HAPPY NEVER AFTER

I sat in the long grass watching her, the warm smell in my nostrils, like new-mown hay. She was beautiful, so beautiful. Her hair like gold in the sun, shimmering with highlights as the sunlight caught it, little strips of lighter gold here and there, the ends slightly frayed, it needed cutting soon. Her slim body – she was so skinny in those days, so long ago. She gained weight as we grew older – she was always worried about it, no matter how I tried to reassure her. But to me she was always beautiful, all the time I knew her, like some kind of goddess had come down to earth the make my life glorious, a moment of heaven to me.

We had been at the park for hours now. She lay there, soaking up the golden sunlight, on her side, one elbow on the ground, as she held a book in her hands, her wide hat brim shading the yellowing pages, totally absorbed. The book was old – very old - a faded red, loose strands of the frayed fabric cover almost, but not quite, brushing against her nose. I didn’t know what the book was – only that she had bought it from the second-hand bookshop that was her favourite place to visit. She was an omnivorous reader. Classics, trashy romance novels, even handbooks on car repair. I couldn’t keep up with her, but I went along with what in anyone else I would have called an obsession. But how could I give it that name when it was her?

She rolled over, looked up at me with that smile, warm, generous, welcoming. ‘You’re very quiet. What are you thinking about?’

What could I say? That I adored her, that I wanted to spend my life watching her, hearing her soft voice, her infectious chuckle as we shared a private joke, one that nobody else would have understood or even been interested in. No, I couldn’t say that. It would have spoiled everything. I was content to just love her. She had made it clear that she simply regarded me as a friend, nothing more. And it was then, not now.

‘I was wondering if rhinos really do stamp out forest fires in Africa,’ I said. ‘You know, like in that movie.’

‘Only you would wonder about that,’ she chuckled. ‘You’re seriously weird.’

‘I take that as a compliment,’ I said. ‘But seriously, do they do it? It seems so unlikely. But why would they put it in a movie if it wasn’t true?’

‘Oh, come on. Surely you don’t believe everything you see in movies!’

‘Well, no. But if it’s something that can be checked, surely they wouldn’t put it in.’

‘It’s a comedy! What about the scene in the banana plantation? With the bad guys slipping on the banana skins? You’re priceless, you know.’ And she gave me that smile again - her whole face lit up. ‘Anyway, how would you check on something like that? In the library? Do you think they’d bother to put something like that in an encyclopaedia?’ You have to remember this was well before the days of the internet.

I conceded defeat. She was impossible.

That magical, glorious summer stays in my memory after all these years as a perfect time where nothing seemed to go wrong. She confided in me that she wanted to be an author and I encouraged her as much as I could.

Sometimes we walked together across the open square, arguing the rights and wrongs of the world, and occasionally scurrying to shelter under a tree when we were caught unprepared by one of the rare heavy rainstorms. I felt her close at those times, sheltering together under the inadequate covering of the leaves above us, warmth coming from our bodies in the sudden cold. I wished then that I could tell her how I felt about her but I knew it would ruin everything so I stayed silent, grateful for what I had, despite yearning for more.

I decided that I couldn’t keep this up. I was smouldering and I knew if I kept in touch the temptation would be too strong and I’d say something and she’d never want to see me again. So I moved out of town, took a job two hundred miles away.

I didn’t see her again for a long time after that – years, many years. But I heard she’d got married and had kids, three of them – a boy and two girls. They were in primary school when I next had contact with her, except for cards at Christmas and birthdays. We kept that tradition, at least, and we exchanged news and updates – good roads, fine weather, that kind of thing. Then I got a card on my birthday that was anything but good news. Her husband had died in a car accident – she didn’t elaborate, but I had a vision in my mind of what she hadn’t said behind those few stark words.

I phoned her, for the first time in years. Money was tight - she was coping, but not very well. The children were healthy and happy – she said. I offered her money, but she refused. But I heard a trembling in her voice when she thanked me for the offer. ‘You’ve no idea what that means to me, she said. ‘I’ve felt so alone. I didn’t have anybody to talk to. I wished so many times you’d been here.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said. ‘Do you want me to come and see you?’

‘But it’s so far. That’s a long way to come just to see a friend.’

‘You’re more than just a friend,’ I said. ‘You always have been. You’re the best person I’ve ever known, and the best friend I’ve ever had.’ I could have said more, but no – this was neither the time or place.

‘Would you? Would you really? But how can you take time off?’

‘Oh, I can name my holidays. I work in a good place – they’re good to me. I’ve got quite a few weeks coming up. I can’t think of anything better than spending that time with you.’

And then I heard it. A muffled sobbing at the other end of the line. She did not speak for some time. Finally ‘That would be wonderful. I’d be so grateful.’

I left the next day. I’d had to arrange it with my boss, and I have to admit I was pretty overbearing, and I left them in a bit of a hole. But this was important to me. I had loved Cynthia for years, and now she needed me. If I had to, I would have quit my job rather than not go to her. The drive was long and I was so obsessed with arriving that I have no recollection of the countryside I passed or the towns I went through on the way. I must have refilled the fuel tank somewhere, but I really don’t remember it.

It was early evening when I arrived, the light was fading and the street lights were just beginning to go on, orange against the darkening sky. Dark clouds made them stand out even further, brighter than they really were.

And there she was at the door, silhouetted against the yellow light in the hallway. I walked up the front path – strange, I remember to this day that it was made of reddish-brown bricks in a pattern of arcs, and that my shoes crunched against them as I walked. She came out of the door and suddenly she was in my arms, sobbing as if her heart would break. I held her, smelling the sweetness of her, just experiencing this moment – a moment I will treasure for the rest of my life. Then she wiped her eyes and regained command of herself. ‘Come in. Please come in. I’m so sorry I made an exhibition of myself.’

‘Don’t be silly. You’ve got every right. You’ve been through a lot, and I’m here to help.’

She sniffed again – her face worked and I thought she was going to cry again. But no. ‘Come inside. You must be exhausted! I’ve got some food cooking for you. You haven’t had dinner, have you?’

‘No, just some ghastly dry overcooked fast food I got when I filled the tank. I think it must have been in the bain-marie for weeks.’

She smiled a little, then. ‘Well, come in and eat. And meet the kids! This is Shane’ – pointing to the eldest, the boy. ‘And Miriam,’ a little girl, shy, hiding behind her mother. Maybe six years old. ‘And Mary – she’s the middle one.’ She looked more confident than her sister.

‘Are you Mommy’s friend?’ she asked.

‘Yes, that’s me. Now I know your name, it’s only fair I tell you mine.’

‘Oh, I know it. Mommy says you’re her oldest friend.’

‘That’s right. We go back a long way.’

‘Will you be staying with us?’

‘Yes. I’ll be here for a few weeks. I’m going to help your Mommy for awhile.’

That seemed to end her interest in me, and we sat down to a meal. Simple food, beef mince and some vegetables – carrots, I think, and potatoes. Maybe beans as well, I don’t remember. Probably cheap, probably the best she could afford. But homecooked, hot and delicious after a long drive.

That evening we caught up. Her husband had been driving home from work along a road he used every day. A drunk driver came at him at high speed on the wrong side of the road. There was a head-on collision and both were killed. They’d had to cut his body from the wreck. She sobbed again as she described it. ‘The police were very good, but there’s only so much they can do. Now I’m left with a house to pay off and three kids to support, and I don’t have any savings.’

‘I’ll help. I’ll do whatever I have to. Anything. Anything at all. I love you, Cynthia.’

‘I love you too. Thank you so much for what you’re doing. I’m so grateful.’

There. I’d said it. But she didn’t understand what I meant. And I couldn’t say any more, not now, not while she was suffering so much.

Next day we got together to sort out her affairs. It was difficult. She really was up against it. But we made a little progress. I suggested contacting the bank the house loan was with, and asking for some leeway. And the phone bill, and other things – so many other things. We don’t realise how many things we have to pay out every day, every week. She was very grateful, and I was happy to be able to help. And I had a plan, slowly maturing in my head, but I wouldn’t be able to talk about it yet. Not for some time.

My time with her rushed past as fast as a jet aircraft and suddenly it was time to go. She was better off for the time being, and she could face the future with more confidence. I was making ready to leave, but I wanted to talk to her. Alone. It was difficult to summon up the courage, but I screwed myself up for the hardest conversation of my life. I was terrified of what she would say, but it meant the world to me.

I found a time and sat her down. ‘I have something to suggest to you. I don’t know how to say it, and I don’t know how you’ll take it. Remember the night I arrived, I told you I loved you?’

‘Yes. It meant so much to me.’

‘Cynthia, I have loved you since the first time I met you. You are the only person I have ever loved. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I want you to come and live with me – sell the house, that’ll get rid of all your debts and put you on a firm financial basis. Bring the kids. We can live together. I’ll do everything I can to look after you, and the kids too. I can do that. I want to.’

‘Oh, Annie. I love you. But not that way. I could never do that – I’m not made that way. I’m so sorry. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had, but we can never be more than friends.’

Well, I’d done my best. I’d bared my soul and been rejected. I’d pretty much expected it. But at least now she knew how I felt about her. I smiled, a little sadly.

‘Friends, though?’

‘Best friends. Forever.’

She gave me a hug. And I went back to my packing for the trip home.

A few years later she remarried. He's a good man, very good to her and the kids. He's very fond of them and they of him. The two elder ones call him by his first name, the youngest calls him Daddy.

I visit regularly. The kids look forward to seeing me and I feel very close to them - they call me Aunty Annie. It's good to see her so happy, but it's rather bitter-sweet for me. I know she's a little sad that she can't make me as happy as she is herself - but I tell myself I have to be content with what I can get.

But that's life, isn't it?