Remember Me

by Liz Byrski

  We were surrounded by vivid depictions of Jesus. As the Sacred Heart He dominated the Assembly Hall, a beautiful bearded young man with soft eyes, a gentle smile and a gaping hole in His chest where there throbbed a crimson heart twice the size of His head and topped with a crown of thorns that dripped blood onto the Saviour’s white robes. In the main hallway Jesus again, this time not wearing His heart on His chest, but reaching out to place a hand tenderly on the head of a beautiful woman who, having washed His feet, was now drying them with her long copper hair. The picture of Mary Magdalene at Jesus’ feet had us spellbound. Eventually it was removed on the grounds that girls were looking at it too much and thinking impure thoughts. But is it possible for thoughts to be impure if you are not sure what you are thinking about? On the day the picture was removed we were reliably informed by Lesley Rayner that Mary Magdalene was a whore. Possibly, but she certainly had great hair; hair shared I suspect only by Botticelli’s Venus and the Lady of Shallot until the day that Nicole Kidman appeared on the screen.

  But the greatest temptation was in the chapel where the stations of the cross offered us the picture of Jesus, pale and emaciated, clad only in a light loincloth. According to Lesley Rayner it was possible, if you looked long and hard enough at certain stations, to see what the loincloth was supposed to conceal. As a result of this information there was a large increase in the number of girls who chose to visit the chapel in the recreation period between lunch and afternoon classes. We were desperate for information, for mine was not the only home where human biology and the facts of life were carefully avoided. Those of us who did not have brothers had never seen a male organ and had to rely for our information on those who had. Sadly none of those girls was a competent artist or they all had extremely strange brothers. The stations of the cross were our only hope of revelation, that and Lesley’s promise to smuggle in a large photograph of Nijinsky in tights. A promise never kept.

  At school and at home the body was to be subdued, as a dirty and potentially dangerous temptation. Neither sex nor senses disturbed the bland waters of the domestic millpond. My parents slept in separate rooms and I never saw them kiss or touch each other with tenderness or affection, let alone desire. My mother’s flesh-coloured corselets hung on the washing line, rigid as suits of armour, a constant reminder of the need for bodily control. When, at the age of twelve, I began to menstruate I thought I was bleeding to death and became hysterical. My mother, too embarrassed to explain, took me to the doctor, a bluff former army medico in his mid-sixties. Equally embarrassed, he mumbled about uteruses, drew some strange tubes upside down on his pad and never turned the drawing up the right way for me. Some time later, flushing deeply, my mother gave me a pink and white striped booklet and told me to read it. Recognising that this contained the answers to some of life’s most fascinating mysteries I scoured the pages for information. It was all explained with examples from the animal kingdom, strangely the examples used were tortoises and banana flies. The necessary leap of imagination was beyond me.

  So at eighteen I had only instinct and unreliable whisperings from other girls to guide me. I wonder what it was like for you, a mature experienced man, to suddenly become the custodian of my burgeoning sexuality and the guardian of my innocence. You had brought my sexuality to life and you could have taken advantage of that at any time. I was eager to lose my innocence to you. Restraint can’t have been easy—in my parents’ home when I crept into your bed while they were at church on Easter Sunday morning, in the cool damp seclusion of the woods by the waterfall; most of all in the dancer’s flat.

  Bobby, your new landlord, was a shameless extrovert. A handsome, charming African with skin like polished ebony, a dazzling smile and an obvious pride in his body. He was the first black man I had met—multiculturalism had not been on the curriculum at school or at home.

  ‘Bobby wants to cook us a meal,’ you said as we made our way to the house one Saturday. ‘He’s making lunch.’

  Bobby moved around the kitchen with the speed and grace you could expect of a professional dancer. I was always shy of men and his loud but cultured voice, extravagant gestures and flamboyant manner intrigued and intimidated me. I was surprised that you were so much at ease for you valued restraint, and your own manner was reserved and somewhat conservative. Yet you were talking and laughing with Bobby and his friend Joe, and you drew me gently into the conversation while they tossed minced meat, vegetables and herbs into a pan and filled the kitchen with exotic smells. As we ate our meal I began to relax and enjoy myself, confident that if you thought it was okay there was nothing to worry about. The sunny colourful kitchen, the spicy food, Bobby’s hospitality, the tenderness of your smile and the warmth of your leg resting reassuringly against mine were intoxicating. When we had finished eating, Joe brought us tiny cups of very strong black coffee, and from the record player the surging beat of African drums flooded the kitchen.

  ‘And now my friends,’ said Bobby spreading his arms and starting to move to the beat, ‘I will dance just for you!’

  The music was mesmerising, the dance sensuous and intimate in the enclosed space of the kitchen. Your age and experience embraced it while for me it was new and challenging. With your arm around me you drew me close to you and I felt protected, cherished; I longed to be alone with you and in your eyes I saw your craving for me.

  Later, we went to your room and as I lay beneath you on your bed your expression was by turns softened by tenderness and fierce with desire, and it showed me your vulnerability. Your defences were gone, you had taken the risk, broken through your wall and we were at each other’s mercy. Then suddenly the door of your room was flung open and Joe stood in the doorway.

  ‘Ah! Sorrrreeeeee!’ He cried and, closing the door, was gone. The moment was gone too. You gave me a wry smile and got up off the bed smoothing your hands over your hair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ you said ruefully, ‘I should have locked the door.’ You reached out a hand to pull me to my feet. ‘Come on Sweetheart it’s getting late, time we went to catch the train.’

  ‘…and he cooked us this delicious meal,’ I said to my parents as we sat with them that evening. ‘And then, he put on a record and did this amazing dance for us, well for me really, didn’t he Karl? A special performance to impress me…’ I stopped in mid sentence nonplussed by your grin.

  ‘Darling Liz,’ you said, barely able to contain your amusement at my innocence. ‘I hate to tell you this—but he was dancing for me.’

  I paused, not at first comprehending what you were saying and you put your arm around my shoulders.

  ‘But I’m far more impressed by you Sweetheart,’ you laughed, as reality dawned on me.

  If I could talk to you I would ask you what you think now about that day in Bobby’s house, and those other times when we were so close to abandonment. As you think back on your life Karl, do you regret your honourable restraint, do you wish you had made love to me?

  Perhaps you are still in San Francisco. But why should I assume that? I, after all, am no longer in England but on the other side of the world in Australia. But suppose, just suppose, that one day you picked up your telephone or opened your front door and I was there.

  ‘Hello Karl do you remember me?’

  How would it feel?

  Perhaps you would welcome me warmly and introduce me to your wife, your children, your grandchildren.

  ‘We knew each other years ago,’ you’d say by way of explanation to your family. ‘When I was in London—must have been nineteen sixty-one or sixty-two. Well it’s so good to see you Liz, tell me about your life.’

  I would watch you, older now, perhaps with thinning hair, your features softened by age as they once were softened by love. I would see your wife touch you affectionately and look cautiously at me, wondering just how we had met and what we had meant to each other. I would watch for signs of tenderness between you—the touch of hands, a shared smile, the language of long familiar love. We would talk about
Joan and Jock, about London and Sussex, about Brighton Beach. I would not mention the black dress or the dancer’s flat or the inviting warmth of your body when I crept into your bed. But perhaps between us there would be one glance in which all those moments were acknowledged and you would relax in the knowledge that I was not going to embarrass you.

  ‘I’m so glad you called,’ you would say as you showed me to the door. And I’d know that you meant it sincerely and that you also sincerely hoped I would not call again. Would I be able to detect whether your relief was because the feelings were too intense or because they meant so little? I would only know if, as I turned to say goodbye and our eyes met, you bent your head to kiss my hand.

  There are other possibilities. There is the one where you respond initially with a stunned silence and then ask me what I want. Over the telephone I hear and feel your withdrawal. The doors and windows are all slammed shut, the blinds come down, keys turn in the locks, the bolts are shot, the drawbridge lifted and you are safe within.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘I won’t call again.’ And I put down the phone shaking with shock and hurt. Even my memories are charred by the fire of your anger and mistrust. But even this possibility is better than the third option.

  ‘Liz? I don’t think I—Oh, London—yes I think I remember.’

  Even the raising of the drawbridge would be preferable to finding myself almost forgotten. At least it would show that I still had the power to affect your feelings. At least it would show that whatever the nature of your feelings they were powerful still. And so you see I could never do it, never search for you for fear of who and what I might find.

  ***

  The year moved on, winter began to fade but spring hesitated, snowdrops gave way to the first crocuses, daffodils struggled to survive the last frosts and I was haunted by the prospect of parting. I could not understand why we had to wait, it seemed like a deliberate plan of torture without reason or logic.

  ‘Couldn’t you just stay here?’ I pleaded.

  ‘Darling, you know I have to go. In California I can get a better job, save for our home. I promised your Dad to find a beautiful place for you to come to.’

  ‘But I don’t mind where we live … I can’t bear it if you go.’ You held me close, stroking my hair.

  ‘It’s not just that Sweetheart, there’s my work permit too, I don’t even know if I could have it renewed.’ You took my face in your hands. ‘You know I don’t want to leave you, it breaks my heart. I want to take you with me, but your parents worry about you, they love you too. In a year I’ll come back for you and we’ll be married, then we’ll never be apart again.’

  I didn’t want you to be so reasonable, but I did know that parting was looming as threateningly for you as it was for me. My father had insisted that you provide the same standard for me he had provided. You could not do that on your income in England, but as an architect in America, even with maintenance to pay, you could meet or even exceed his demands. And there was more. My father didn’t like the idea of his daughter marrying a German, he wanted you to get an American passport. You would go back to California, get a job, begin the process of trying to obtain citizenship, and you would find us a comfortable place to live. I would have been happy to starve with you in a garret rather than be separated from you; German or American made no difference to me but I wasn’t making the rules.

  As I tell you this Karl, I’m transported back into my overwhelming sense of powerlessness. Everyone had an opinion about our relationship, and my youth and inexperience made me a vehicle for their own failed aspirations, their disappointments, their shattered dreams. Everyone knew better than you and I. They could all list the risks, the problems, the misgivings and they all seemed to have the power to influence or control the situation. I stood at the heart of it, a victim of circumstance, a focus of concern, a topic of so many whispered conversations. Were there alternatives? None was apparent. Defiance was not in the picture; you were too honourable, I would have been too scared. You could not stay in England, I was not allowed to go to America and was too young to obtain a passport without my parents’ consent. I felt as though I was in a cage which could be unlocked only from the outside.

  ‘It’s such a shame we can’t all travel together,’ Charles said, as the three of us wandered together past the Houses of Parliament. The brilliant March sunshine did little to ease the cold as we walked, hands in our pockets, collars upturned against the icy wind. Charles was from Texas and you had gravitated towards each other in the architectural office where you both worked. You planned to travel together to Germany in a few weeks time, where you would visit your daughter before returning to California. Charles would continue on through Europe to the Middle East. He was a genial, rather shy man, a couple of years younger than you.

  ‘He’s the original gypsy rover,’ he said, nodding affectionately in your direction as you ordered coffee in the snack bar where we had stopped to warm up.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, he’s a wanderer; he escapes from East Germany to the west, Canada for a couple of years, then the US—Pennsylvania, New York, California—and now London. He seems to move around so easily and when I think of the things that have happened in his life, I feel mine has barely begun.’

  I struggled to understand him.

  ‘Look,’ he went on. ‘He lived under the Nazis and through the saturation bombing, then he lived under communism and escaped across the Iron Curtain. He got married, had a child and then got divorced. He moved alone to the other side of the world. A lot of it must have been hard but he’s lived—I mean really lived.’

  You were laughing with the waiter, clasping your hand to your heart in the familiar gesture you used when you feigned shock. I realised how little I knew of the reality of your life. I had the facts and the chronology but my youth and inexperience had prevented me from joining the dots to create the whole picture. It was all so totally beyond my comprehension that I could not hope to fully understand the man who had been formed by this complexity of experience. I loved you, I trusted you completely and felt safe with you. You had lived a complicated and often dangerous life but for some reason you had fallen in love with me. I would learn from you, learn as I went along.

  We toiled up the winding staircase to the Whispering Gallery in St Paul’s Cathedral.

  ‘You two wait here and I’ll go to the other side—we’ll see if the whisper really travels,’ said Charles and he strode off around the gallery.

  ‘Charles says you’re a gypsy,’ I said leaning close to you as we waited for his whisper. ‘Do you think you’ll always want to move around?’

  ‘Only if I have you with me,’ you said softly.

  ‘Hey! You two—I can hear what you’re saying,’ Charles’ whisper swept softly to us around the gallery wall as he smiled and waved to us from the other side.

  ***

  As the time grew shorter the precious days we spent together took on a greater meaning. Our store of treasured memories grew and we discovered new interests and activities to share. Music was your soul food, it didn’t just thrill and delight you, it kept you centred, it nourished and restored your spirit through difficult times. You could never be homesick: Beethoven and Mozart could be found anywhere in the world. At the piano your characteristic expressions of serious concern and wry humour both disappeared as they did when you looked into my eyes. But while your features took on a softness in love, at the piano they seemed more finely drawn. I watched your hands on the piano keys and wondered at your absorption with the music. Music was the great love of your life, it was retreat, inspiration and transcendence, and you tried to share it with me. But I had had no musical education and struggled in the shallows as you reached out to draw me to the depths. I loved to hear you play, loved the ease with which you would switch from Beethoven to Basie, Mozart to Glen Miller.

  I wonder if you realised that it was fear of my own ignorance that had kept me locked out of this wonderful world
of music which was home to you. Already you had opened the door to give me a glimpse into the way composers transform moods and images into symphonies, concerti and sonatas.

  On my birthday you bought me a record. ‘Just keep playing it,’ you said. Play it enough times and eventually you’ll start to feel it.’

  It was Beethoven’s Fantasia in C Major, and I listened night and day and eventually I began to hear it in my head and feel it in my bones. I began to grasp how music had come to mean so much in your life. You took me to a place where beautiful music, poetry and works of art began to move me; a place where I began to learn about the universal consciousness of the creative mind.

  ‘How do I love thee,’ I read to you one night.

  Let me count the ways.

  I have thee to the depth and breadth and height

  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

  For the ends of being end ideal Grace.

  The sonnet seemed written for me to read to you and so Elizabeth Barrett Browning found a place on my shelves and Shakespeare, Donne, Auden and even Priestley spoke to me at last in a language I could understand. But it is a simple song that I keep in my heart for you. A sixteenth century Austrian folk song, that you played and sang to me … ‘Muss i denn To me it was more familiar as ‘Wooden Heart’ sung by Elvis in GI Blues but the original words as you then translated them for me were different from the Hollywood version.

  Must I leave, must I leave,

  Must I leave this little town,

  Leave this little town

  And bid you, my love, adieu?

  This song has continued to haunt me, and if it’s played in a bar or at a party I will leave the room because I still can’t hold back the tears. When I worked in radio it occasionally appeared on the music playlist and I would strike it out, unable to play it because I would be unable to make the back announcement.

  Sometimes among a group of women the conversation turns to past or lost love. ‘Well suppose you could have one of them back,’ someone will ask. ‘Is there anyone in the past you’d revisit if you had the chance?’ And around the room the question goes. The women tell their stories and when it is my turn I can barely speak.