The Burden Within
Chapter One
He did not know it then on that unseasonably warm and sunny day in late
September, but she would change his life in a wholly unexpected way.
But as he sat there, on the rather noisy concourse of York Railway
Station holding a cooling cup of espresso coffee, he knew he felt
nervous; which - for any ordinary man in the middle of his fifth decade
of life - might have been unusual. But, for Edmund, it was not - for he
was a somewhat strange character, in both outward appearance
and inner being - and as he sat there among the other travellers, he
was trying hard to appear relaxed. He failed, and every minute, or
less, he would take out his pocket watch to check on the slowly passing
time.
She was late, nearly a quarter of one hour late, and he kept trying to
visualize what she would look like, and how she would be dressed. For a
week, they have spoken on the telephone - once for over five hours -
but
he had only a rather blurry photograph of her, from years ago, sent by
the friend who insisted they must meet. Edmund, true to his nature, he
had
been early - nearly an hour early, and for the first half hour he had
waited patiently as he sat, sipping coffee, and unconsciously twirling,
in the fingers of his left hand, a part of his rather bushy red beard.
Then he had began to intently watch the people arriving through the
glass doors that gave access to the large, covered, newly built,
concourse. There was a flower seller in the centre, with a barrow of
fresh, bright, flowers - one, twice, three times, he had almost got up
to buy some, but once, twice, three times he resisted the gesture.
Then, there was a woman striding purposefully through one of the
glass doors - she turned toward him, and smiled. There was no
recognition, from him - at first - only a strange sensation in his
stomach, as if she had somehow reached out to him and lightly punched
him there, and he was still sitting, too amazed by the azure brightness
of her eyes, the bright red of her lipstick, her golden hair, her
smile - her beauty - to rise and greet her. Could this really be her?
For an instant
he was perplexed - should he smile, and rise and go to meet her? What
if he was mistaken, and it was not her? For he remembered some words of
hers from their last telephone conversation - "I'm not feeling
particularly bright, so I won't be looking my best..."
But she was there, in front of him, separated only by the brushed
circular aluminium table, and he got up to move forward in greeting.
There was no need for words, and it seemed natural for them to embrace,
and to kiss each other, full on the lips. She wore a blue Denim jacket,
brightly embroidered on the front, a bright red blouse, black trousers,
and pinkish shoes with embroidery to match her top, while he wore his
usual ensemble of Barbour waxed jacket, moleskin trousers,
olive-coloured shirt, tweed cap and dark brown walking boots. Then he
was holding her, as she was holding onto him in a warm lover-like
embrace. He knew then, in that moment, that he loved her. He felt no
restraint; no doubt - for it was as if the wait of decades, was over.
She, Alison, was pulling away from him, ever so gently, and he - polite
by nature - asked if she wanted coffee.
"Shall we go to the hotel?" she simply said, in reply, and smiled. That
quixotic smile - half happy; half haunted as if by something she
herself did not care or maybe dare to name.
There were many, many things he did not know then - about her, about
himself; especially about himself - and had he known, he would not have
listened or believed or been concerned or taken any notice of them,
such was the passion of that moment. For they walked together - holding
hands, as if they had long been lovers - the short distance to the
adjacent
large
hotel. A double room had been booked, days ago, and -
formalities over - they ascended the ornate staircase of that once
royally favoured place. The large room - recently refurnished
according to modern design and affording a splendid view of York
Minster - was of no interest then, and they lay together on the bed,
touching, kissing, holding, with no words to come between them. Slowly,
they undressed each other, and it was not long before they became
lovers, gently, smiling, happy, and for a moment - a too brief moment -
she forgot herself, and all the problems that she carried with her as
an old house may carry the ghostly burdens of its past. But he - Edmund
- was pleased, youthful, resting in her arms in the daylight of
mid-afternoon, and it was and felt as if his dreams were before him
embodied in flesh: so real he had to hide the burgeoning tears: once,
twice, three times in their tender passion.
There was a telephone call to the friend that had introduced them;
food, and wine, brought to their room, a bath together. And no - not
one - uneasy silence until he said the words he felt. She moved away
from him then, in the light of early evening, hunched up, sitting naked
on the bed.
"You don't know me..." she began to say, somewhat sadly, and he kissed
her, softly,
gently, softly. Then, they were together again until brief sleep
claimed them, and even as he awoke - happy, pleased; pleased, happy and
full of joy - he was not to know that less than two years later
she would be dead, having killed herself...
DW Myatt