‘Hi Chloe,’ it read. ‘It was great to bump into you today after all these years.’
Too formal, I thought. Here comes the ‘but’ or the excuse. I read on.
‘I’ve only just got back from dinner with my colleagues following our meeting. I know it’s too late to meet tonight but are you free tomorrow for a coffee or lunch perhaps? It would be good to catch up. Ed’
Oh my giddy aunt, it’s him, he wants to meet up. My heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest; my palms went sweaty. He wants to meet me!!!! Then the doubts, the inevitable doubts. He just wants to meet to talk, to catch up, nothing more. I needed to stop my imagination from running wild. That uncontrolled daydreaming would result in the inevitable destruction of anything potentially good. Don’t think this is anything more than a polite, friendly gesture from a blast from the past, I told myself.
Yes, I thought, obviously my answer is yes, but how quickly do I reply? I don’t want it to seem like I’ve been waiting by the phone for hours, even though, in truth, I have been. Then again he wants to meet tomorrow, so I can’t leave it too long, and besides I will be heading to bed soon, I considered as I hit ‘reply’ on the message and stared at an empty text box.
It had been so long since I had been in this position and I didn’t know what the etiquette was these days.
If he had, as he said, sent a text as soon as he escaped from his colleagues then the least I could do was reply.
‘Hi Ed, I would love to, lunch is good for me, where would you like to meet? Chloe’. I read and re-read the message several times, deleting it, rewriting it, eventually hitting send before I could overthink the situation.
Don’t expect a reply tonight, I told myself. Maybe I should have held off sending my text. Maybe I should have pretended to have a life and either be too busy to reply tonight or claim to have a prior engagement. In truth I was too old to play games. I gave myself a stern reminder that an old acquaintance had invited me to lunch, which I accepted, and that is all that had happened.
As I climbed into bed I plugged in my phone to charge. I didn’t want it to run out of juice before the all-important reply.
I shut my eyes, smiling, feeling hopeful and contented for the first time in an eon despite the party that was still raging outside. Just as I started to drift into blissful sleep, my phone sprang back into life. It was another message from Ed. ‘Tomorrow it is then, how about 12.30pm in the Market Square, we can decide where to eat then?’
Perfect, my sleepy brain thought as I typed the reply, ‘See you then’.
three.
So begins the beginning
Well, I tried to sleep, I tried very hard. I tried ‘mindfulness’ although I have never read anything about it so don’t know the specifics – the how and the what. I tried going to my calm place, my happy place, my grandparents’ house. I imagined driving off the ferry in Stromness, Orkney. I listened to the sounds of the curlew and the wind. I imagined the sting of the horizontal rain as it hit my cold face. I thought about the drive over the hill, turning right towards Kirkwall. I imagined passing the loch on the left, and off in the distance the Odin Stone and the Ring of Brodgar. None of my Celtic forefathers were on hand to help me get to sleep. I continued along the road, over another small hill with the only trees on the island nestled in the river valley beside the road. Down into Finstown and turn left. Those last couple of miles so ripe with memories. Across the ancient stone bridge over the river where many summers ago, my father, brother and I went fishing.
Lying in bed, awake, I imagined continuing along the road, the hills on the left, the sea on the right. Up ahead, nestled into the hillside for protection from the weather I could see my mum’s cousin’s farm. And ahead, just to the right of the road, now bathed in sunshine, the white house shone as a beacon of hope and love. My grandparents’ house. At least it was, many years ago. Now it’s preserved in my memories. It’s my happy place, my go-to place for love and laughter and carefree summers. My grandparents had chickens and we would search for eggs for breakfast. Wild cats and their kittens lived in a store at the back of the house. It was originally an outside toilet, but that was long gone and now a small hole had been cut roughly in the bottom of the rotting door to provide access to shelter and protection from the harsh Orkney winter weather. My grandfather, a farmer, or crofter, of many years, allowed them to live there to catch vermin and protect his animals.
During the summer he would borrow someone’s pony so I could ride round the field that wrapped around the house.
There was a swing in the door of the garage that was rolled down from its storage place and allowed hours of fun swinging back and forth, back and forth, whilst the family sat in the sheltered spot, enjoying any sun, endless tea, conversations and love.
That was my go-to sleep place. On a good night I never arrived, having drifted off to sleep several miles before. Not that night though. That night I arrived, unpacked, played, chatted, remembered my grandparents, my amazing grandfather with his weather-beaten face, the few remaining strands of white hair combed over his bronzed scalp and the smell of the ever-present cigarette which miraculously hung from his lips as he talked. He was strong, very strong, as someone farming in these northern reaches has to be. And my grandmother, so meek, so mild, so steady, so strong. It always amazed me how she kept her hair dark even to the end of her days. Maybe it was because she wore a tea cosy on her head – at least that was what I thought it was as I grew up. Or maybe she had a secret stash of hair dye. Either way her hair is of no consequence. She was the matriarch that held the family together.
I remember hours spent in the kitchen, all the grandchildren and parents lined either side of the long kitchen table, the adults drinking whisky and the kids on pop as granny stirred the stew and we waited so patiently for it to be ready. I’m not sure if the stew took that long, or if it was an excuse to drink more whisky and talk. Orcadians have always been fabulous hosts. Eventually the melt-in-the-mouth stew and newly-pulled-from-the-garden boiled tatties were served, with lashings of butter across the broken skin. Oh, just thinking about those days fills me with happiness even after all these years.
This tale, however, ends in both a sad and a beautiful way. My grandparents were very much in love, having passed their fiftieth wedding anniversary some years before. One April my gran had a stroke and was taken to hospital. The family gathered around. After a couple of months it was clear she wouldn’t recover and came home to die. My mum, aunt and uncle travelled north (all of them living in or around London at the time) to care for her.
All this time, ever since my gran took ill, my grandfather was slipping away. He had no intention of living without his wife, his life. By the time my father, brother and I arrived in Orkney that summer, grandfather was in hospital. We visited him there, but he was visibly removing himself from this world. Back at their home I went in to my gran’s room to read poetry which, as a former teacher, she loved.
Early one morning my father knocked on the door of the room my brother and I were sharing.
“Granny’s gone,” he said. “Would you like to say goodbye?”
My brother was adamant that he did not, under any circumstances, want to do that. But I felt differently.
“Yes,” I replied timidly, having never seen a dead body in real life before.
Holding hands we entered my gran’s bedroom. She looked so peaceful, like she was asleep.
“Goodbye, granny,” I whispered, and leant in to kiss her cold cheek. “Goodbye, I love you.” Granny was the first, but not the last, person I loved that I kissed goodbye after they had passed.
A few days later my grandfather passed. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, but as a teenager, in the space of a week, I lost both my grandparents, and attended two funerals.
Orkney is not known for wall-to-wall sunshine, but on the day of both funerals the wind died down and the sun shon
e. I remember now how the sun bounced off the mill pool lock on the left of the funeral procession, the bank to the right resplendent with summer flowers. There were tears of course, so many tears, so much pain and sadness. I was amazed at how my mum held it together, having lost both of her parents so quickly. I don’t know how she did it. My father stood firm, strong, silent beside her. That must have helped. Through all this sadness what I took away was how much, how very much they must have loved each other and I knew that if I found just a fraction of that love in my life, how lucky I would be.
Back to the present
Love – that was what was keeping me awake that night, the endless churning of the same argument, swinging from hopeful anticipation of the lunch, to reminding myself that it was just that, lunch; from wanting love to return to my life, to never wanting to feel the pain of separation again. It was hardly surprising I couldn’t sleep.
I must have eventually drifted off and awoke several hours later to hear the dawn chorus start. It always amazes me that as the first semblance of life-giving light appears in the east, what starts out as a few birds, tweeting their welcome to the new day, builds so quickly into a cacophony of noise, every bird in the neighbourhood shouting their greeting and competing for attention.
As the sun slowly rose I tried to get more sleep. It came, although only fitfully until eventually I could stay in bed no longer.
I showered, dressed and made up in a turmoil of thought and anticipation. The sun was shining on the patio and I decided to join the birds, still merrily chirping about goodness knew what. Sitting there, mug of strong tea cupped in my hands, I looked around my pretty little garden. It hadn’t been much when I bought the house some five years previously, but now the flowers and shrubs I had planted were growing strong and making their presence known. As they now began to fight each other for space in the borders I would have to decide which ones to keep and which ones would need to go. It would be hard though, having planted and nurtured them for years, but it would have to be done.
For a north-facing garden it got a surprising amount of sun. I closed my eyes, soaking up the warmth. I played over and over in my mind what time I would leave the house to walk into town, which was not far, only a few minutes’ stroll. I thought about what I would say, how long I would wait if he didn’t turn up, what we would talk about.
In the end I realised I was waiting for the sake of waiting. I packed a bag and headed into town early. I planned to wander around the bookshop, pick up some historical thriller. Hopefully one of my favourite authors had published something juicy. With book in hand I would head to the nearest coffee shop for a large latte and a table in the sun.
I did do most of those things but not as I had imagined or planned as I walked into town that day.
I made my way into the bookshop, an increasingly rare site on a high street these days – an actual bookshop with real pick-them-up-and-flick-through-them books, even an assistant or two to ask questions and garner recommendations. Online might be quick and cheap, but nothing beats the real thing.
As I stepped inside I heard a voice behind me. “Morning Chloe, you couldn’t wait until lunch either then?”
I turned, or more accurately, spun around to find myself face to face, or rather my face to his chest, with Ed.
I breathed in the smell of Eternity. My heart was thumping so loudly I could feel it reverberating in my ears and I was worried Ed would sense it too. I felt the temperature rise in my face. Ed now found himself looking down at a red-faced, embarrassed fool. This was not in any way how I wanted to come across.
He must be regretting suggesting this now. I wouldn’t blame him if he just turned and walked away, I thought.
Instead he smiled at me deeply, giving me time to regain my composure.
“Morning,” I finally managed to say and returned his smile. “As it’s such a lovely day I thought I would buy a book and grab a coffee.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Ed said. “I arrived early and was just wondering about how to occupy my time when I saw you cut across the square and head down here. So what sort of book are you after?”
We wandered over to the fiction section, but my mind was no longer on books. “I’m a fan of historical murder mysteries, that sort of thing,” I rambled on.
“You’ll be a fan of C. J. Sansom then,” Ed suggested, and guided me over to the ‘S’ section.
I turned to face him. “Yes, I’ve read all of his books. I think they’re terrific, real page-turners. But I don’t think he has anything new out.”
We both looked blankly at the full shelves, not really looking at the books, more using the time to gather our thoughts.
“Shall we skip the book and head straight for coffee? It’s a little early for lunch,” I suggested. He smiled and we left the shop in silence.
“I didn’t ask yesterday, but do you live near here or are you just visiting for the meeting?” I asked, both fingers crossed, hoping it would be the former.
“Actually, I’m afraid I’m still up in Nottingham so I’ll be heading back there this afternoon.”
My heart sank; this really was just a catch-up on what our lives had become over the intervening years.
I guess the disappointment must have shown. I have always been told my face is very expressive and paints a clear message of exactly what is going on in my mind.
Ed reached down and took my hand, pulling me to a stop. I turned towards him, nervous, but excited by his touch.
“I’m glad that wasn’t the news you were hoping for, I was going to build up to this if it seemed appropriate. I have to be honest, I’ve been trying to find the right words and nothing ever seems to be right somehow. And here we are two hours before we were meant to meet and you’ve already told me what I was hoping to hear, or in your case, see.”
Now I was puzzled. I was not sure where this was going as we stood staring at each other in the middle of the street.
“You see,” he continued, “the meeting yesterday was about a job, well, a promotion actually. It would mean moving down here, well, about fifteen miles from here. When I saw you yesterday it felt like fate, like everything was finally falling into place.”
He paused, reaching down to pick up my other hand. “What do you think?” he asked quietly as he stroked the back of my hands with his thumbs.
I was beaming from ear to ear. I don’t think he really needed me to answer his question, and his cheeky grin gave away that he knew exactly what I was thinking, but clearly he wanted to hear it from me.
“I would love that, if you were nearby. Do you think you’ll accept?” I asked, holding my breath and biting my bottom lip.
“Yes,” he said, “I already have, I start in a few months.”
With that he dropped my hands, put his arm around my shoulders and led me off to the coffee shop. We must have looked deluded as we strolled across the square, this tall man and short woman, in silence, but beaming from ear to ear with sheer heavenly delight, a happiness I hadn’t felt in years, if ever. No, I had felt it before, which is how I knew this was something really special.
The last time I had felt this giddy excitement, had, strangely, also been in Nottingham. That seems to be the place that most of these ramblings emanate from. Strange that, given that Nottingham had a reputation as a city that had six or even eight women to every man. Although I believe that had been the case when the lace industry was at its peak back in the nineteenth century, but was probably now an old wives’ tale rather than a true reflection of the city’s recent gender make-up.
I had, as we have already established, stayed on after university and by this point in my life I had a job and a flat on my own. I had a small circle of friends, mostly boys, and weekends were spent drinking and dancing the nights away.
One fateful Saturday night the boys said they would be bringing along someone new. They were all off to
a music festival soon and they thought it would be good for everyone to meet before then. Not that I had been invited to go with them to the concert and nor did I want to. Camping is definitely not my thing. Hot tents, miles to walk to get to the loo, queues for showers. Give me an en suite, a bar and a restaurant, that is more my kind of thing.
The boys arrived in a taxi at the allotted time and I jumped in. A quick ‘hello’ to those I knew and a shake of the hand to the new member, Fred number 2. Conversation flowed and we were soon in the city centre and disembarking from the taxi. I had to get some cash out, as did Fred 2, and as we banked at the same place we agreed to meet the others in the pub, instructing them to get pints in for us if they got to the bar before we joined them.
Fred 2 was a decent amount taller than me, but not much. He had a strong build – another gym junkie, by the looks of him. He had floppy black hair which he frequently pushed back from his eyes and a wicked smile. He was well dressed in jeans, a checked shirt and brogues. He was well spoken and he was handsome. Of course, it does occur to me at this point that saying someone is handsome is a moot point. Obviously they wouldn’t be a ‘love interest’ if I didn’t find them attractive.
Back to Fred 2. He had boyish good looks rather than rugged, or chiselled, or striking good looks. He worked as an accountant for a company that manufactured some specific car parts which I have long since forgotten. He lived in the same town as his job, some fifty miles away from me, in the heart of the Peak District.
As we walked over to the pub we talked about where we were from. It turned out that Fred 2 was a year younger than me. He had been brought up in a village not far from my parents, his sister was the year above me at the school I attended and his parents played tennis with my aunt and cousins at inter-club matches. What a weird coincidence. And how weird that over all these years we had never met and yet in Nottingham, via friends of friends, here we were.
Loves Lost and Found Page 3