After You Left

by Carol Mason

  ‘But he didn’t throw it out, either.’

  She is off looking into space, clearly trying to piece together the more elusive bits of the puzzle. ‘Of all the places he could have put it . . .’

  ‘He put it where he knew you would find it, Evelyn. Because like you said many times, he was a good man. Do you think he knew that Joanna Smart was you?’

  Evelyn gasps. ‘Good heavens! I don’t know! The book wasn’t published then. I was finishing it while I was convalescing.’ She’s frowning. ‘I suppose it’s possible he knew. I never told him I’d written it because I didn’t want to hurt him, or embarrass him. But he did have friends in high places. It’s possible he knew someone at my publishing house.’

  ‘Or maybe he’d just seen that the book was special to you somehow.’

  ‘I kept it on my desk for a long time. It’s possible he knew it was special to me.’ The anguished look comes back. The one I will forever associate with Evelyn. ‘Eddy said things hadn’t been easy for him. That’s because by the time he wrote this, he’d have split up with your mother. Everyone would have known . . .’

  ‘But he was trying to say that, despite the enormous price he paid, you were still worth it.’ I gently stroke her slender forearm.

  ‘At that point he didn’t even know that the worst was to come.’

  ‘No. But he said that he regretted nothing, and neither should you. No matter what happens.’ I grip her hand. ‘Perhaps it was prophetic of him. You have to believe it. Personally, I do.’

  Evelyn shakes her head. I can tell she recognises the time has come for her to stop tormenting herself, as have I: to put the past in the past and close a door. ‘I always imagined he wished he’d never set eyes on me . . . I held on to that idea for years.’

  ‘It’s amazing what we assume, and how wrong we can be. I, for one, will never assume what I can’t possibly know.’

  ‘He said he was going to try to put things right, as best as he could.’ Her eyes brim with wonderment and tears. ‘But he never could. Circumstances didn’t allow him to!’

  ‘Maybe not. But you did. You put it right for him. You helped him do what he couldn’t do himself. Isn’t that the measure of true love?’

  Evelyn’s eyes go back to the letter. I watch her. I can’t take my eyes from her. It’s the face of that young, go-getter girl that Eddy talked about, reading her very first love letter.

  When she looks up again, she is flushed.

  ‘He forgave me,’ she says.

  I smile. ‘Of course he did.’

  FORTY-FIVE

  Before She Left

  Evelyn

  Northumberland. 1963

  They had just entered the church. Evelyn’s eyes were still adjusting from the bright sunshine to the dim, dust-mote-filled interior. She had noticed him immediately. Noticed him in the way that a young, single woman is always subconsciously sifting through the gravel hoping to come across a diamond. It was second nature to look without necessarily expecting to find. So, on finding, her faculties had taken a short holiday.

  She was aware of her friend Elizabeth prodding her. A young usher, who appeared overly keen on doing a good job, was waiting to escort them to their seats. It was a small gathering, at this point weighted to the bride’s side. The robust scent of lilies still couldn’t overpower the musty smell of church that always turned Evelyn a little morbid. She could see hats, some with more feathers than a peacock, others like colourful flying saucers. But who cared about hats? She was pleasantly thrown by something else she was seeing.

  He was standing by the altar, almost with his back to her. He was tall and broad, with a thatch of dark, healthy hair and, from what she could see of him side-on, there was something disarming about his smile. He was standing with a shorter, stocky, ordinary-looking lad – presumably the groom, judging by the aura of tension around him. The usher led them to their row. The pianist was playing one of those classical tunes you often hear at weddings, only Evelyn couldn’t say what it was called. Catching sight of him had stormed her senses. She was aware of the guests glancing up as they arrived, giving their outfits the eye. But every cell in her body was wired to the man up at the front. Once she’d sat down in their pew, she could observe him at leisure, while Elizabeth muttered in her ear.

  A heart rush. A tingle of promise to the day. She hadn’t really wanted to come, given that she had never met the bride, or her intended, and she knew no one except for her friend.

  He was joking around with the groom. It was amazing what you could tell about someone’s personality by just observing them. She found herself inwardly smiling when she sensed he was being funny, warmed by him, as though she’d known him for years. Then, he ran out of steam and solemnly bowed his head.

  She had yet to see him face-on. It was becoming an exhilarating tease. Only when the pianist launched into ‘Ave Maria’ as the bride arrived did he finally turn around. Then everything faded into the background, except for his face. She watched him, slowly, if you could watch someone that way, acutely aware of trying to prolong her pleasure. So when he happened to look over, perhaps sensing someone’s eyes on him, Evelyn had already contained her surprise.

  He blushed, deep red, a colour that intensified the more he looked at her. Neither one could pull their eyes away, until Evelyn absolutely had to, because she was about to burst.

  The ceremony passed. She heard low voices, the distant repeating of vows. At one point, right after he’d handed the groom the ring, he looked back at her and seemed to blush again.

  ‘If I told you that every time I look at you, I think I’m going to bungle it before I even speak, would you decide I was undeserving of you?’ he asked her a few hours later.

  The first thing he ever said to her. This was after confetti on the church steps, after pink fizz by the tennis courts with a cluster of Elizabeth’s friends – he’d gone off for photos with the wedding party. She looked him bluntly in the eyes, determined to deliver her reply without a smile. ‘No. I’d decided that before you even spoke.’

  She had played a deliberate game of cat and mouse with him – moving to chat with someone else the second she sensed he was coming to talk to her. Finally, she’d positioned herself alone, by a window. He had followed, on the button.

  His smile gleamed. There was no end to the amusement in his eyes. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked, burning with her awareness of how fanciable he was.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like that!’ She flew a finger to his face. ‘You’re making fun of me now.’

  He placed a hand in his trouser pocket, leaning to say in her ear, ‘Have you ever thought you might take yourself a bit too seriously?’

  ‘Hmm . . . Strange thing to say to someone you don’t even know! Why am I sensing that you and I don’t have two minutes of normal conversation in us?’ She was always more comfortable being sparky. She pretended to look around the room, bored.

  He was observing her, sportily, yet warily. Like someone considering jumping off a cliff, but wondering if the water really was as deep as people said it was. ‘Why is your glass empty, by the way? Ah! I know! You’re the one they said was uptight about alcohol! Takes herself too seriously, is a bit high and mighty, stands in the corner, has no friends. I remember. That’s why you’re giving me no choice but to come and rescue you from yourself. Because I’m gallant like that.’

  She snuffled a small laugh.

  The music was a tune no one seemed to like. The dance floor had emptied. Eddy hadn’t yet serenaded her with ‘Be My Baby’. The song he was supposed to be singing to the newlyweds until he changed his tack and tried to woo her with his terrible voice that really wasn’t a terrible voice; it was mainly the episode that was terrible. This monumental embarrassment was to come later. As were so many things she had no idea about.

  He got her another drink. ‘For the lady.’ He handed her a goblet of Babycham. ‘And a brandy in it for good measure. To loosen you up.’ He smiled. ‘Go
on, Evelyn. Live dangerously for once.’

  She had a nettling old uncle who always used to say something like that. ‘How do you know I don’t live dangerously all the time?’ she asked, taking a sip and finding it blow-your-head-off strong, but she was determined not to flinch. She’d have knocked back the entire glass to prove a point.

  ‘I don’t know. You’re all a bit Roman Holiday, aren’t you? A bit Audrey.’ He was scrutinising her. She felt his eyes saw nothing but her.

  Her jaw dropped open. She was aware of the girls beside them, watching them. She searched for a comeback, but it was too late.

  She had noticed that, after the photographs, he had undone his top button and cast off his bow tie. She was sure he wasn’t deliberately trying to look dashing and dreamy, but he was succeeding regardless. His shoulders were practically making contact with the walls. He was unfairly fit and handsome. She couldn’t work out whether his skin was dark, or his shirt was ultra-white; it was hard to say in the frosted party lighting. But his eyes were piercing sapphires. It made him hard to look at – and hard not to look at. It was a challenge that was completely foreign to her. With most men, she ended up looking at them witheringly and walking by.

  The music changed. Eddy snatched her hand. ‘Okay, we’re dancing.’

  She practically coughed up bubbles. Before she could protest, he was hauling her on to the dance floor. She recognised the minimal, lullaby-like strum of Roy Orbison’s acoustic guitar – ‘In Dreams’, a recent chart-topper – and barely managed to offload her glass on to a high-top table as she flew past it, powerfully conscious of his fingers clasped around her small hand.

  ‘Okay, we’re dancing?’ she mocked. ‘Is that common for, Would you care to have this dance?’

  She was aware of the girls still watching them. It was ironic that she’d come to the wedding knowing only Elizabeth and had somehow managed to snag the best man.

  ‘It’s caveman for, I have to have my arms around you or I’m going to go mad.’

  Roy started singing about closing his eyes and drifting into the magic night, and Eddy took her in his arms, and she chuckled. Despite wanting to maintain the stroppy act, she was failing with every try. In his arms, she was on air, weightless, gliding like a bird. Their feet fell into a spry rhythm that unfolded with the song’s suspenseful, pervading tempo. Eddy’s ad-libbed dance steps were a brave cross between a tango, a waltz and a foxtrot, but somehow, together, they worked the floor like two people who had spent a lifetime dancing together. ‘Good heavens, you’re such an exhibitionist!’ she scolded when she sensed him laying it on a little for his female fan club.

  ‘That must be why I want to kiss you.’ His chest bore closer, his face moving in.

  She gasped.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m saving that for later.’

  A tiny part of her had the nerve to be disappointed.

  She was so aware of his hand on her mid-back, she could discern that most of the pressure came from his baby finger, and the next two. Was she really going to know what it would be like to kiss him, later? They stopped ribbing each other now and just listened to Roy doing his thing. The lyrics were making her suddenly reflective. She concentrated on the juddering intensity of the tune, and the intoxicating nearness of her body to a man’s: a man she found heart-stoppingly exciting. She allowed herself to dwell on it for a moment, to pay a sort of homage to it. Once in a while, he placed his cheek to hers, briefly, just lay it there before removing it. Come back, cheek! Her hand was perspiring in his; she was vaguely self-conscious about it. They stayed like this, close and quiet, letting Roy carry them away with their own private thoughts. She was turning melancholy and she didn’t know why. He could be Gregory Peck. Or Laurence Olivier. Anthony Quinn or Henry Fonda. In his arms, she was Lois Maxwell or Julie Christie. Never had she been so aware of a man’s physical presence, the feeling of her fingers curved over his semi-cupped hand. How could you be so affected by a hand? Roy was singing about waking from his dream and finding her gone, his voice becoming its characteristic falsetto; Evelyn was bereft now. Inexplicably. In exactly one week, she’d be gone – to a whole new life. She didn’t intend to think of this; she supposed she was just silently taking stock of things.

  I’m leaving, she thought, blank with the irony of it. I have a job lined up, and a flat-share. This has always been my dream.

  Why am I leaving, again? Someone tell me . . .

  Roy’s words about how some things can only happen in dreams were almost too much. She tightened her grip on his hand, squeezing, and closing her eyes. Eddy responded by stroking the side of her finger with his thumb.

  ‘You know, I think you might be warming to me.’ His breath caressed her ear.

  ‘Whatever gave you that false impression?’

  The sound of his lovely laugh reverberated in her heart. Sometimes, it struck her how she was always aching for things not yet gone.

  ‘You’re too much of a challenge for me, Evelyn. What am I to do with you?’ His hand made a short foray to the crest of her bottom – accidentally, by the swiftness with which he corrected it.

  She knew what she wanted him to do with her.

  She could smell the powdery scent of his aftershave, and detect his shoulder muscles shifting through his clothes. She wanted him to kiss her almost more than she wanted to see old age. There was a naturalness in the way they went together. It had been there from the first second. This was what made it sadder.

  She’d leave, and somebody else would get him. The thought – the bare injustice of it – just sailed through her head, and it astonished her how much it upset her.

  She met up with Elizabeth in the toilets.

  ‘You lucky duck,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘I’m not feeling lucky. In fact, unlucky would probably be the word.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Tell him I’m moving to London soon. Then go home with you, as planned.’

  ‘I thought he had a girlfriend. I think he might have just broken up with her, maybe.’ Elizabeth looked confused. Elizabeth was never far wrong.

  If she had met him at any other time, she’d have brooded on this idea. As it was, she just thought, Then this isn’t to be taken too seriously. He’s on the rebound. It would be doomed, anyway.

  ‘I’ll see you home,’ he told her, later, when they had stepped outside, after his mortifying song. They had sat on two peeling, white-painted, wooden chairs and talked – talked for hours – while she unconsciously denuded the chairs of paint.

  She peered to see her watch. The music had ceased ages ago. Most of the guests, bar a few drunken stragglers, were long gone.

  ‘I’ve only had two beers. I think you can trust me not to kill you.’

  She trusted him, anyway. Next, they were bulleting across the causeway in his car. She wound the window down. Strands of her hair danced against her cheek. The sand was slowly weighting with pools of seawater. Very soon it would be unwise for him to cross back. The sun was just coming up, and she didn’t want to let him go. Seals were singing on the sandbanks, puncturing the tonelessness of the morning. ‘I’m missing you already and I haven’t even said goodnight to you yet,’ he said, and snuffled a small laugh.

  She didn’t answer, just processed the scope of what he’d said as she distantly listened to the language of larks rising on the morning air. He had taken hold of her hand.

  ‘When can I see you again?’ he asked, when they arrived at her door. He had got out of the car and come around to her side. ‘I mean, I assume I’m going to get to take you out on a proper date?’ He didn’t even say it like it was a question.

  She had a feeling that everything about her life was going to be decided if she answered yes. And it was a glorious feeling. She was open to the recklessness of it – was sailing with it as though this were a new and enchanted form of travel. And yet . . .

  He was already kissing her.

  They must have kissed for ten minutes. Or perhaps it was
two. When he stopped, she was dizzy. She was even more certain, and even more confused. ‘If you don’t go now, you won’t be going at all,’ she warned. Soon, the sea would fold around the island, wrapping up the locals in their own little world for those isolating few hours, dispassionately curbing an element of your free will. This occurrence of Northumberland nature would always sink Evelyn into the doldrums because she didn’t yet know the extent to which she was going to miss it.

  ‘And that will be just perfectly fine by me.’ He appeared in no hurry to go.

  Looking out to the causeway, the increasing swell of grey seawater was now bathing the feet of a heron who was standing, blinking, in the sand.

  ‘Hanging around one moment longer is a very bad idea,’ she said, thinking, Will I see him again, or won’t I? Fate is going to have to decide.

  Still he didn’t make any attempt to move. ‘Friday at seven o’clock?’ he asked. ‘I’ll come right here for you.’ He glanced up at their house, seeming curious and charmed by the place where she lived.

  She found herself nodding, wordlessly.

  ‘I take it that’s a yes, then,’ he called after her, playfully.

  She began walking to her front door. When she got there, she turned and looked at him again. He was getting back into his car. She watched him roll down the window.

  ‘If I get stuck, will you come rescue me?’

  ‘No!’ She chuckled, and parroted his words from earlier. ‘Go on, Eddy, live dangerously!’

  He beamed a smile at her, then two seconds later he sped off. As she pushed open the door, she paused for the briefest of moments and listened to his engine burn a path through the silence.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I was inspired to write After You Left after reading an extremely touching and fascinating article in the New York Times about how looking at art can have a positive effect on the brains of those suffering from Alzheimer’s. Many museums actually offer private tours to groups of dementia patients, and the results have been so encouraging. People who are normally disorientated and uncommunicative have responded vividly to paintings and have been able to engage and express themselves in ways that surprise their loved ones, even if it’s just for a short time. Given that it seems we all know or have loved someone with the disease, I thought this story might not just entertain readers, but perhaps bring a sense of hope and comfort. One of the paintings mentioned in the article was Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World. I had never heard of the painting, but I looked it up. From that moment on, I was intrigued. I wanted to know all about Christina, and found myself researching Wyeth and his subject, and from there the story about Evelyn was born. At the same time, my mother was moving from our home in Northern England to Canada to be near me, and we were saying goodbye to our family home in Sunderland. It was a very emotional time for me, and I suddenly knew exactly how Evelyn had felt all her life – torn between two places. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.