Chris M. Hummel

The Mirror’s Tale

A novel

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Imprint

Acknowledgements

Foreword

PART ONE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

VII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

PART TWO

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

PART THREE

Imprint

The Mirror's Tale

Chris Hummel

Published by: epubli GmbH, Berlin, www.epubli.de

Copyright: © 2013 by Christine M. Hummel

ISBN 978-3-8442-2279-1

Jacket design by Jürg and Chris Hummel.

Typeset and layout by Jürg Hummel

With thanks to Jürg, Sophie, Jeff, Renate and Rudolf for their help and support.

And here I was thinking I was clever! I really thought I was street-wise, that I was easily bright enough to suss out what was going on... Was this to prove a humbling experience?

- Ney, my friend; much, much more than that.

PART ONE

I

Oh, shit, not morning, please, not bloody morning. Don’t let it be. It can’t be. Not really. Not already - not again! But of course it was. It always bloody was.

From that you can no doubt tell that I had woken that day feeling seriously grumpy - not an unusual occurrence, in fact a more and more common one as I was forced to wearily drag myself to work on dirty, unreliable, public transport day after day after day, the one and a half hours it took to get to the school where I had worked for 13 years. Thirteen bloody years! Unlucky for some, I thought - ‘Gone in the boom-boom of a humdrum’, I said to myself, attempting to jolly myself along. Trying, as always to be the cheerful dyed-in-the-wool archetypal teacher that I clearly wasn’t.

Habitually Pink Floyd reared up to annoy me…‘All-in-all you‘re just another brick...’ kept running through my head, endlessly. How corny can you get! An ‘earworm’ if ever there was one - the German expression for songs that ‘get on your brain’. More than that, this one had got on my wick and was becoming my theme tune. I seriously hated it but it wouldn’t budge.

This was the ‘me’ that lived through that cheerful, jokey English way of being - not who I actually was at all. I hated that too, but it was a survival strategy given the environment that I had to work in, the people I had to work with. I knew the script and practised it religiously though often wearily. If I opened my mouth to say what I really thought, how I really felt… God, it didn’t bear thinking about!… So I didn’t.

The previous day before it all kicked off had been a holiday, as it was some important saint‘s day and I worked at a Catholic school. ‘Thank you God for that!’ After all there had to be some kind of compensation for working in an establishment that felt like wearing a right shoe on a left foot, or vice versa. I guess I had just got used to the pain. How I had enjoyed that free day, cocooning myself at home, listening to the radio and being sumptuously lazy. Relaxing in the armchair, curled up with a mug of good coffee, rather than the instant muck we got in the staff room at school, even the smell of which really turned my stomach. It gave me wonderful expansive pleasure, this freedom to do what I liked and with no hurry involved.

Happily ingesting the programmes from ‘Start the Week’ to ‘Woman’s Hour’ (What an old-fashioned title that was, it always struck me), I had come across one item where a cheery middle-aged woman was talking about how freeing it was to be 50 and thereby becoming, to all intents and purposes ‘invisible’. I could see her sensible, scrubbed, ‘no nonsense’ face in my mind’s eye, short, frumpy, pudding-basin haircut - the sort of woman who had always disapproved of me; always instantly disliked me. Boy, had I had some run-ins with that sort of woman in my time.

She, this old bat on the radio, had found that, as far as the general population was concerned, women were no longer of any interest once they had passed their childbearing years, and were therefore apparently no longer sexually attractive. Whilst she found this liberating, it seemed to me to be profoundly sad, and harked back to the days when women were considered nothing more than breeding machines… but…. it certainly struck a chord. It niggled on and on. Had I passed my sell-by date?

I kept returning to it.

As you might guess, anyone who works with teenagers will have experienced the sensation of being part of the furniture, to be used when needed, to be sat on when tired, to be slashed at when angry, but to be otherwise ignored. However, I had somehow thought this was confined to that age group, their problem in fact, and that once past pubescence, normal service would be resumed.

Now I knew I was wrong. It seemed, it continued.

I looked in the mirror that morning. Horror! My God. Who the hell is she, that despicable, faded looking thing that even I wouldn’t be in the least bit interested in knowing. My skin suddenly looked yellow-grey, repellent.

I felt sick. I dragged myself away and went to dress. These clothes had seemed original, exciting, even statement-making, when I had worn them before; now they looked like they were from the wardrobe of that much maligned archetypal creature, the spinster librarian - or, even worse, the hand-knitted art teacher, which I hoped I wasn’t. I questioned my perceptions but they wouldn‘t shift. I now knew that I had been deluding myself. This, it seemed, was ‘truth’.

Fifty and alone; my marriage had failed in a slow, dwindling, fading kind of way, after our only daughter had decidedly taken herself out of the picture by moving to Australia. How could she? The cow. I was still fighting the anger.

There really was nothing else to say between us after that, my husband and I, so we had parted to make the pain of the realization of the ‘before’ and ‘after’, less obvious. Many of the friends we had had together also retreated silently to abet the quietness of the split; so as not to disturb the dust. And my daughter? She might as well have been on another planet.

When had I last heard from her? I wasn’t even sure…

Hey ho. Sandwiches made.

Time to go. It was raining, of course. Grab an umbrella. Take the local train to the bigger station in town. As I travelled no-one looked at me. They didn‘t bump into me but they showed no sign of noticing my existence. I dug my nails hard into my arm.

No-one acknowledged my presence. I realised this was not a new occurrence. Over the years it had become more and more the case. Was I guilty of treating the folk who were even older than I was the same way? Yes, I guessed I was. Perhaps the older you got the less you counted. What a thought! What a bloody thought! Shit.

My anger rose as I ruminated on this all too relevant issue.

Baby on Board. Yes. – Middle aged person on board? Old age pensioner on board? Never! There was a certain damning logic to it. Obviously it was O.K. to drive dangerously in the presence of these less important beings. ‘At what precise age did one become viable road-rage fodder?’ I wondered.

I tried to change the subject, think of ideas for the classes I had to teach that day. I was good at original ideas – or was I? Maybe I just thought I was… The self-doubt was seeping insidiously into all areas of my being.

Getting out at the end of the first leg of my journey, I felt old, dowdy and of no significance to anyone or anything. I walked heavily over from the first train and stepped onto the down-escalator to change platforms, my usual morning pattern. The station was overrun with people dashing to work, intent on their own goals, thinking their own thoughts, worrying over their own problems, or re-living the joys of the previous evening – simply inaccessible.

I looked at the faces as I went down underground, stepping gingerly onto the escalator. Today I was vulnerable. It was a day when things would easily go wrong When things would fall, unexplained from my fingers, my nose would run when I had no hanky, there would turn out to be no black paper left in the draw for the project I had planned for the most difficult class etc. etc. The list of annoyances and incidences of bad luck were endless and this was a form of superstition that I had come firmly to believe in. As the day began, so it would continue. Complicated patterns would emerge like, things start well then turn bad, or, no matter how bad it looks nothing drastic will occur etc. etc.

I went on my way.

I’d invented many games to pass the time on the long journeys to and from school: Worst and best dressed awards, the weirdest person, the person I would least like to be, which I now realised was designed to make me feel better about myself. It rarely did, but rather succeeded in making me feel guilty for feeling sorry for myself. I was healthy and had a roof over my head…and enough to eat, didn’t I? It wasn’t bloody enough - and I’m no woolly liberal. I would not be forced to feel grateful; so there.

My God, I felt grey. I was sorry for myself. I had crawled out from under a stone - and I wished I hadn’t.

As I descended slowly on the escalator to a lower level, a face met mine. It had intruded into my thoughts: A man’s face. It had registered me. Why? In the past I would have automatically assumed that he fancied me, but those days were all but forgotten. Did I know him? I didn’t think so, and as I rarely forgot a face, I was pretty sure. I glanced back as he passed. Yes, he was still looking at me. Then he disappeared in the crowd.

Gone. Oh. Disappointment.

Perhaps he did fancy me. Perhaps he thought he knew me. But the expression on his face had been so intense. I tried to make sense of it.

I fed on this event during the day, denying all the other possibilities that had occurred to me. He found me attractive! It was balm to my sore and weeping ego of the early morning, and I pushed away any doubts, fending them off whenever they crept near. I began to feel better, and in fact, I began to feel quite gorgeous and I knew I was walking, moving differently. I may be old but I had far more magic, charisma, than all these stupid blank young things that were everywhere, that believed themselves superior. Unpainted empty pots, they were simply uninteresting. I still felt brittle but I was exceedingly grateful for the change this small incident had brought. Perhaps my superstitions were wrong?

II

The following morning the weather was decidedly better. As I looked in the mirror, I dragged out the memory of the incident yet again to stoke the good feelings that were beginning to falter. It was weakening. I had overworked it and it was becoming ragged and would, I knew, soon be useless.

Then… can you believe it. It happened again. I was going down the escalator, and obviously reliving the event, although it was starting to annoy me that I kept doing this, I saw him rising up towards me and was unsure about the reality of it. He looked at me with a look of wonder, shock, incredulity! I knew it was a different event, mainly because there was more of it than yesterday. It was clearer, but more puzzling. I was definitely having a profound effect on this man. This time I was more aware of his identity. He was quite presentable, almost good-looking… well, not bad anyway and very well dressed. Good colour sense and not bald; probably about my age. Bit small perhaps but never mind.

As I worked it over and over in my mind I became a little alarmed. As a young woman at college, among my friends, I had had the reputation as someone who attracted nutters and it was true. There was the old crone who had come up to me outside Woolworth’s and told me ‘Mark my words, you’ll be fetchin’ and carryin’ all yer life’ - and she could have been right had I not taken great pains to ward off the curse and make sure I did as little fetching and carrying as was humanly possible (difficult for an art teacher who is always supposed to be bringing in this and that, and marking the essays from the art history course.) Another time a seriously deranged man who was shouting and swaying about on the pavement, had reeled round the rear of a car in which I was sitting in the back, whilst it was stationary at the lights.

He had banged on the window right next to me although I was seated in the furthest corner, opposite where he had started out on the pavement, much to the amusement of all the other occupants of the car, one of whom had, only that minute predicted just such a thing happening as the ragged apparition neared the car, ‘He’ll go for Angela’ he had said ‘You’ll see!’ He was amazed when his soothsaying turned out to be true.

Later on in life I had studied psychology and had ended up working with, if not out-and-out nutters, people with serious psychological problems. Was this yet another instance of my magnetic qualities towards the mentally insane?

I brushed it aside as me being negative. After all it was just as likely that he, the man on the escalator, fancied me, wasn’t it? Middle-aged men could conceivably fancy middle-aged women, couldn’t they? It didn’t always have to be bimbos and floosies, did it?

But would he turn out to be obsessive - a stalker, perhaps, to combine the two trains of thought? Maybe, in fact probably, but right then it really didn’t matter. It was exciting.

The following day I found I almost expected to see him, was looking out for him, and I was pleased when he sort of nodded at me along with the stare. I think I would have been disappointed had nothing new happened. I was beginning to feel good about the whole thing, and I was terribly shocked the following day when he was nowhere in evidence. To add to my consternation it was a Friday and I felt slightly wounded, and not quite comfortable about things all weekend. Was that it?

Monday morning came, as it inevitably does, and I had a strong feeling of apprehension, which vacillated between excitement and fear of being let down. I put on a rather smart black suit, something I had not had very long and was still really in the ‘for best’ category.

Looking in the mirror, my appearance seemed moderately impressive but not as alluring as I wanted it to be, just in case he showed up again. I turned the waistband over to raise the hem a touch. That was better. The black leather coat worn open and with the collar up looked a bit French, a bit ‘left-bankish’. I wasn’t too sure… but it was time to leave, and now I was stuck with it.

On the first leg of my journey I decided if I did see him I would say something, just a greeting probably as something told me that otherwise the staring thing with the perfunctory grunt would be all that happened. I wasn’t sure I had the guts and I was still mulling it over in my head – shall/shan’t, will/won’t, ought to/shouldn’t when he passed me on the escalator with a nod of the head and a strangled, over-hurried ‘Good Morning’. I was confused, both elated and disappointed, I had been prepared to do it; he had beaten me to it, damn it - but the elation won out as I continued with the more usual ingredients of my very predictable life. Sitting on the train I listened again and again to the greeting as it played in my head. Another voice warned ‘this is becoming obsessive, this is unhealthy’, but it was easily drowned out. No-one who was present that morning wanted to hear it.

This pattern continued over the weeks and, although it still gave me some comfort, and fed my wilted, impoverished ego somewhat, I no longer believed it would be my salvation. He was it seemed, no white knight. It wasn’t going anywhere. Life had returned more or less to drab, and, although I was still more careful about how I looked in the mornings, it didn’t seem to be having any effect, and I was required to fight off a pervasive sense of disappointment, an ‘Oh well that’s obviously how it would go. Nothing surprising there.’

One morning I got up to find it had rained in during the night. I had left the window wide-open, as it had been a stuffy, oppressive sort of an evening. The weather forecast had not predicted any rain and I, in naïve fashion, had believed them. Had there been a thunderstorm? If so, why hadn’t I woken up? I was a very light sleeper. I cleaned up the mess as best I could, but my diary which was on a table under one of the windows was soaked and, since I wrote it with a fountain pen, quite a lot of it was seriously smudged. I put it carefully down, hoping to dry it out without exacerbating the damage, but I knew that some of it was ruined. How much, remained to be seen.

Wiping up the sludgy mess had taken some time and I was really late leaving the house, after dressing hurriedly and not as carefully as I would have liked, and as had become necessary of late, for reasons you are already well aware of.

Surprisingly I caught my first train which providentially, also turned out to be very late that particular morning. I was lucky, it seemed. But we predictably arrived at my connection several minutes later than usual, which inevitably caused a change in the now regular pattern of events. I would have to run like hell to make my next train.

So intent I was on catching it that I almost failed to see him coming out of the newspaper kiosk near the top of the escalator. He was opening a newly bought newspaper and… it wasn’t an English one! I didn’t have time to be sure of what its title was, but I thought the headline looked like Italian or Spanish as all the words seemed to end in vowels. Ummm…. Very interesting.

I was so stunned at this revelation that I stopped hurrying and consequently, missed my connecting train. I couldn’t digest this momentous discovery and run. My legs just gave up when the master that gave them their orders was so preoccupied. This meant that I would have to wait another fifteen minutes before there would be another train.

Normally, I would have immediately phoned the school secretary to tell her that I would be late, though this seldom happened. In fact I don’t think I had been late more than once in the last 13 years, or for that matter, more than a handful of times in my entire career. I was very reliable, totally dependable.

So, it was decidedly out of character that I dismissed this course of action for the moment at least, and legged it back through the station, running up the escalator to where I had last seen him. I was almost sure that he hadn’t been aware of me at all that morning, hadn’t even caught a glimpse of me hurrying on my way. In any case, he would not know that I had missed my train. If I could locate his whereabouts I could spy on him, and maybe find out some more about who he was and what he did.

I realised as I reached the square in front of the station that this was something of a long shot. Hundreds of busy commuters were milling about there, and I had no idea where his place of work was. But I did wonder whether maybe he was in the habit of going for breakfast, or at least a coffee before work. That newspaper might be an indication of that. Coffee, croissant and reading the paper would be a good start to anyone’s day if they could afford the time. I wish! Might mean he wasn’t married, too! Where would he be likely to go? I hurriedly considered the options. There were far too many. At least seven places in the vicinity served breakfast and there was a vast choice if all one wanted was a quick coffee.

I also didn’t want to be seen, so I sneakily began with the one that was easiest to see into from an oblique vantage point. This was one where you climbed up many steep steps onto one of the station platforms, and from there you had a good view into a popular restaurant, which was built down at ground level. It was still difficult to make out the faces of the people inside, firstly because of the steep angle of the view and secondly, due to the dirty windows on this side. Probably it was virtually impossible to clean them because of the nearness to the steps that had brought me up there. I tried to peer in without attracting attention. I saw no-one that looked in the least bit like my target. Was this a ridiculous idea? Should I give up and go and wait patiently on the platform for my next train like a good girl?

I could ring the school with a story about late trains causing missed connections etc. They would definitely believe me. After all it was true to some extent and my aberration need never be known. There were advantages to be gained now from my years of boring, grinding reliability. In fact, it slowly dawned on me, there was nothing stopping me from going even later, after all I wouldn’t make it to my first class now even if I went on the next train, and there was a big gap in my timetable after that until my next one was due to begin.

My super ego was trying to make itself heard in my excited, erratic brain. You shouldn’t be doing this! But today, unusually, it didn’t stand a chance. No, I wasn’t going to be sensible, do the right thing, just for once in my middle-aged life I was going to do something unpredictable, something silly even!

It occurred to me that it was a good thing I hadn’t yet phoned the school. I could be caught on a broken-down train, couldn’t I? Why hadn’t I called on my mobile? I’d left it at home? The battery was flat? No, better - we were stuck in a tunnel! There was no signal there. It was awful. I felt claustrophobic, the lights had gone out. A power failure. I was terrified.

No, don’t overdo it. Remember - the lady doth protest too much.

Having failed in my quest to find his whereabouts at the first try I felt weary. The excitement went out of me, but I still didn’t feel like giving up and just returning to the status quo. Why don’t I go for a coffee anyway? I dared myself - regroup my thoughts. Settle myself for the inevitable return to the norm.

I chose to go to a quiet, rather dark and select place down a side street. It was one of my favourites because of the beautiful decor, something undervalued generally in this neck of the woods. It flashed through my brain that he might be there, but this thought was immediately slapped down by my more sensible, adult side. Not likely, given the number of other venues available and anyway, not very many people frequented this hidden gem. Nevertheless, I did look round carefully as I entered and a mingled feeling of relief and disappointment passed through me. Ah well! It would have been most unlikely.

I ordered a capuccino and sat in the corner furthest from the door. I needed something to do and, as I had given up smoking and had no cigarettes (I would certainly have succumbed had I had some with me. Oh bugger. Why had I given up? Why had I become so sensible?)

I thought of getting one of the newspapers or magazines the café thoughtfully provided for their well-heeled customers. This would have involved crossing the room again and my legs felt slightly paralysed, so I dismissed this option. No, I must start getting back to reality. I took out my timetable and began considering what I would be doing at school that day when I finally arrived. It was like treading heavy water to interest myself in this now seemingly distant part of my existence, but with a great effort I managed to involve myself, thinking of a difficult class I would have to cope with that afternoon. Should I change my lesson plan to something the disruptive element would take to more easily?

Having succeeded in re-entering my teaching mode of thinking, I was not prepared for something invading my periphery vision on the far right. I slowly became aware that someone was staring at me. As I started to focus on the spot in question a newspaper was raised to hide the face of whoever it was. Instantaneously, I took in the man’s hands. Neat, small, brown hands, then I more consciously took in the newspaper. It was Italian. No!

In panic I grabbed my things and left the place, aware that the newspaper had shifted and that I was being observed as I hurried out. He must have come in after me. Why had I fled? Hadn’t I been looking for him shortly before? Hadn’t I wanted desperately to find him? Yes, but only on my terms. My heart was overdoing its thing and I felt slightly sick. Suddenly I was depressed, and found myself returning to the station and my platform like a beaten dog, although I did keep looking back to see if he had followed me. He hadn’t. Again, relief and disappointment. Well, what did you want? What did you expect? Self-hatred crept in again as two parts of myself upbraided me for my stupidity. One was saying, ‘Why did you run when you had such a golden opportunity?’, the other, ‘What are you doing behaving in this juvenile manner?’ Neither of them liked me very much.

‘Whatever!’, as the kids would say. Back to reality. Sadly, and guiltily I boarded my train. It had all been for nothing, and now I would have the task of lying, with nothing at all to show for it. Sod it.

Needless to say they believed me, no questions asked (how sad) and I returned to my original lesson plan, the difficult one, to punish myself for my irresponsible behaviour.

As I went to bed that night I resolved to forget this whole sorry business, accept my age and stage in life, and not to be so silly ever again. The cage door was closing on me as before… with my help. Maybe it would have been better if I’d let it.

III

The next morning I reprimanded myself for considering my wardrobe yet again from his point of view, as I had become accustomed to doing of late. New habits, it seems, die hard too. I forced myself to put on the old brown felted sweater that it had been a dubious pleasure to own, even from the very beginning. It was awful. Where, and even more importantly, why, had I bought it? Cheap, no doubt, in a sale somewhere. It would do for school I had probably thought – and indeed it would, and it had. It didn’t really go with the other brown of the skirt. I put it on anyway, and that this was such an awful combination made it even better for my new ‘no-nonsense’ mood. However, as I reached the point of where his and my paths usually crossed, I was glad that my big black coat covered this horrendous lapse in taste. He clearly had a good aesthetic sense, and I would be so ashamed to be seen to be lacking in that respect.

But… today, there was no sign of him. Was it Friday like the other time he was missing? No.

‘Good’, I grafted firmly over my sense of disappointment, ‘It’s better this way’. But as the days following proved to be equally empty of his presence, the graft began to slough off. Had he given up so easily? Couldn’t have been that interested then. Slightly adjusted theme poem of the day at this time was….

‘As I was going down the stair,

I met a man who wasn’t there,

He wasn’t there again today,

I wish that man would go away,

As I was going down the stair, 

I met a man who…’

And so on and so on.

After a week of just such uneventful mornings, I could stand it no longer. The weakness was too strong! I hatched a plan. Half term was coming up and, I thought, I could go to the café again one morning without having to have an excuse, and hopefully rewrite the end of the scene. It became, in my head, a potential romantic meeting, though I could never get very far with the fantasy before the shutter came down on it. It just didn’t seem credible. No matter, I thought, what have you got to lose?

Holidays were generally dull affairs anyway, now that I was alone, so it would give me something to plan for, like all the other teachers at school, who constantly seemed to be going to exotic places and doing scintillating things. My turn this time then, maybe.

As half term approached I became more and more nervous and was wracked with doubts about whether it was a good idea. However, as I had not told anyone about any of this, I thought that whatever happened no-one need know the outcome. I daydreamed about what to wear, and constantly changed my mind, as all the clothes that ran past my internal screen seemed to have their drawbacks. I decided that what he would probably like would be smart classic, being Italian, but then that really wasn’t me. I admired it on other people but I didn’t seem able to do it successfully. On me it just looked nothing.

However, I thought, I would smarten up a bit. I made an appointment at a hairdresser. Not the corner shop one I usually frequented, who always did my hair the same sensible way, but a much more up market one that I knew to be somewhat out of my normal league, price-wise. No matter, I hardly spent any money on myself these days and, whatever happened with the Italian Project as I now considered it, it would do me good to have a bit of a makeover. God knows I had seen enough T.V. programmes on the subject. I would, perhaps, buy something extravagant to wear, instead of the usual, practical, run of the mill stuff I was prone to fall for these days.

The statement making that had been my earlier trademark, and which I had to admit to myself had fallen by the wayside, must be revived. Once I had thought this thought, the craving to do it was immense. I had been punishing myself it seemed, for my failing relationships with husband, daughter, friends. Well, time to forgive and make up with myself. The quest was on.

I went shopping and bought myself a sexy pair of black velvet trousers that were what could only be described as figure hugging. For someone whose figure had not been hugged for a good while this was a bold move, and took me a great deal of courage. I bought a quirky leather jacket, which had interesting but subtle textured panels. It was definitely unusual, but probably did not look anything like as expensive as its outrageous price tag. No matter, in for a penny in for a pound; in fact very many of them.

I needed a polo neck sweater to wear underneath it. This would hide my wrinkled neck, which was the worst effect of my aging processes as far as I was concerned - well of the parts I showed to the outside world anyway. What if things were so successful that I was expected to take my clothes off! Oh, horrors. Forget Bridget Jones - She would look relatively alluring compared to my ancient Marks & Sparks interlocks -the awful image of me having to undress revealing these drab rags. It didn’t bear thinking about! Must invest in a new set of underclothes.

Which style? Sexy or trendy? I thought moderately sexy but expensive looking - not only ‘expensive looking’ I thought. This was starting to be a very expensive project, and my sensible streak was beginning to shout louder and louder. However, my adventurous part shouted back. ‘This could very well be your last chance. You will never forgive yourself if you don’t try. You need to rethink yourself, anyway, before the dust settling on you becomes fossilized’.

The sensible part huffed mightily but slunk off into the shadows…

The quest it seemed was on again.

IV

I busied myself with all the improvement plans that had to be done in the short time I had left before the holiday. It was quite a challenge to fit it all in while working full time, as usual. In fact, I was not behaving as the person I normally would; the overly conscientious, work-centred being, that I had become, since I had lost my previous status as a married woman and mother. I was cutting corners like an Italian racing driver. (Appropriate! I thought.) It worried me that it might be noticed – and - let’s face it – if it wasn’t, it said a lot about peoples’ awareness of me and my work.

I no longer arrived much earlier than necessary to make sure everything was perfect, so that the day would run like clockwork. Instead of the carefully prepared sandwiches and salads I made daily to take for my lunch that I proudly consumed in front of the other staff, I resorted to bought, plastic-wrapped offerings that I would previously have despised. But the final horror was when I found myself queuing with the kids in the school canteen as, having failed to make the sandwiches, and having been in too much of a hurry even to buy something on the way, it was the only option still open to me – apart from starving.

My whole daily structure was dissolving. One or two of the women on the staff commented that I seemed unusually stressed and even enquired, somewhat half-heartedly if anything was the matter, to which I could more-or-less honestly reply that there wasn’t a problem.

I had decided not to tell anyone about my scheme; chances were that it would come to nothing anyway. Besides, keeping it a secret gave it a certain frisson. Perhaps I was somewhat concerned that at least one of the people I mixed with, would destroy the dream - tell me not to be so stupid.

One Friday evening, with only another week to go before school would break up for half term I was reviewing the progress of ‘the Big Plan’. I had decided it was going quite well, and I was happy about the new clothes I had amassed - it hadn’t been limited to one outfit but, since once the purse strings were loosened, once the chequebook was unfurled, the credit-card flashed a few times, there was no stopping me.

I had bought some unusual, interesting things that I knew demonstrated my character, carried my signature. It felt good to find myself again and I knew that whatever the outcome of this little adventure I was planning, it was not a wasted effort.

As I was separating myself from the need for this plan to be successful, I went into my small, now slightly neglected kitchen, to make myself a coffee. I usually kept it spotless, but let’s face it, when you have nothing else to do and nowhere to go, housework fills in time. When I was still married and had a kid at home I was anything but the model housekeeper; but my solitary existence had caused many habits of mine to change: Funny how circumstances can cause such radical alterations to one’s way of living.

Now things had changed again. I had returned to smoking: The excitement called for it and it belonged to my younger self with which I was now becoming reacquainted.

A coffee and cigarette would go nicely with my slightly heady mood. As I filled water from the tap into my much-used filter coffee maker, I glanced out of the window onto the darkening street. For a second I caught a glimpse of someone on the pavement opposite who was looking up at my window and who quickly slid behind the large plane tree that grew on the other side of the road.

Isn’t this just the sort of incident that every woman who lives alone fears? I had not seen enough of the person to get much idea of who it might be, but I had a strong impression that it was a man. Yes, I was certain it was a man.

After looking out for several seconds I put the coffee jug down and went out of my flat to the stairwell. The automatic lights that belonged to the shared areas of the house had not yet come on but they would at any moment.

I wanted to look out of the hallway window to see if I could spot this man again before he left. If I could do this in the dark he wouldn’t be able to see me, I thought. As I waited, the figure behind the tree moved along the pavement, trying to see into my flat from a different angle. It was him. I was almost sure it was him. I moved rapidly away from the window as the lights burst on. I had backed away just in time. Returning to my flat I avoided going near any of my windows and sat down heavily on the sofa. My mind was in turmoil. Was it him, or was I being fanciful?

I wasn’t sure which would be preferable, that it was him - a semi-known quantity, or a totally unknown quantity. Then I realised I knew nothing about this man except that he liked good coffee and read Italian newspapers.

I returned to the moment in hand, turning off the light and returning to the window. All that was to be seen was a car leaving its parking space below my window. It was a dark blue Alpha Romeo. I could see it quite clearly in the streetlights. So what. There are thousands of those out there. Doesn’t mean a thing. But it would have meant less if it had been a Honda or a Ford.

I lit another cigarette.

Let’s face it, no-one knows much about anyone when they first meet them do they? But if it was him, how had he found out where I lived and why was he being so sneaky about it? Why hadn’t he just started talking to me as people usually do when they fancy someone? I had to admit I found it somewhat disquieting. Don’t be daft, you can’t even be sure it was him. That left the other possibility…. I poured myself a large glass of red wine to steady my nerves. It would help me sleep I reasoned.

Eventually, once I had emptied the bottle, I forced myself to go to bed. I dozed off almost immediately but, as often happened when I had drunk too much, I woke up about an hour later. I was immediately alert as I remembered the happenings of the previous evening. I wanted to get up but I still felt uneasy about putting the light on.

I didn’t think whoever it was would still be out there, but I was still feeling nervously disturbed and I lay there in the dark wondering whether I should scratch the whole plan. But it would be such a disappointment and, I decided, if I didn’t like the way things were going I could always pull out later - if indeed anything happened at all. Which was probably not at all likely, was it?

Although this was not what I had been planning and working towards all these weeks, the idea of absolutely nothing happening, calmed me somewhat, enough to send me back finally into a restless, disturbed, dream-laden sleep.

The following morning when our paths crossed he was ostentatiously looking at his diary or some notebook and deliberately avoided eye contact. ‘Hmm!’ I thought, ‘that probably points to the fact that it had been him outside the previous night. Though wouldn’t he be more likely to act normal if he thought I suspected.’ I couldn’t come to any decision on this. But, after weeks of always giving me a nod of recognition as we passed each morning in the station, wasn’t this a bit odd.

There was no part of me that thought it wasn’t, and I came down on the side of believing it had definitely been him. So what did I make of that? I really didn’t know what to think.

So, I put it away. It wasn’t in the script I had been writing for the approaching adventure. No, it didn’t fit at all. Looking back I don’t know how I could have ignored anything as significant as this… but I did.

V

I don’t think he came back again before my holiday began. I can’t be sure, but if he did, I never saw him. Granted, I never looked out of the windows during the twilight hours and found myself pulling down the blinds substantially earlier than usual. Always, as I did so a ripple of fear would run through me, which I would work to suppress. I was not enjoying the preparations for the up and coming operation anymore, but I carried on with it as if nothing had happened. My conscientious, ‘I’ve started this. so I’ll finish’. ‘Good girl’ up-bringing kicked in.

Finally, it was the last day before the holiday. He had resumed the perfunctory nod routine after the one day of avoiding eye contact and that final Friday was no different. O.K. I thought, everything is ready and come Monday, I will try my luck.

Over the weekend I became very nervous and knew I would have to do a lot of self-convincing to go through with it. This was not an uncommon feeling for me. I always had to push myself to do new things. I guess everyone has some reluctance to tackle the unknown but I had become very cautious as I got older - and I hated myself for it.

As I woke that Monday morning I forbad myself to allow knowledge of what I was about to do to surface in its entirety. Only a blurred sense of the plan was allowed through to my consciousness, enough to make me get up, dress and go through all the physical necessities to get the show on the road. It was very like the way I felt when preparing for an important job interview, or before going into hospital for an operation.

However, I dressed myself with meticulous care, donning the beautiful cream lace matching underwear that had cost more than some Indian families had to live on for a year. No matter, at present my guilt glands were not working and, as I looked in the mirror, I felt a sense of pride at the results of my restoration programme.

I looked heaps better and I felt a surge of confidence as I viewed myself critically from all angles. Eat your heart out Trinny and Susannah, you would never have achieved such a classy image. Today I would not need to take my worn out apology of a handbag with me as I wasn’t going to school. I could take one of my beautiful leather bags, that rarely saw the light of day. I took out a black, Italian one. It seemed just right, and once dusted, it made me look like another sort of woman: A ‘Woman of The World’ who knew where she was going. I happily joined in with the deception. Even the contents of the bag were carefully considered, with an expensive pen, perfume spray, and a gold pillbox. Then I took a beautiful long silk scarf that had been one of my final purchases, and a final squirt of my new perfume to complete the feeling of being in another world where the senses were fed with wonderful things and all things were possible.

As I waited on the small platform for the local train that would take me to town, it was clear that people were aware of me in a way that was no longer a part of my everyday experience. It stirred memories of feeling like a central part of society.

It was very evident to me that I had slowly faded into insignificance. I had to admit that the woman on the radio programme was right about that! And, although my recent self-makeover had managed to reverse the situation, I was aware that the efforts involved were great, and would become ever greater, if I was to keep up this standard. No matter! Let’s live for the day. Gather Ye Rosebuds While Ye May - Tomorrow Ye May Go To Seed. This had been the message on a birthday card I had received in my early twenties. It came back to me now. – But now it wasn’t funny…

As the train pulled into the terminal in town my stomach reacted like we had just passed over a hump-backed bridge, and I needed to revert to my semi-conscious state in order to carry on.

I was unaware of the walk to the café and felt like I was on tranquillizers – which, in fact, I was. I had fished them out of the medical box that contained virtually the whole history of my medical treatments for years, and even some of my ex-husband’s. Some understanding doctor had given them to me during the acute time of crisis when my marriage disintegrated. They were long past their expiry date – I empathised with them! But, like me, they still carried a bit of a punch.

I had timed my entrance into the café carefully. I did not want to be there before him. It would be much easier to choose a seat close to his if he was already there, than to move if he decided to sit elsewhere. – I was not quite that emancipated! I was already overstepping my usually boundaries of boldness by miles.

I pushed open the heavy glass door to the famous cafe after taking a deep breath and purposefully strode into the warmly lit interior where many of the local well-heeled business people were treating themselves to Earl Grey or Cappuccino, whichever suited their image. Many were creating work for the vacuum cleaner as they sprinkled crumbs from their crispy croissants or slices of hot-buttered toast, in fallout circles around the small tables. There was little conversation and the general hum of noise was created by the constant rustle of newspapers combined with the coffee machine’s friendly roar as it stoked up to churn out yet another Cappuccino. Was he there? I tried to weigh up all the customers simultaneously without being too obvious about it. I felt a slight flutter of panic on the first scan, as I didn’t see him. It would be so disappointing.

Then I saw him lower his newspaper and look directly at me. Inwardly, I gulped. Outwardly, I blazed a flashing smile at him and approached his table as if we had arranged the meeting. He looked terribly stunned, pulled himself visibly together, and asked with a definite continental splutter ‘ Would you like to join me?’ and then cleared his throat. Several expressions on his face were fighting for supremacy, and amongst them I detected alarm.

I sat down next to him covering my own nervousness by busying myself with removing the large silk scarf, and arranging it carefully over my handbag. The waitress came to my rescue as she skillfully wangled her substantial backside between the small round tables. ‘What can I bring you?’ she asked giving the table a perfunctory wipe though it appeared to be spotless anyway. ‘Er, I think I’ll have a Cappuccino, today’ I said, acting like a regular, which I wasn’t. She hurried away leaving me alone with him and I nervously retrieved my handbag from under the scarf and took out my cigarettes. (In those days one was still allowed to smoke in restaurants and cafes). I had intended not to do this, as I knew smoking divided people along tribal lines and could cause the whole operation to flounder before it had even begun. But I was too nervous to resist and anyway, if this was to go anywhere he would have to know I was a sinner sooner or later. I asked him if it would bother him and he rather too quickly replied, ‘No, no, you go ahead. I smoke myself sometimes, but not this early in the day’.

There was a prolonged pause as both of us tossed various possibilities of continued conversation through our minds before I banaly said, regretting it even whilst I said it, ‘I really like this café. I don’t often have the time to come in here in the mornings. I always have a train to catch.’

‘Yes’, he said in a kindly manner, ‘you always look like you are in a terrible hurry. Where do you go to?’ I named the area where my school was, and added that I taught art at a school there. He looked relieved to have a diversion to talk about.

‘Ah, Art. That is a wonderful subject for a woman to teach,’

This struck me as awfully old-fashioned and sexist, but I put it down to his Italian origins and forgave him for it. Well, almost.

Then, as an afterthought he added, ‘That accounts for your elegance and style. Not many English women have this ability.’ My ego expanded so quickly I almost forgot to breathe. He had noticed! What to say? What to say? I was not so un-British as to be able to take a compliment and accept it gracefully.

‘Oh, normally I look like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards’, I muttered in embarrassment, ‘But today, because I have a holiday, I had more time…’ My words trailed off as I ran out of energy. ‘But I see you most mornings, and you always look wonderful’, he responded.

‘No doubt about it, this man is Italian through-and-through’, my sensible bit warned, ‘This is nothing. Dismiss it. He would say this to any woman.’ But Little Miss Teenager in me was not about to have such a feast of ego food stolen from her. This was all going even better than I had dared to hope… but where to? ‘Nice of you to say so, but my job means I can’t dress as I’d like most of the time. I always get covered in charcoal and paint and acrylic paint is a bugger to get off’, I added, rather daringly. He chuckled, recognising my courage but reassuring me that he didn’t mind. Some men could be so puritanical about women, I thought, and he had already struck me as old-fashioned, with his gallantry and sexism.

At this point the waitress turned up with my drink and I paid her then, not wanting to be trapped waiting for the bill if things got tricky.

‘What do you do?’ I asked him being even bolder and seizing the initiative. ‘I am also a teacher, I teach Italian at the University here. You must have noticed that I am not English.’

My turn to chuckle.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘Though you have a very soft accent.’ I decided it was expedient not to mention the Italian attitude to women, or the Italian newspapers I had spied him with.

‘How many years have you been in this country?’

He took a while to respond and then looking inward, he said ‘Oh, just a few, not many’.

Suddenly his face looked guarded, and I thought maybe he had suffered some kind of emotional trauma connected with this. Probably he had been married too, maybe still was. I decided not to go down that road for the time being.

I became aware that the tranquillizer was wearing off. ‘Time for Cinderella to leave the ball before she turns into a pumpkin’, I thought, jollying myself along on the momentum I had built up, but aware of the buried nervousness burrowing its way upwards. I did the obvious and looked at my watch though I didn’t actually register what time it said, as it wasn’t of any real importance to me for once.

‘I must be going’, I said nonchalantly ‘I’ve got lots to do’, I added as a justification, and began collecting my things together and replacing my scarf. I was a bit worried that nothing was going to come of this after all when he, obviously feeling the same, said ‘Can we do this again sometime, or is that impossible whilst you are working’.

‘It would be difficult for me… I wouldn’t have much time...’

‘Would you be able to meet for a drink or dinner in the evening then…?’ I was feeling a bit flustered. Now it was happening I felt very on edge and wanted to get out of there.

‘I expect I could… Though I don’t generally go out that much in the week.’ I said, at the same time realizing this sounded like the stuffy middle-aged woman I had been trying to eradicate, and to save the situation quickly added,

‘But yes. It would be nice. I’ll give you my phone number.’

He ignored this last remark and said in a soft voice.

‘How about Friday?’

Completely taken aback, and not knowing how else to respond I said ‘O.K. Right.’ Then added ‘Do you mean this Friday?’ somewhat incredulously.

‘Yes, I think we should make it soon. I’ll come and pick you up… if you give me your address’, he quickly added.

I told him my address. Significantly, he didn’t seem to need to write it down.

‘Oh, and what’s your name?’ He called after me.

‘Angela’, I muttered reluctantly as I fled for the door.

* * * * *

Later, when I had pulled myself more-or-less together I tried to work out what was going on. I was not sure what had happened to my plan, and how I had suddenly lost control of the situation. Neither was I at all sure whether I was pleased or not with the outcome. Things were certainly moving faster than I had anticipated and now he was coming to my place on Friday evening to pick me up and take me out to dinner. Help! A complete stranger. – What’s more I was still perturbed by the fact that, although he had asked me for my address, I was pretty damn sure that he knew where I lived.

I also realised that all I knew was that his first name was Enzo, that much he had told me, and that he worked at the University. Paranoid as I tended to be, I wasn’t sure I trusted this information. What’s more, there was no way I could contact him if I decided I didn’t want to go, or for that matter, if I was ill. So, it seemed, I was going out on my first date for about 25 years on Friday! Gulp.

In the intervening days, I was in a very strange place. I worked on my attitude to try to feel positive about it. After all I had achieved my aim and more…. the ‘more’ being the problem. It was going too fast for me. I wasn’t even sure if I had wanted more than the achievement of gaining someone’s interest, but now I was stuck with dealing with the follow-up.

* * * * *

By Friday morning however, I had managed to achieve the brainwashing to a certain extent, and was almost happy about the evening’s arrangements. After all, as teenagers we go out with all sorts of people we don’t really know, …. don’t we?

Goodness knows, I had taken some horrendous risks myself at that age, even ending up in a den for auctioning stolen goods and drug dealing one sleepy Sunday afternoon in my hometown…and… hadn’t I ridden off into the night on the pillion of a 1000 c.c. motorbike with a young man I had never previously clapped eyes on, and lived to tell the tale? Got myself involved with some seriously delinquent gang leaders with nick names like ‘Winkle’ and ‘Dog’ who even terrorized the local police and were frequently featured in the local papers; hair-raising to think about now.

Unless my guardian angel had retired from the job I should be O.K. I reasoned. …or, maybe like cats we have a certain number of risks we can take before our luck runs out… No. Stick with the positive. Choose your superstitions carefully. After all the odds were, Friday evening would arrive, come what may.

Never-the-less, during that Friday afternoon I vacillated between fear that he, after all, would not turn up, and the hope that indeed he wouldn’t, thus letting me off the hook and circumventing the need to quell the butterflies I was suffering. As twilight descended I began to ready myself, again with meticulous care. Into the shower using my best-perfumed shower gel, then slipping sensuously into the beautiful underwear and the black velvet, knock ‘em dead trousers with a discreetly sexy black lace top. Somewhere I had a chunky stylish gold bracelet that I hadn’t worn for years. Must find that! That, and my ‘for best’ gold watch would make me look really classy I thought, and finally I managed to unearth them, after a frantic rummage through many boxes that I hadn’t even opened since moving here from the family home.

The final job was to get my hair right and this was usually a real battle as, hormonal changes had wreaked havoc with its texture. Previously I had had a glorious healthy mane of dark brown wavy hair, but the grey had crept in and the ends had a tendency to emulate Brillo pads if I didn’t have it cut and coloured regularly and take the time to condition it, which I found a real chore. Life became more and more a full time servicing job, to stem the tide of the degenerating state of one’s body, I thought sadly.

However, the trip to the seriously tarty hairdresser now paid off. My hair was still looking pretty good even after my amateur messing with it, probably because the cut was certainly much better than I had ever had before, and the colour had a more subtle, more expensive tone.

I looked around me after all my self-pampering efforts I felt deliriously self-confident, but then it struck me that the flat looked like that of an average teenager. Clothes, make-up, boxes and bags strewn around everywhere. Regression was now total, I thought. But, unlike your usual adolescent I began to tidy up whilst wondering whether I should invite him in for an aperitif?

Did one do that? Where were we going, and had he booked a table? I decided not to invite him in at this stage, which meant I had to be totally ready to run downstairs as soon as the bell went…if he came. Ten minutes to go ‘til the time agreed. I lit a cigarette. I couldn’t think of more to do to myself and the flat was now looking very respectable. Wish I’d bought flowers, though. This was all in case I changed my mind about inviting him in for that aperitif or… perhaps… maybe… dare I? A nightcap afterwards? What a tentative, untrusting person I had become, I thought. I waited.

* * * * *

The designated time passed; five, even ten minutes. No doorbell. Uuuum! I thought, he’s not coming. I moved over to the window to look out. Right then a dark coloured Alfa could be seen cruising slowly along the road as if looking for a parking place, its colour blue, though virtually destroyed by the orange light of the street lamps. I was pretty sure it was the same car I had seen that evening a few weeks ago and it gave me a feeling of foreboding. What had that been about?

Not wanting to appear too keen, I moved away from the window and waited. A few minutes later the doorbell rang confirming my hunch. I grabbed my bag and ran down the stairs. As I opened the door I was greeted by a large bouquet, which he very graciously held out to me. Here were the flowers I had wanted, but once again my plan was wrecked. No chance of making a quick, clean getaway.

We went back upstairs to attend to the flowers. Clearly one can’t go out for the evening with a bunch of cut flowers. They have to be put in water, don’t they?

I felt a bit flustered and angry. No boyfriend I had ever had would have done such a romantic thing but then none of them had been middle-aged Italians. I realised once more that I was in uncharted waters here.

Of course, despite my discomfort, I thanked him profusely, also behaving to type. That’s what well brought up English girls do, isn’t it?

VI

That evening remains something of a blur in my memory. I didn’t enjoy it at the time one little bit. I was far too aware of the impression I thought I might be making, and questioned intricately my every action and reaction.

It had been so long…. How long? More than 25 years? Yes, At least 30 years. No, more.

All I had to compare it with were a few hazy teenage experiences, long since faded in my memory. But it wasn’t as simple as that. My wealth of life experience meant that I was far more knowledgeable about the complexity of people’s judgements. So I now had the excruciating combination of adolescent angst, and psychological insight. My God, it wrang me out.

The relief I felt as I closed the door on him at the end of the evening can hardly be described. I sank gratefully into my comfy, scruffy, homely armchair kicking off the beautiful, sleek, chic, horribly uncomfortable new shoes that were part of my ‘Woman of the World’ image. Why was I bothering? Why put myself through this upheaval? Hadn’t I been happy with my life being the motherly old crone?

Well… no, not exactly. But after such an emotionally disturbing evening the sepia coloured lenses made me nostalgic for what I had just given up. Life had been so easy, so safe, so unthreatening.

I was horrendously tired and yet flashbacks of scenes from the evening kept appearing to haunt me. I had not really been aware of him, Enzo, as an actual person, as I lived in my own bubble, but now details started to penetrate and settle as new realities in my sensibility.

He was probably really nice. He seemed too good to be true. This had been my impression from the beginning, and I had certainly been proud to be seen around with such a beautifully mannered, well-dressed man. But that struck me as so superficial. He was not an accessory. I was ashamed to have thought such a thing. I was a disgrace to myself. God knows, I hated it when men considered women in this light. I tried to piece together a person about whom I could have real feelings. Nothing doing!

I started collating any factual information I had gleaned during the evening.

He was 58, which was older than he looked. He had been married. An ex-wife had sort of been mentioned but glossed over; most probably a painful chapter. Maybe they were only separated, not divorced. Either way it didn’t really bother me. I only worked at a catholic school!

He came from Northern Italy and had worked at Padua University before coming to England. About 4 years he had been working here. He had a small apartment in one of the beautiful Georgian houses in an area not far from my place. He lived alone apart from a cat. Yes, he had friends but he was often homesick, and found the English people very nice but somewhat strange. Maybe I fell into this category. I wouldn’t be surprised. I had a sneaking feeling I had been a bit strange… maybe very strange. Had I?

Too late to change it now. I drifted off.

* * * * *

Part of me hoped I would never hear from him again, that I would never have to deal with any of it any more. It would be awful of course to be dumped, and my ego would be horribly hurt but on balance my judge and jury found it the better option. It was nice to know I could still ‘pull’ at my age but I didn’t have the enthusiasm and energy needed for the follow through. I had, by breakfast the following morning, convinced myself that he wouldn’t ring me again and that it didn’t matter. I sat comfortably at my breakfast bar which was still cleaner than usual, a reminder of the blitz I had given my shabby little kitchen as a part of the preparations for the big event. It gave me a certain satisfaction to renew the coffee rings and fluff-gathering marmalade smears: Back to normality.

The doorbell rang. Bit early for anyone selling something, not the milkman, probably Joan from upstairs wanting to borrow something, or being nosey. I shuffled to the door in my embroidered but scuffed slippers and definitely ‘in need of a good wash’ dressing gown. I opened the door but there was no-one there. Not Joan then. I gingerly picked up the entry-phone and cautiously said hello. I was unprepared for what I was hearing.

‘‘ello. This is Enzo ‘ere. I ‘ope I am not disturbing you but I wondered if I could join with you for breakfast. I ‘ave some croissants ‘ere from the bakery near to where I live. They are very good…’

His voice trailed off.

Taken aback I, compliant as always, said, ‘Yes, of course. Do come up’.

Well, what else can you do when a man arrives on your doorstep bearing croissants??

I pressed the buzzer and ripped off the grotty dressing gown, wondering if the nightdress I was wearing was any more acceptable. Well, at least it was clean. But I felt awkward and, although it wasn’t all that revealing, quite modest really, I felt too naked. Maybe I would have felt happier had it been a bit more vampish. No I wouldn’t – things were already going much too fast.

* * * * *

That turned