by Nigel Jones
The day was lovely, and Honeysuckle had surpassed herself. The meal was magnificent and the evening’s entertainment wonderful. She used every trick she had learned to make sure it was a day they would remember, and a day she would never forget.
Seeing Jacques so happy was one of the most important things in the world to her. She had hated herself for all the years of unhappiness she had given him, although she would not have changed her decisions. This was just one small way she could help to make up for it.
There was something else. It was their day too, hers and Jacques‘s. It was only in her mind and something she never shared with anyone, but in a little girl way it was the day she had dreamed of as a child. It was always supposed to be their day, but at least she was there.
One thing she did, as part of the celebration and instead of wedding vows, was to persuade both Sophie and Jacques to read a piece of poetry. It was easy to persuade them to read the verse she had chosen when she was just thirteen, when it was to be she who was marrying Jacques.
When they read the lines, she alone was crying, but no one saw her tears.
Her reunion with Yvette was interesting. They had once been adversaries and if Honeysuckle was honest, at one time in her life she hated Yvette more than anyone she had ever known before, or since. Despite what she had done for her, some of that animosity still existed.
Jacques took Yvette over to introduce her to Honeysuckle, who at the time was talking to Sophie and his mother. “Honeysuckle, here is Yvette.”
Yvette said, “Hello, Honeysuckle, it is nice to see you again.”
Honeysuckle replied, “So you can speak then.”
Sophie spat her drink back into her glass, in complete shock. Elizabeth stood, eyes wide and Jacques stared at Honeysuckle waiting for Yvette‘s reaction.
Slowly Yvette smiled, then exploded with laughter and hugged Honeysuckle. “Bloody Honeysuckle! It is good to see you. What an adversary you were, and still are.”
Honeysuckle was smiling now, and hugged her back.
“What was all that about?” Jacques asked, completely at a loss.
It was Yvette who answered, still giggling. “That is what Honeysuckle said to me after she had spent five hours lecturing me for being so feeble, and I finally spoke.” She smiled again at her saviour. “I only said something to shut you up.”
“I hated you,” said Honeysuckle.
“I know, and I hated you.“ Both faces told a different story now.
“That was then, now I hear you have two beautiful little girls. I want to hear all about them.”
Yet again Sophie marvelled at Honeysuckle, her best friend and the woman who she was in no doubt still loved her husband, Jacques, probably more than life itself.
Jacques sat and watched the three of them from afar. It was the only time all three of them would be together at the same time. Three woman he had loved and still did, but all in different ways. Only one was missing, and her photograph watched them all, smiling, from the mantelpiece.
“Don’t ever get married, Buster. Lot of fuss, just live with them.” The man put another log on the fire, which was struggling to stay alight.
“Come on, trouble. Let’s put something on those beans in your tummy to calm then down.”
The man stood up and made his way to the kitchen with Buster in pursuit, his old bones creaking but the mention of beans driving him on.
TWENTY-FOUR
The snow was deeper than Jacques thought it would be. At least four inches had settled overnight, but now it had stopped and the forecaster promised rain by the evening.
“It will probably be tropical by tomorrow, Buster. The British weather, eh! At least you knew what to expect in Vietnam.”
Buster was lying in his basket hoping they would not have to go out in the snow and all the way up to the Warren. He’d been out earlier to dispose of the beans and did not like the white stuff he’d found on the lawn.
“The fireside for us again I’m afraid, old boy.”
Music to Buster’s ears, he settled back into the warm blanket.
“Life was not so exciting after that, Buster. Better, but not as exciting. Which was good, I was not getting any younger and had no desire to be shot again.”
He knelt down to clean out the hearth, wincing as he did so. “Mind you, this was easier in those days.”
Nothing that sounded like ham or lunch yet, so Buster pretended to be asleep.
“Mind you, we didn’t have a fire in London or Paris.” He eased himself up again with a newspaper full of ashes and walked to the back door to deposit them in the bin.
He assumed the position he’d struggled up from earlier and set the fire. “Might as well light it as well, old boy.” He struck a match and lit the firelighter he’d set beneath the logs. “There, it will soon be toasty.”
“Here you are, boy, something to keep you going.” As if by magic he produced a chew from his back pocket and led Buster to the fireside with it as if it were attached to his nose.
A good chew and a warm fire, that is what Buster liked now.
Jacques was sitting in their apartment in Paris, two streets back from the Champs Elysees, where they spent most weekends. During the week he commuted to London where they had another apartment in Kensington, and whenever she could Sophie would go with him.
She was still writing, but articles that did not require her to be on the front line in a war zone. She also did some work for television, the news section of R.T.F. She liked the work and the camera liked her, even though she was nearly sixty. The French still appreciated an attractive older woman.
Jacques still worked for MI6, but in an office with a rather nice view of the Thames. He was given the chance to return to Vietnam after his convalescence, and thought long and hard about it.
He had several more discussions with Sophie about their future, and all they could emphatically agree on was that they both wanted one. She did not want him to be shot again and obviously neither did he. So he had been working in an office for the last fifteen years.
He hated the job, but it paid well and he had become a powerful man in the world of espionage. There were new threats and there had been new wars, and he had played his part. But it was the weekends that he lived for, and his time with Sophie.
They had never had children. They had married too late, but it didn’t matter, they had each other and sufficient going on in their lives so they were never bored. They also had the Isle of Wight.
They had bought a cottage by the Warren that they managed to visit quite regularly, and would sometimes even go individually to see Honeysuckle and Elizabeth.
Simon had taught Jacques to play golf, badly, and Sophie would talk to Honeysuckle for hours on end.
They were both beginning to think about retirement and maybe spending more time on the island. Sophie was going to write a novel and Jacques was not going to play his version of golf, but he would buy a small yacht and sail.
After they were married things subtly changed with Honeysuckle. She never asked for a kiss or flirted with Jacques again, except as a joke in front of others.
After a few years, during one of their visits, he and Honeysuckle had become so at ease in each other’s presence that he decided to ask her why.
“I miss it you know.”
“What?”
“You flirting, and the look you used to give me. The one that gave me an instant erection.”
She giggled. “You mean this one.” She looked at him the way she used to, the way that took his breath away.
Even now he could hardly speak, she was still an incredible looking woman who seemed not to age, but he managed to say, “Yes, that one.”
She laughed, noticing and enjoying the effect it still had on him. “That’s why I don’t do it.”
“What do you mean?”
She was more serious now. “I want to, I’ve always wanted to, Jacques, and even though I’m fifty I still want to take you to my bed. Unfortunately I kno
w you would come, no matter how much you love Sophie. And I know how in love with her you are. Being fifty has made it easier for us, Jacques. We can have everything, Sophie, Lissette and Simon, and still hold on to what we have always had.”
She was right, of course. He smiled, a sad smile. “I still miss it.”
“So do I. You have no idea how much, but I love you now as much as I always have. The form of my longing has just changed. Just to be near you, is enough.”
Jacques was quiet, assessing what she had said.
“If we kiss now, you will hate yourself. You did not have then what you have now. Knowing is enough,” added Honeysuckle.
She was right, she was always right. “At least we have had the conversation and you are right, knowing is enough.”
Honeysuckle smiled. “We have always known, but it is good to remind ourselves. We used to do it with a kiss, now we will just talk about it, my darling sweet Jacques.” Tenderly she touched his cheek.
“Why ask for the moon, when we have the stars?”
She smiled at his reference to the line from the film, Now Voyager. During the War she had watched the film with Simon and had thought of nothing but Jacques throughout. She had cried at that line. “Yes, that’s right, Jacques. That’s exactly right. We have the stars.”
A few years later he did retire. They sold the London apartment but kept the one in Paris, which they visited regularly, splitting their time fifty/fifty between the island and Paris.
Lissette grew to be quite a beauty whilst Honeysuckle matured like a fine wine, each year added to her allure. Some grey hairs appeared but they just enhanced her aura. With each new grey hair she seemed to grow wiser, and her capacity to love seemed boundless.
‘Beauty and the Beast,’ Simon had always called them. Never really knowing a good riposte, Jacques had always allowed it to be the last word, but he watched Honeysuckle grow older and all he could see was her becoming more beautiful with every year that passed. Whenever he left her he felt sad, whenever he went back he felt uplifted just to be in her presence.
Jacques loved Paris too. After all he was half-French and much to everyone’s amusement he increasingly took on some of his father’s mannerisms and foibles. He even briefly grew a moustache before Sophie almost took the razor blade to his throat. To Jacques, Paris was culture and excitement. The Isle of Wight was Honeysuckle, and Sophie was both places.
Sophie knew this and did not mind, she was confident that she had enough of him never to have to worry. She also knew Honeysuckle loved him. She had told her that the first day they ever met and she had told her every time they visited, just in case she had forgotten. But Honeysuckle was a moral and loving person, as was Jacques. She knew Honeysuckle would never do anything to hurt her relationship with her husband. On the other hand, Jacques was a man; the best she had ever known, but none the less, just a man.
Lissette got married and had her own children, two lovely little girls. Honeysuckle found new people to love and nurture, two more reasons to be happy. She took to the role of grandma with the same enthusiasm she had conquered everything she had ever done. Her grandchildren were besotted with her and hung on her every word; to Jacques they appeared to be constantly by her side. The Beast held no fears for them and as they grew up he became known as Beautygramps. Just being near them all was an uplifting experience.
Jacques became their favourite uncle and Aunt Sophie was a princess. She was the quintessential personification of Parisian chic with an accent bestowed on her in Heaven, who captivated the little ones whenever she visited them from the magical place called Paris.
They were wonderful years filled with great happiness as they all watched the girls grow up. Until one fateful day, the day everything changed.
Jacques woke up and put his arm around Sophie. She was cold. An aneurism had taken her in the night and Jacques had not even woken up. He had not been there for her.
They told him that there was nothing he could have done. It was over in an instant and she would have felt no pain, but he was distraught. He did not have time to tell her he loved her one last time. He had no time to prepare for her passing.
Once again it was Honeysuckle who instinctively knew what to do and how to help him, it was her strength that got him through the next two years. Like a younger sister once again, she was there for him whenever he needed her. It was her shoulder he cried on, her heart kept his beating and her compassion helped heal him. It was simply her love that made Sophie’s passing bearable.
He sold the apartment in Paris and moved to the island to be near Honeysuckle. The day after he moved in she appeared at the door with Buster, one of her adored black Labradors. Buster stayed, with instructions to look after the man and love him when she could not be there with him.
Jacques had never had a dog, but within a week he realised that Buster had understood his instructions completely and for two years they were inseparable.
The man was crying. Buster did not like crying so he tried to lick the tears away. It worked, the man laughed and tried to move his head out of the way of the lapping tongue, but gave up and instead just hugged the dog he loved.
“I suppose it must be time for lunch, you silly mutt.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Jacques sat on the bench. The sun was about to set over the Needles. It was cold, very cold, forecast to drop to minus ten degrees during the night.
There was an empty space where Buster should have been. He stroked the cold wood and thought of their lunches together.
He had been waiting for Buster. They had both been diagnosed with cancer the same week and Buster had died five days ago. Jacques had buried him in the garden, helped by Honeysuckle, with a box of biscuits and a ham sandwich. They had cried together and had tea whilst talking about and remembering dear Buster. During the past two years hardly a day had past when Buster and Jacques had not been to see Honeysuckle or she had come to the cottage, but he had become Jacques’s dog and would not leave his side. “It’s because you give him sandwiches,” Honeysuckle had said, “and let him sleep on your bed.”
It had taken nearly a week to put his affairs in order and he had written one last letter to Honeysuckle. He had waited at the post-box for the postman, who he knew well, to make his afternoon collection and handed it to him personally and said that it was very important that Honeysuckle should receive it first thing the next morning. The postman promised that he would hand it to her himself.
He had never told Honeysuckle about his cancer, there was no point. It was never his intention to need care or nursing, but the real reason was that it would have cast a dark shadow over their remaining precious time together. He wanted her to remember those days with affection not sadness.
His life had been so full and vibrant that he had no intention of suffering a slow, painful and ignominious death and already the malignant tumours were starting to sap his strength.
Everything was in place, and now he wanted one last look at the view he’d loved all his life from the place that had been the centre of so many of his happiest and saddest moments. He looked up and imagined the Spitfire and saw the pilot waving to him before he did his victory roll. He could see the boy with a little girl by his side, and then that same girl, now fully grown, kissing him on this very spot, And Buster, dear Buster who, along with Honeysuckle had made the past years bearable.
He turned and traced the letters on the bench, S O P H I E.
“Well it’s nearly time, Sophie, my darling Sophie. Time to come and see you and Buster. He likes sandwiches, particularly ham. Don’t let him get hungry.” He laughed to himself.
He slipped the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a little hot soup that he‘d brought. There were no blankets to keep him warm, and when they found his body he would be with them both.
The next day Honeysuckle collected the mail from the postman who had brought it into reception, the usual array of bills and circulars. “This one is for you, Honeysuckle. Jacques g
ave it to me last evening”
She took the letter, puzzled as to why he should have sent it.
It was his handwriting, the handwriting that she had read in so many of his letters over the years, all of which she still kept. She stroked the address he had penned on the envelope and was suddenly anxious. Something was wrong, why would he be writing to her?
She ripped at the envelope in a panic, sensing some awful news lay inside.
She read the opening lines and put her hand to her mouth to stifle the scream that did not come. Her legs buckled and she grabbed the desk to steady herself.
“Are you okay, Honeysuckle?” the receptionist asked.
She did not answer but managed to walk, shaking as she did so, to her private lounge to read the whole letter. There she locked the door and settled into the chair by the fire.
Trying to find the courage to read, she hesitatingly began:
My darling Honeysuckle,
When you read this letter I will be gone. I have had cancer these past six months and it is incurable. I have chosen what many may call the coward’s way out, and they may be right. But you know me better than any living person and you know that I am not a coward; it is simply the way I have chosen to die.
I know you are crying now and who knows, perhaps I can see you. Try not to cry, my darling, I am not crying because I do not believe this is the end of what we have.
I have loved you all my life, and you have loved me. In this life we have known great happiness together and I will wait for you in the next. No, this is not the end, just the next stage of a journey I believe is just beginning.
I believe we can love many people, as you have done all your life, in that I have tried to emulate you the best way that I could.
It has not been easy. We have sacrificed a portion of our love to accommodate others that we have grown to love. I could not have done that without your guidance, and I would probably have abandoned all the others that I have loved if you had asked it of me, but you did not.