by Jim Powell
I drove back to what I thought was roughly the area in which Anna lived, stopped at a cottage and knocked. A woman came to the door. I asked her if she knew where Anna Purdue lived. She did not. I was not surprised, because it seemed more than likely that Anna had married at some point and would now have another name. After more explanations and descriptions, it turned out that Anna was now Anna Halfyard and lived a couple of miles away. Not an easy place to find, the woman said. I knew that already. Armed with fresh and precise directions, which the woman wrote down for me when she saw I was making no move to do so myself, I set off once again.
In my mind, Anna had always been an urban creature, designed for a metropolis. Not necessarily London: New York or Paris would have suited her equally. Probably not Watford, I should think. If I was going to run into Anna anywhere, Tate Modern was the type of place I would have expected to run into her. She belonged in art galleries, in boho coffee shops, basement venues, wine bars and junk shops. She did not belong in fields. She might have grown up in the Home Counties, but no one could call those the country any longer. Alt country perhaps, but not country the way this was country. Something, or someone, had made metropolitan life a danger to her. She had come to this place as a refugee, was now a native.
I knew the roads that I was driving. I had driven most of them that morning, in one direction or another. I was a world-champion expert at these particular roads. Eventually I found a track that I must have overlooked, or dismissed as an absurd candidate for her drive, and half a mile later I pulled up in front of a small Victorian cottage in the middle of fields. The sign on the gate said Shangri-La. I couldn’t imagine Anna calling her cottage Shangri-La. Pinned to the front door was a note, addressed to me. I unpinned it.
‘Dear Matthew,’ it said. ‘I’m so sorry. I have to be somewhere else today. Genuine emergency. Promise. Couldn’t ring because you didn’t give me your number. Will be back late tonight, if you’re still around tomorrow. If you feel like a cup of tea, the door’s open. Really sorry. Love, Anna.’
I pinned the note back on the door, not yet sure what reply I would write, or whether I would write one at all.
7
It is a Saturday afternoon in July 1967. I am lying in the long grass with Anna Purdue, close to her, not touching, a hand’s width from paradise.
It is a cloudless day, comfortably warm, almost hot. We are in a field near the top of Blackdown, a few miles south of Haslemere. The counties of southern England sprawl around us, shimmering in the haze. A tractor crawls across a distant field. Under sail, it appears, because the noise of the motor does not reach us. We are lying in the long grass, buried in its wilderness. Swallows dart in the sky above us. Around us, butterflies weave through tall stalks of buttercup and cornflower. Bees hum among the clover. Somewhere, a church bell rings. Someone, somewhere, is getting married. Someday soon, it will be me.
We talk of many things: serious, trivial, ludicrous, pretentious. Not much about our feelings, at least not towards each other. A transistor radio, secreted in the grass, fills the gaps in the conversation, apposite in its punctuation. ‘Waterloo Sunset’. ‘Night of the Long Grass’. ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’. ‘Take Me in Your Arms and Love Me’. Broadcast from some pirate station, now under the government’s sentence of death. We are feasting on a condemned man’s last banquet.
I have an oxeye daisy in my hand and am slowly pulling off the petals, one by one. I do this casually, silently, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. Anna watches me, does not say anything. It ends with ‘she loves me’, but I may have pulled two petals off at once.
I don’t know why I’m doing this, because I don’t believe in things like this any more. I suppose I believe that moments like these portend something: that they can be bottled, and that the vintage will mature for years. I suppose I believe that this moment will endure, even when we stand up, in one hour’s, two hours’ time; even when the key turns in the ignition.
I no longer believe any of these things. Yet I do still believe that, without moments like this, life would be barely worth living.
I’ve gone down to the Surrey–Sussex border for the day to see my old friend Simon, the friend with whom I was staying when I’d first seen Anna. He is now working in Birmingham. I’m in London, waiting to go to university. We haven’t seen each other in months. Out of the blue, Simon has rung me. He will be in Lurgashall the following Saturday, playing cricket for the village team. Why don’t I come down? We arrange to meet in a pub.
I arrive at the Noah’s Ark in Lurgashall at about twelve-thirty. The pub is already full. People are spilling out across the road and onto the playing field. Simon is amongst them, beer glass in hand, not about to let the athletic requirements of the afternoon stand in the way of a liquid lunch. We drink and chat, and chat and drink, for an hour or more. Then I see Anna in the distance.
‘That’s Anna Purdue, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Simon. ‘Not the first time you’ve asked about her, is it? Still fancy her?’
I smile.
‘Come over. I’ll introduce you.’ We walk twenty or thirty paces across the mown grass. Simon throws his arms around Anna and kisses her.
‘To what do I owe this pleasure?’ asks Anna.
Not to me,’ says Simon. ‘I’d run a mile from you. To him. This is my old mate, Matthew. He’s hopelessly in love with you. At least, I’ve told him it’s hopeless.’
‘Idiot,’ says Anna, to one or other of us.
‘I’ve got to go and get changed,’ says Simon. He wanders towards the pavilion. Anna’s friends have melted away, are standing a few yards off.
‘Do you live near here?’ I ask.
‘Over there.’ She waves in the direction of some trees. ‘Are you really in love with me?’
‘Madly’
‘Oh good. I like it when people fall in love with me. Especially when I don’t know them.’
‘And when you do?’
‘Not so much. They always disappoint. Have we met before?’
‘I saw you at Simon’s dance,’ I say. ‘I was staying with him.’
‘Did we talk?’
‘Wouldn’t you have remembered if we had?’
‘The only thing I remember about that evening was that two men were chasing me and I didn’t want either of them. So I spent most of the time at the bar with them both. Which was the worst of both worlds. And I think I may have been a little tipsy. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘We didn’t talk. You seemed rather engrossed with them. I didn’t like to interrupt.’
‘A loss for both of us,’ says Anna. ‘That’ll teach you to go by appearances.’
‘What else does one go by?’
‘Anything but.’
‘So, if I said you appeared to be quite nice, would you say I should ignore that?’
‘Entirely.’
‘It’s just as well you look like the back end of a bus, then.’
‘Good,’ says Anna. ‘Now you’ve got it.’
I look at her. ‘You’re weird,’ I say.
‘Thank you.’
‘How do you know it’s a compliment?’
‘Well it is, isn’t it?’
We both smile.
Simon returns to us in his whites. ‘We lost the toss and they’re batting,’ he says. ‘I’ll be in the field till teatime.’
‘See you at teatime,’ I say.
‘That’ll be boring,’ says Anna. ‘Why don’t we go somewhere?’
‘Where?’
‘Have you got a car?’
‘Yes.’ My parents have lent me their Austin for the day.
‘I’ll show you.’
We drive for five minutes or so. The roads become lanes and the lanes become smaller, hemmed in by burgeoning hedgerows and rampant cow parsley, as we climb Blackdown. Anna asks me to pull in to a short track with a gate at the end of it, securely locked. I climb it first, helping her down on the other side. Anna stumbles slightly, falls i
nto my arms. It is all I can do not to kiss her. She laughs, pulls herself quickly away. We walk with giant steps through the long grasses of the meadow, Anna searching for some idyllic spot. When she finds it, she dives headlong into the grass, as if into a swimming pool. I dive next to her. We lie on our stomachs, looking at each other.
‘How did you find this place?’ I ask.
‘I can’t remember now. It was ages ago.’
‘It’s a long walk from Lurgashall.’
‘I know. I usually come by bicycle. I’ve been doing it since I was thirteen. It’s where I come when I want to be on my own.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You should be flattered. It’s my private place. I’ve never brought anyone else here.’
‘Do you often want to escape from the world?’
‘Always. From other people’s worlds, that is. Not from my own. Don’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Where do you escape? Somewhere like this?’
‘Impossible. I’ve always lived in London. So I walk the streets. In a manner of speaking.’ Anna smiles. ‘Preferably in the rain.’
‘I like the rain too. I like it here when it’s raining.’
‘What else do you like?’
‘I like silence,’ says Anna. ‘And autumn. And the Kinks.’ A few seconds later, we hear the opening bars of ‘Waterloo Sunset’ on the radio.
‘You’re psychic,’ I say.
Yes. Sometimes. At other times, I’m an idiot. And I like reading. And France.’
‘I like those things too.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes, all of them. Why do you think you’re an idiot?’
‘Because I know everything except how to be happy,’ she says.
‘You don’t seem to be unhappy.’
‘I’m not. That’s not the same thing. But I’m not happy. I never have been, really. I don’t expect I ever will be. It doesn’t seem to be in my nature.’
‘What is your nature?’
‘Contrary. What’s yours?’
‘The opposite,’ I say.
Anna is matter-of-fact when she speaks about herself. There is no emotion in her voice, at most a mild regret that she should find happiness elusive. She seems to regard herself with the same detachment as she views the distant tractor, crawling across its field far away. I wonder if she feels that way towards everything, and everyone. We turn over onto our backs, resting on elbows. I pick a buttercup and tickle her chin with it.
‘What do you do?’ I ask.
‘I’m going to university in October.’
‘Where?’
‘Exeter.’
‘To read?’
‘English. You?’
‘Southampton,’ I say. ‘History.’
‘What A-levels did you get?’
‘An A and two Bs. You?’
‘Three As.’
‘Why aren’t you going to Oxford?’ I ask. ‘Or to Cambridge?’
Anna smiles, a little sadly. ‘I wanted to go to Oxford,’ she says.
‘And?’
‘And I didn’t get in.’
‘I would have got in with those results. Why didn’t you?’
‘How thick are you? It’s not so easy for girls.’
‘Oh,’ I say. Such an obvious answer to my question, and it has not occurred to me. With Anna, of all people. And the audition seems to have been going so well until now.
Anna reaches out a hand and rubs my arm. ‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘If people like you don’t get it, what hope is there?’
‘I’m sorry too.’
‘Don’t be. You’ll learn. It’s the way things are. Until we get round to changing them. My mother thinks the same way as you, if that’s any comfort.’
‘Not much. What does she think?’
‘The same as they all think round here. I hate everything about the place, all the comfortable middle-class assumptions, all the predictable expectations. That’s why I like coming here. My mother’s done nothing with her life except have children and watch them grow up. And now we have grown up, or nearly, she raises shrubs instead.’
‘What sort of shrubs?’
‘Azaleas mostly. And don’t be facetious. She thinks it’s a waste of time for me to go to university. She thinks I should be finding some nice young man and producing babies.’
‘I’m a nice young man.’
‘No you’re not. If you were, I wouldn’t have brought you here.’
She changes position, rests her head on my tummy, lets me stroke her hair.
‘What are you going to do after university?’ she asks.
‘I don’t know. I only know the things I’m not going to do.’
‘Which are?’
‘I’m never going to work in an office. I’m never going to wear a suit and tie.’
‘You will,’ says Anna. ‘Everybody does.’
‘I shall be different.’
‘We’ll all be different. And we shall all be the same.’
‘Don’t talk in riddles.’
‘Life’s a riddle. Life is based on paradox. Haven’t you discovered that?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Everything becomes its opposite,’ says Anna. ‘So the more we try and change the world, the more it will become what we don’t want it to become. It’s inevitable.’
She adjusts her position again, slightly brushing against my crotch as she sits up. She must have realized. I wonder whether she has done it on purpose.
‘Can I tell you something?’ I ask.
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘You don’t know what I want to tell you.’
‘Yes I do. It’s what everyone wants to tell me. Please don’t, Matthew.’
‘Don’t you want to be in love?’
Anna smiles. ‘Later, perhaps. Maybe love will come later. And babies. I’m only just nineteen, for goodness’ sake.’
‘Me too.’
‘When was your birthday?’
‘Mid-May.’
‘Bad luck,’ says Anna.
‘Why?’
‘If you’d held on another few days, you’d have been a Gemini.’
‘Is that good?’
‘I’d say so. I may be biased.’
‘What am I?’
‘Taurus. The bull.’
‘What are they like?’
‘Boring. Plodding. Monosyllabic.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Stubborn. Direct. Stuck in the mud.’
‘Sounds like me. What are Geminis like?’
‘Bright, clever, creative, charming, witty, original, modest.’
‘You could have fooled me.’
‘And completely unreliable,’ says Anna.
‘Really?’
‘You’ll discover.’
We are half sitting up now, resting on our elbows, looking at each other. I move my head slowly towards her, my lips slowly towards hers. Anna puts up a hand, ruffles my hair, stops my head from moving any further.
‘Not now,’ she says.
‘Why not?’
‘Because.’
‘When?’
She takes the flower from an oxeye daisy, picks off its petals in slow motion.
‘Sometime, it would appear.’ She has also removed two petals at once, and that may have been deliberate too.
We turn and rest on our backs again. I wonder if it’s time to go. A wood pigeon presses across an infinite blueness, wings creaking, on an urgent mission. Wood pigeons always have an urgent mission. In another corner of the sky, two crows flap lazily. I think I’d rather be a crow. Anna is in no hurry to leave, and I could stay for ever. I light two cigarettes and pass her one.
‘Do you really like France?’ she asks.
‘I love it.’
‘How well do you know it?’
‘I’ve been there a few times,’ I say. ‘With my parents. To Paris, a couple of times. And driving down small country roads. I don’t know. I can’t really explain it. I feel
completely at home there.’
‘So do I. I should have been born there.’
‘Me too.’
‘What do you most like about it?’ asks Anna.
‘Frogs’ legs and snails.’
‘I like the war graves. And Père Lachaise. And seats on the Metro reserved for les mutilés de guerre.’
Anna’s thoughts seem to turn naturally to war and death. A stunning beauty, a lively mind, a dry humour. And always the melancholy. I wonder if it is part of what attracts me to her, if it’s something I have already sensed in the distance at the dance. If what I want is not only to have the chance of loving her, but the chance of taking her sadness away.
‘I’d like to be in France right now,’ I say. ‘With you,’ I add, in case I am misunderstood.
‘I’m going next week,’ says Anna. ‘On Friday. Le quatorze juillet. Appropriate, don’t you think?’
‘On your own?’
‘No, with a friend.’ My face must have betrayed my thoughts. It always does. ‘A girl friend,’ says Anna. She smiles.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. We’re starting off in Paris. Sally’s never been. I expect we’ll do the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre. All the usual things. After that, I don’t know. We’re going by train. Sally’s idea is to get off at every place that begins with a P and see what happens.’
‘So she’s mad too.’
‘As a hatter. That’s why we’re friends.’
‘It could be a long holiday.’
‘Six weeks,’ says Anna. ‘We’ll probably end up on the Riviera. Monte Carlo perhaps.’
‘That doesn’t begin with a P.’
‘Pedant does. Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a couple of millionaires. I wouldn’t mind a sugar daddy.’
‘Why? Apart from the obvious reason?’
‘Virginia Woolf reached the conclusion that an independent woman needed an annual income of five hundred and a room of her own. That was in 1929. It’s gone up quite a lot since then.’