by David Nobbs
Those very same thoughts also accompanied me on a more realistic romantic search. I telephoned Frances and she sounded really pleased to see me. I invited her for dinner and she sounded thrilled. I took a train to Cambridge – you have to go via London now – and realised that she truly was a very attractive woman. Being forty-five suited her. She kissed me warmly and said, 'You've come at a very happy time. I've got something to celebrate. I'm engaged. You wouldn't mind if my fiancé came out with us, would you?'
That was difficult, but, following the train of my thoughts, I decided that the reason for the difficulty was that I didn't love her, and therefore there was at this stage (and there would never now be another stage, unless she tired of this husband too) not enough affection for me to want her to be happy, and so I resented the thought that she was so happy on this night when I had wanted to make her happy.
As the evening wore on, however, I realised that I didn't fancy her at all, not truly, not deeply, she would have been a trophy at best. I wasn't really on a woman hunt, I didn't want any other woman, I was just avoiding inaction, and my rooms, and Oxford.
As we ate, I wondered where Ange was and I said to myself, 'I hope she's happy. I really hope she's happy. My love isn't much of a love if it no longer wants her to be happy.'
I didn't know whether I believed it, of course, but I decided that night to keep on saying it, in the hope that, if I said it enough, I would begin to believe it. That seemed ridiculous, but it did work a bit, even then, even that night, when Frances and her future third husband made me feel so out of it as they said, 'How wonderful that you've been here to share our joy. Good old Alan.'
Good old Alan. I smile wryly as I write this. I'll have to stop in a minute. It's lunchtime. There are one or two ladies with whom I quite fancy having lunch. Romantic prospects? We'll see. Perhaps it is not yet time. It is, after all, less than a year since Ange left me – but that was the past, and this is the future, and the nature of that past has changed my future so much that at least I can have prospects. There are a lot of things that are worse than prospects. The prospects becoming real, sometimes.
Not that I am seeking anything as dramatic as a new love, for a new love would inevitably weaken the old love to which I cling. But at least it is good that I now know how to talk to women, have lunch with them, kiss them goodnight, even, occasionally, make them smile.
Perhaps I should explain that I am writing this on a cruise ship, on a world cruise. I thought I might as well . . . I was going to say 'push the boat out', but they left that to the captain . . . have a bit of a fling in my Sabbatical year. It was what Lawrence suggested, after all, and I think I am still not sufficiently pro-active as a person. I still do what other people suggest.
I'll be glad to leave my cabin. I get a bit claustrophobic soon after twelve. I get a bit thirsty too. I might walk up to the Crow's Nest and have a cocktail.
There's a story told on cruise ships, about an elderly woman on her own, and she sees a man on his own, and she approaches him and says, 'I haven't seen you on this ship before,' and he says, 'No, it's my first time,' and she says, 'Have you cruised before?' and he says, 'No. It's not been possible for the last eighteen years,' and she says, 'That's intriguing. Why not?' and he says, 'Well, to be honest, I've been in prison', and she says, 'Good lord. That is intriguing. What were you in prison for?' and he says, 'Well, murder, actually,' and she says, 'Good lord. Murder. What happened?' and he says, 'I murdered my wife, if you must know. I cut up her body into small pieces and buried it under the patio', and she smiles and says, 'You're not married, then?'
I tell that story partly to show that, after Ange, I can tell stories now, and partly because it's my way of saying that by the standards of cruise ships I am a most eligible man, and I do have my hopes. There's a Danish woman I rather like, or there's the retired chiropodist – she could be useful – and I fancy that the lady who runs one of the on-board shops held my eye the other evening.
We'll see.
'Unfortunately, I have an inside cabin. It's a bit like a prison cell. Have you seen any of the inside cabins? Would you like to?'
Yes, I know, but come on, I'm an Oxford philosophy don who was a virgin till he was fifty-five. What do you expect – expert chat up lines?
TWENTY-SEVEN
Closure. When I realised where I would find it, I was amazed that I had been too stupid to think of it before. Unfortunately, closure of my romance with Ange brings with it the closure of this book, and that I do not welcome, because the next book I have to write, when I get home, will not be so easy. It will be entitled . . . perhaps you've guessed it . . . 'Germanic Thought from Kant to Wittgenstein'. Yes, I have decided that I have no alternative but to start that vast project over again. I am a philosopher, and that is my subject of expertise, and I either write that or I write nothing, and leave no legacy, and remain the philosopher who failed to fulfil his promise. I'm more proud than perhaps you realised, certainly more proud than I realised, more proud than I was before I met Ange, and I am going to have a go at recreating that vast project. Not that I regret the destruction of the original. I believe that I am a better man now. I believe that I will bring more humanity, more passion, more courage to it. It will be better. It must be better. Those are easy words to write, I know. The fulfilment will not be that easy. I will need all the help I can get.
So, here I am, spending my last morning cooped up in my inside cabin. I tried to pretend to you that it was a prison cell. Rather naughty of me, that, but I find that I have become a bit of a tease. That's one of the many ways in which Ange has changed me.
Perhaps you'd like to know how I got on yesterday. Well, I had a drink with the chiropodist, but I fear I may have put my foot in it. I am still inexperienced in the ways of romance. And I talked to the lady who runs the on-board shop. I asked her – and I'll be the first to admit that it was hardly subtle – I asked her, 'Do you miss your partner when you're on the ship?' There were all sorts of replies that she could have made. 'No, he's on board,' or 'Terribly. We've only been married four years,' or even, 'Yes, I do, but she e-mails me every day.' What I hoped for was 'I don't have a partner at the moment.' It wasn't as good as that, but it was quite promising. She said, 'That arsehole? You must be joking.' I have to say that I found her conversational style more . . . how shall I put it? . . . more basic than I like. My interest withered in the cold breeze of her language.
I didn't happen to see the Danish lady yesterday, but I will certainly talk to her if I meet her today. I think she likes me, but I am taking nothing for granted. I find that I do hope for your good opinion, and I don't wish you to think that the confidence my affair with Ange has given me will ever spill over into conceit or complacency.
Oh yes. There's one more thing that I must tell you before I describe my final, and successful, search for my beloved. It occurred to me over breakfast ( two rounds of toast, honey first on even dates, marmalade first on odd ones, I wouldn't want you to think I am utterly transformed). My mother. She has died. I wouldn't have been able to go away for ten weeks otherwise. Yes, she went downhill very, very suddenly.
She said to me one day, as I was leaving, 'I'm so glad I found you at last, Alan dear.' I kissed her, hurried out, and burst into tears in the corridor. Next morning, one of the nurses rang me and said, 'Mr Calcutt, I think you ought to come straightaway.' My mother wasn't conscious. She was breathing slowly, more and more slowly I held her hand. I actually like to feel that I felt one faint squeeze, but I can't be sure of that. Twice I thought she had gone, only to hear one more breath, but then there were none. 'I think she's gone,' I said. The nurse felt her pulse. 'She has,' she said. 'She's gone.' She put her arm on my shoulder, and said, 'Would you like a cup of tea?' That was so English, and so kind.
My head tells me that I am glad that she is dead, that she has been spared any further indignities of old age, but my heart gives a different message. My heart tells me that it is such a shame, after we had been so cold and dist
ant for so many long years, that we could only be close to each other for a very few months, and I realise that I will always feel conflicting emotions, because if one is open to emotion and truthful about emotions there is no other possibility in this difficult old world of ours.
And that thought leads me towards that final meeting with Ange, that closure that I needed.
It was very simple in the end. I didn't need to go back to Gallows Corner. I didn't need to phone and have an embarrassing conversation with her mother. It suddenly occurred to me where I would find her, and it was so simple and so obvious that I was amazed that I hadn't thought of it before. I would find her at the darts.
I knew in my heart that she wasn't dead or crippled, that she had left me as suddenly as she had joined me. I knew that I would be able to see her at the next World Championship, for which she had booked two seats as usual. Once I knew that, I was much happier. I knew that I would get my closure.
As it happened, I didn't need to wait that long. I bought a darts magazine – looking round in fear that somebody I knew in Oxford would witness the purchase; I had not managed to throw off every vestige of embarrassment – and in it I found a list of fixtures. The very next one was a British qualification event in the leisure centre at a place called Fracton-on-Sea.
I went by train. It was too far to drive. The weather was calm but grey, with a few spits of rain on the breeze. The town consisted mainly of Edwardian and Victorian villas, most of which were now small hotels and B&Bs, though how they could possibly fill them all, in view of the paucity of attractions, I couldn't tell. In the centre of the town there was a sad little shopping centre, three sad pubs, two sad fast food restaurants, and one brave slow food restaurant called 'Donald's'. If I had been a religious man, I would have prayed for Donald.
In front of the shopping centre, the cliffs gave way to a large flat space, much of which was a huge car park. There were also a few garish modern buildings in glass and concrete. The concrete had not weathered well. There was a bingo hall, an amusement arcade, a variety theatre, and the leisure centre. My heart began to beat very fast. This wasn't going to be easy.
I booked into a little B&B called Sandringham. It was flanked by two other B&Bs called Balmoral and Windsor House. My room was very twee and slightly damp. The toilet roll holder was mauve.
I washed, shaved, cleaned my teeth, changed my clothes. I was taking no chances. I felt very sure that I would see Ange that day. It was almost as if I had a premonition.
I looked at myself in the mirror. I even spoke to myself. I suspected what I was going to find, and I knew that it wouldn't be easy. I needed to give myself every chance. I needed to be utterly prepared.
If you love her, Alan, you want her to be happy, or it is no kind of love at all.
If you love her, Alan, you want her to be happy, or it is no kind of love at all.
If the landlady had heard me, she might have asked me to leave.
I walked across the car park, slowly. I was nervous, very nervous. Of course I was.
If you love her, Alan, you want her to be happy, or it is no kind of love at all.
The sea looked oily and uninviting. So did the doorman at the darts event. He told me that there were no spare tickets. I had to charm him to get in, and yes, I did it. I could not have done that before Ange.
I saw them straightaway, almost as if I had known exactly where they would be sitting. He was everything I had expected, and more so. Young, good-looking, kempt.
The jealousy rose in my gullet, yes, it did, I had known it wouldn't be easy, but . . . but . . . I acknowledged to myself that they looked good together, they looked right together. The jealousy was instinctive, animal, natural. Experience and history were against me, yet . . . yet I almost found myself smiling as I looked at them. If you love her, Alan . . . oh, and I did, I knew then more than ever that I did . . . you want her to be . . .
She turned, as if suddenly aware of my presence, and saw me. An instinctive smile lit up her face, until she realised how embarrassing this was for her. The smile died. She looked wretched, and I felt for her, yes, I did, I truly wanted her not to feel wretched.
I made my way between the packed tables. The room smelt of beer and chips and sweat and vinegar. There was a buzz of conversation. The next match was just about to begin. I found myself welcoming this alien atmosphere like an old friend.
I stood over them and Ange gave me a sad smile.
'Hello, Alan,' she said. 'This is Rob. He plays county cricket for . . .' I can't remember which county she said. It doesn't matter. 'Rob, this is Alan. I was telling you about him.'
We shook hands. His handshake was firm, but well judged. I had known that it would be.
'Oh yes,' he said. 'Hello, Alan. Can I get you a drink?'
'No, thank you, Rob,' I said. 'I . . . er . . .' I glanced at Ange. 'I don't think I'll be staying.'
'Same again, Ange?' he asked.
'Thanks, Rob.'
Off he went. Ange patted his seat to indicate that I should sit down. I did. She hadn't finished her drink, and Rob hadn't finished his, and I really do think that he left us alone out of tact, so that we could effect our closure. I'm glad now, and I was almost glad then, that she had found someone with such social grace.
The first thing to say is that I felt an enormous surge of relief and joy – yes, how odd, but I felt joy. She was as lovely as I had remembered. It had not been just an illusion of love. She had been worth knowing, and she was worth losing.
'I'm sorry, Alan,' she said, 'but I did warn you. Easy come, easy go, that's me.'
'That was you, you mean?'
'What?'
'You've found the one, haven't you?'
'Well . . . maybe. He is very nice.'
'I'm glad, Ange.'
'Do you mean that, Alan?'
'Almost.'
We had a little laugh, like an echo of all those laughs we had had. The laugh upset me a little, for a moment.
'Why didn't you get in touch?' I asked, trying to make it sound like a mere point of interest, not a rebuke.
'I'm sorry, Alan.' I didn't know what to say. This'll shock you, but I've never written a letter in my life.'
'I'm suitably shocked.'
There was a burst of cheering. One of the players in the next match was being introduced.
'I didn't want to phone. Phone calls can go wrong. You never gave me your e-mail address and you don't text. I didn't know how to do it. Besides, what could I say? There wasn't nuthink to say, was there? Not really.'
'No.'
'I'm sorry. I kept meaning to. Honest.'
I was vaguely aware that the match had begun, but Ange seemed totally unaware of it. We were so close to each other, as close as we had ever been, and, despite the pain, I relished every second of that closeness.
'I called at your house,' I said.
'You never!'
I told her about my conversation with her neighbour.
'Old Tilly,' she said. 'She ain't so bad, poor old gel. We was in Spain, Alan. Rob's brother has a place there. He's a footballer. We took Mum as well.'
'So, he holds all the aces.'