Beyond the Arch

by David Evered

  ‘But does that mean that you and Sally are parting company?’ asked Jenny.

  ‘Yes, no, perhaps,’ said Peter after a long pause as he looked at Sally, ‘but you must ask Sally as well.’

  ‘I think Peter’s opaque and ambiguous but succinct answer sums it up. I’m sure that whatever our futures hold for us we have fashioned a bond and will continue to meet.’ She slipped her hand into his. ‘That is the least of my aspirations and,’ she nudged Peter, ‘knowing Peter’s talent for accidental meetings, both coincidental and contrived, I’m sure this will continue to be the case. We were saying just before you arrived that we should enjoy the present tonight, and that is what we intend to do.’

  Jenny looked from one to the other uncertainly and eventually said, ‘I’m not sure what to say and I’m not sure I understand what you are saying exactly.’

  ‘I suspect we are no clearer in our own minds than you are,’ said Sally ruefully.

  Jenny put her arms round both of them. ‘I too have had an amazing year but the most important element of it has been new friendships. I can only say that I love you both and would be upset to lose either of you as friends. This occasion would have been complete if Sue and Michael had been here. Their presence would have been a counterbalance to the partings and farewells.’

  The theme of the evening was swing and big band music. The dimly-lit room behind the pub had a raised stage and a small floor for dancing, surrounded by tables. The background music was at a volume that made conversation difficult. Sally pulled Peter close to her and locked her hands behind his neck, whispering, ‘Dance with me.’ She held him very tightly as they swayed to the music and he became aware she was crying soundlessly.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered.

  ‘I said that we should enjoy this evening and so I am, although that may not be apparent just now. I know I need my period of seclusion and quietude but I’m also fearful. Is this the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning or simply a way-station on a shared journey? I tried to explain my dilemmas to you – they remain unresolved. What I dread most is that I’ll lack the courage to resolve them, that I’ll be overcome by timidity. But you should dance with the others and I should compose myself. I don’t want my melancholy to be transmitted to them.’

  Peter led Cass to the floor. ‘You seem very relaxed about your impending parting from Stefan.’

  ‘I think it had run its course – at least for now. It was good but it never had an air of permanency. You were there at the start. It was real fun and spontaneous, but throughout it was a liaison between two free-living and independently-minded individuals.’

  ‘And do you see your future in the longer term as a wholly independent woman?’

  ‘I really don’t know. All human relationships add to our lives and shape our progress and this one has certainly done so for me – as has knowing Jenny and you. As the poet said, “I learn by going where I have to go”. Maybe one day I’ll take a more programmed course through life, or maybe not and certainly not yet! I expect you think that this is simply capricious on my part!’

  ‘Not at all now. That bewildered and unhappy man whom you first met on the bench might have done so, but not now. He has grown older and hopefully wiser.’

  ‘Sally doesn’t look like a happy lady.’

  He looked over Cass’s shoulder to their table and saw that Sally was being hugged by Jenny. ‘No, she isn’t tonight. She has some private demons to confront.’

  ‘And are you one of those demons?’

  ‘I don’t believe so but my relationship with her may have awakened some dormant ones.’

  ‘She needs support.’

  ‘Yes – but she also needs to be confident that her decisions are hers and hers alone.’

  They returned to the table and had a further drink before Jenny looked across at Peter. ‘It’s my turn now – I don’t want to miss out on the dancing. Your gigolo duties are not through until you have danced with me. I’m not so sure my suggestion that we should all come together this evening was necessarily such a good one. I reckon Cass and Stefan will be fine and despite their protestations I suspect they may well link up again.’

  ‘That sounds like an unfinished sentence.’

  ‘It is, but that’s because I simply don’t know the rest of the sentence. Your Sally is a very complex person.’

  ‘That’s true but she is not my Sally – she is Sally’s Sally and she always will be. That’s a major part of her attraction. That’s her charm but it’s also a cross she has to bear. Whatever the future holds in store for her or for me or for us, she has given me so much that she will always be a part of me.’

  ‘In a way that Ann was not?’

  He paused. ‘I wasn’t drawing comparisons and in fact that didn’t even cross my mind, but if I’m honest I have to agree you’re right.’

  ‘Peter, it’s that honesty and openness, together with your willingness to venture into the unknown, which appeals to Sally and others. What you don’t know is that Sally and I have met on several occasions since New Year’s Eve. We have become good friends and shared many confidences. Whatever the outcome of her period of reflection, she hopes, and I hope, that we shall all remain close. I see no reason why that shouldn’t be so, and I hope it’s also true for you.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘No, absolutely not, and if I feel that you’re backsliding, I shall speak to you very severely! I think you should take Sally home.’

  * * *

  They drove slowly back to Sally’s flat. ‘Will you stay for just one more night?’

  ‘Again that’s sound like a valediction, an adieu.’

  ‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘The words just came out wrongly – I just need the comfort that only you can give me just now. I simply want to forget for tonight that I shall have to live the rest of my life in the future.’

  ‘That sounds very melancholy.’

  ‘No, just uncertain and perhaps somewhat fearful. Oh, those words didn’t come out right either. My anxieties are simply that I cannot see clearly what that future holds nor can I specify what I would like it to hold. You’ve been amazingly patient and sympathetic and I’ve not treated you well.’

  ‘My patience largely results from what I have learnt from you and I’ve been more than happy to enjoy the freedom that you have granted me.’

  ‘Peter, I never granted you that freedom – it was yours and yours alone to take. I want you to know that whatever conclusions I reach about my future, I shall come back and talk. It’s more important to me than almost anything that you should understand those conclusions. This level of vacillation on my part is most uncharacteristic and that is one of the reasons why I’m having difficulty in handling it. Jenny has been a sensitive sounding board and her non-directive and non-judgemental comments have been invaluable in helping me to focus. I’m talked out now, come to bed and just hold me close.’

  * * *

  Jenny called Peter during the following week and they agreed to meet for a pizza one evening. ‘I was wondering how you were and whether you were pining for Sally. Have you heard from her since she left?’

  ‘No, but then I didn’t expect to – have you?’

  ‘Yes, she wrote when she arrived in France to apologise for her tearfulness that last evening but otherwise it was a pretty non-committal letter. She also said if I saw you that I should pass the Brownings’ best wishes on to you. I’m not quite sure who they are.’

  ‘Very long-standing friends of her family who have been very kind to both of us.’

  ‘She suggested that I might go out for a few days later this month but I don’t think that I can do that.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Both practical and personal reasons. It would not be straightforward for me to take time away from work just now and I’m not sure that I’m in a position to off
er wholly unbiased advice. Tell me what you’re doing with your time now.’

  ‘I’m putting in some time writing, which has become something of a compulsion. I’ll carry on doing so even when I return to work at the beginning of July, whatever the judgement is on my first offering, but I have already had enough time to sketch out the framework of another book.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to tell me what it will be about?’

  ‘This time it will have elements of autobiography, and will be the tale of a middle-class man approaching middle-age who has a brainstorm and cuts loose for a year.’

  ‘And how does this saga end?’

  ‘I wish I knew – but at present it’s a mystery!’

  ‘Will you let me in on the mystery at some stage?’

  ‘Of course, but I’m sure that all will become clear to all in due course!’

  33

  The telephone rang in the middle of May. It was the literary agent inviting Peter to meet her on Friday afternoon a couple of days later. ‘I’m Connie Freedman. I was previously a journalist who worked with Sally. This has been, in a way, a poacher turned gamekeeper conversion, although I should prefer the term gatekeeper.’ She offered him a coffee and looked across her desk. ‘I have accelerated your script through the appraisal process – Sally can be very persuasive. I should say, first of all, that no single agent can be the sole repository of wisdom and that all judgements in this game are to an extent subjective. That said, I have, as I usually do, shared this with a colleague.’

  ‘That sounds like the prelude to a courteous rejection.’

  ‘No, not entirely. There is much which I found appealing in the tale you’ve written. It’s generally well-written, it’s a human story, it’s touching and it has an air of authenticity about it. Sally told me that you’re a solicitor by profession.’ He nodded. ‘I’m sure that you want me to get on with what I have to say. This has real merit although there are areas which could be improved which would require you to work with an editor but that can and should be straightforward. Before I go on, can I ask what your future plans might be?’

  He explained that he had taken leave of absence for a year and was due to return to work at the start of July but on a part-time basis. ‘Are you planning to continue writing? Do you feel driven to do so?’

  ‘Yes, and I’ve already started on another book. In the remaining weeks before I go back to work, I hope to have sketched out a framework and written the first few chapters.’

  ‘Good, I was hoping you would say that and can you briefly give me an idea of the theme of the narrative?’ He did so. ‘That’s helpful. I do have an offer to make. It may well be less than you hoped for but it’s the best I can do at present. My recommendation is that we should not look for a publisher just now, but if you can provide another book and if, and it’s a challenging if, that also reaches or even exceeds the literary merit of your first script, then I think there would be a reasonable chance that a publisher might offer you a two-book deal. I can, of course, make no promises and what I say is simply advisory. You’re free to approach others who may view this differently. The world is a difficult place for debut authors. I add that not to discourage you or deter you from speaking to others but simply so that you go into this with your eyes fully open. But if you have the drive and ambition to go ahead then I would urge you to go for it – and I hope that you will.’

  He laughed. ‘This is such an alien environment for me that I am amazed. I thought the most likely outcome would be failure and probably abject failure, so what you say is extraordinarily encouraging. I’m happy to trust your judgement.’

  ‘In that case, it would be helpful to me if you could keep me in touch with progress periodically – say every three or four months – and perhaps we could meet again early in 1971. I shall summarise my advice to you in writing.’

  * * *

  Peter made his way back to the flat elated that his efforts had met with a modest level of approbation. He felt the need to share his pleasure and stopped at Sue’s flat on the way up to his own to see if she and Michael might be free for dinner that evening. She said that they would but added cryptically that it might be better if he were to return to his own flat before making any firm commitments for the evening. Puzzled by this enigmatic piece of advice, he climbed the stairs to the floor above. He was immediately aware that there was someone in the flat, evoking memories of the occasion six months earlier when Ann had returned after the break-up of her relationship with Francis. Once again noises were emanating from the kitchen. He went through to find Sally making tea.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he said in surprise and then hastily added, ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘I asked Sue to let me in. We both thought that you wouldn’t object.’

  ‘Not at all, but when did you get back from France?’

  ‘Earlier today. I came straight here from the airport as I wanted to see you.’

  He walked over and kissed her. ‘Let’s go into the lounge and have our tea. I have something to tell you.’

  ‘I know. Connie called me to say that she was seeing you today although, very properly and professionally, she did not tell me what she was going to say. I just wanted to be here to celebrate or commiserate with you as appropriate. So which is it?’

  He recounted the content of his discussion with Connie and concluded, ‘The message was neither one of gloom and despondency nor was it one which evoked unrestrained ecstasy but it was closer to the latter than the former. Even if nothing comes of it, ultimately I have learned something of myself in the last year.’

  ‘That is impressive and don’t underplay the achievement. It’s a tough world out there for a debut author, as I’ve already discovered for myself. I’m absolutely delighted.’ She hugged him. ‘I really could not be more pleased.’

  ‘I spoke to Sue on the way up, before I knew that you were here, to ask if she and Michael were free for dinner this evening and they are, but it should also include you. I suspect she has already made the assumption that it would be the four of us.’

  ‘Can we decide that a little later? I wanted to talk to you and this will be much more difficult.’

  ‘I suspect I can sense what is coming.’

  ‘Probably, but you have been, and are, so important to me that I want you to understand. I have been in a state of ferment for the last few weeks and all the questions and uncertainties that I revealed to you over Easter have been at the forefront of my mind. I have been over and over all aspects of our relationship. I have relentlessly sought comfort from Jonny and Tilly who have been the most understanding and stalwart of friends.’ She took his hand and turned to look directly at him before continuing. ‘Peter, you have come closer to me than any man has ever done but I am still unable wholly to suppress my demons. When I shall or whether I ever will remains to be seen. I hope that at some stage I do succeed; this state of turmoil is painful. The next thing I’m going to say is entirely selfish but I’m going to say it. It would be wonderful for me if we could continue to be loving and intimate friends. I’m simply scared that if I offer more I shall disappoint you and myself. I even wonder at times if I’m intrinsically incapable of making an unconditional commitment to anyone. I hope that’s not the case and it may simply be a matter of time before I’m able to do so. But I believe you’re capable of doing so and thus I am absolutely emphatic that you should not feel what I have said places any obligation on you. As I hear my own voice, I know that what I say sounds appallingly manipulative and self-centred. It takes no account of your feelings or how these might have evolved over the last year or even the last month.’

  He sat forward on the settee, with his head in his hands. She knelt on the floor in front of him, taking both his hands in hers and nothing was said for several minutes. ‘Peter, I have monopolised you and the discussion and have taken very little account of your feelings. It would be he
lpful to me if you were to talk and react, but in saying that it sounds as if I’m seeking a particular response from you and, implicitly, I’m asking you to meet my needs and accept my conditions but I know that these may not chime with your own. If you want me to go, you must say so and if you want to spend the evening on your own or on your own with Sue and Michael, you should do that.’

  ‘I don’t quite know what to say and anything that I do say now is likely to be confused and incomprehensible.’ He thought for a few minutes. ‘When I was dancing with Cass last month, she was talking about her parting from Stefan. She quoted a line of poetry to me saying, “I learn by going where I have to go”. It struck a chord with me and has haunted me ever since. It has in many ways been my leitmotiv for much of the last year but it has also made me recognise that there are circumstances when the route which one identifies and wishes to follow is barred.’ He paused. ‘No, maybe that’s too strong. Possibly it’s just littered with obstacles. The only courses open then are to change course and circumvent the obstructions or readjust the compass and head off on another bearing entirely. I’m not sure which is the right route for me and, deep down, I continue to feel that I must continue to “learn by going where I have to go”. One question I need to address is whether there’s an intrinsic deep-seated need in me to make an unconditional commitment to another and if not now, when. It seems curious. When we first met on that cliff top you appeared to me to be so carefree and independent and I saw myself as the one constrained by convention and middle-class angst and expectations. At the end of that first week in France, when we first made love, I knew with absolute clarity exactly what I wanted but now I cannot be so sure. I have accepted the role of loving friend and have absolutely no wish to resign from that position. But it seems that whilst I have been adjusting to a new and liberating situation, your comportment has changed and elements of a previously concealed persona are emerging from behind a mask. I seem to be, in part, responsible for unmasking and resuscitating some dormant demons, which has been a painful process for you. At the same time, I’ve shed many of my inhibitions but whether this is simply a temporary emergence from my shadows or whether it’s permanent, I cannot say.’