels, curved away into the night. Behind her, the taunting emptiness of a king size bed. Would they ever lie together through the night again? Coppelia was warmed to know he was returning in the morning, yet chilled with the loneliness of his absence. This was not how it should be, this felt all wrong. When the ache to just hold him, wake next to him, became unbearable Coppelia distracted herself with books, with wine, with attempts at quiet prayer of thankfulness. She searched hard within herself to reach a gratitude for what she still had, to take the place of this misery for what she felt she was slowly losing. ..

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.

Byzantium

The weeks passed, more and more she wrote. In this different life she made every effort to hold on. Visits to Brussells, Portsmouth, Oxford, Lincolnshire - spending time with close friends. She continued to work on projects connected with peace and justice issues, but had to reduce this considerably due to the need to work at the pub restaurant. Restricting her hours there to Fridays-Sundays ensured she retained the flexibility to see him whenever it was possible, from Monday to Thursday. Her regular visits to those in need in her village continued, as did the time spent staying with her mother. Coppelia even began painting again. Something she hadn't done for three or four years - she painted two pictures, to help illustrate this story. Late in February she wrote him a letter, in which she sought to express clearly what he meant to her, and why he should not worry so about letting her down, about feeling so guilty for not being able to engage in their relationship more fully. This meant a lot to him, he read it over and over and told her how much it had helped to reassure him. And so the days passed. Week by week, phone call by phone call.
In early March they spent another lovely long day in London, this time to visit the Byzantium exhibition at the Royal Academy. Always such days would somehow deepen and strengthen whatever it was that drew them together. Coppelia thanked God for the love between them.

'A day like this'...

White and Gold

The snow continued into the following week, but was not as severe. Again they spent time in the silver birch wood, all white and gold in the late afternoon as the winter sun gilded white branches and high drifts and burnished the icy white river banks. Walking and talking along the woodland road, sharing long silences, folding the memory with such tender care into the deepest reaches of their minds and hearts. Each knowing the joy of being together may be as the fall of snow that lay about them. Thick, soft, enchantment wherever they looked, transforming the ordinary, lighting up the dark. The whole world wrapped in white, cloaked so completely as if the old world really was lost forever. All we can do is immerse ourselves in wonder at the magic we know will be short-lived. Waking one morning all the snow will be gone. One day everywhere - one day nowhere. Coppelia told him how his white hair was like the snow.