Later love
Love goes on. When, after 43 years of marriage, your wife and best friend is taken away from you, you don’t stop loving that person. Maybe you love them more, realise – now that they’re gone, how lucky you were to grab all that happiness from life. As for falling in love again, the thought never enters your head. Or, at least, it wasn’t something I’d thought about. Until now.
She’d written to me, told me she had relations in Dorset, was going to visit them for a weekend. “Just for a coffee,” she said. Meeting a total stranger is always a risk. You might dislike them at first sight. I took the risk. Life is what you make it but chance plays a part. Maybe life is making the most of your chances.
We met in the square. She walked past me (that shows how distinguished I look). I recognised her at once. We walked to a café, had toasted tea-cakes and tea, talked about our spouses – how happy we were with them – our children, our grandchildren. We didn’t stop talking as we went into another café for lunch and when we walked around the town before she had to go back to stay with her son and family. We parted friends. “We seem to get on,” I said. “We’ve been yattering non-stop since we met." She laughed. Wonderful, joyous laugh. Beautiful smile. I gave her a hug, said goodbye.
We met again, after two months – the next time she came to Dorset. We walked to The Anchor, the pub at Seatown, had a soup for lunch and walked up Golden Cap, through a field of beans, up a path kissed by the sun and flanked on the left by a silver-blue sea. She was remarkably fit.
We spoke of love, life, happiness and sadness, discussed the view, the people we met on the way. How strange to feel close, intimate with a woman again. Something was stirring. I knew we had something special. I wasn’t sure what. “I’ll miss you,” I said when we parted. Something of an understatement.
We met again – this time not so long a wait – and went down to Mousehole to stay at a B&B and to see my daughter Sally, my son-in-law Tom and Daisy and Mill – my grandchildren. We walked along the coast path to Lamorna and the walk wasn’t easy: up and down, slippy bits, plenty of rocks to stumble over, good bits. Just like life. By this time I’d fallen in love with her. “She’s lovely,” my daughter said. “She doesn’t put it on.” Sally writes children’s books and is a poet. Tom is a fine artist. They hate pretentious people. They took to Julia. She is practical, is interested in buildings, gardening, nature. She is who she is. We shouldn’t try to be something we’re not. It stops other people getting to know us.
The next day I made a blunder. We visited the Tate gallery at St Ives and I needed to go to the loo. “Use the disabled one on the second floor,” the lady said. “It’s nearer”. I wish she hadn’t said that.
Having had a wee I pulled a red cord (I thought it was the lavatory chain) and all hell broke loose: alarm bells, a guard at the door, an assistant. “Is your mother inside?” asked one of them, of Julia. I emerged somewhat sheepishly. What would Julia think of me? A short-sighted psychologist at large.
Fortunately, the next day, we went to the Newlyn art gallery and there was an upside down chair in the middle of the room upstairs. “Have a sit down, Tom,” Julia said. She went over to move the chair (which was a work of art – part of the exhibition). I told her just in time. I still loved her. Everybody makes mistakes.
The week flew by and we came back to Dorset where Julia stayed with me before getting the train back to London. “I love you,” I told her. She told me the same. I waved, blew a kiss, as the train left the station. Is it now that the questions begin? I don’t know.
If you know, please tell me. I’m confused. I haven’t fallen in love for a very long time. Can one love again when an old love still remains, when that first, lasting love never dies? All I know is that life is relationships, life is love in all its aspects and that, without love, life is tough. Does one have a second chance? Is there a later love? As a mere mortal who made a total hash of going into the disabled toilet at the St Ives Tate I am imperfect and know not what the future may hold for those who hope for a later love.
Written by Tom Crabtree
This article was created: 7 August 2006.
This article was last edited: 11 December 2006.
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