The Forever Girl

24



It was easier the next morning. The anguish she had felt the previous night – and it had been anguish – a feeling of sheer sorrow, of loss – had dissipated itself in sleep; now she was back in the ordinary world in which she had breakfast to make and there were lectures to go to. The Edinburgh morning, which could be cold and windswept, was anything but – a brilliant display of the sunshine that could accompany an Indian summer. From her window the rooftops on the other side of the drying green were touched with gold, the rounded chimney pots like a row of amphoras against the sky. She found it hard to believe that she had gone to bed in such a state of misery; it was almost laughable, in fact, that a childish crush on a boy could make you feel as if there was nothing to live for; ridiculous thought. She was beginning a new life in one of the most romantic cities in the world. She had everything – everything – to live for; she had no reason to feel bad about anything.

Over the weeks that followed, she busied herself with her course and with the social activities that accompanied the start of the new semester. There were societies to join, and these involved new people and the almost immediate friendships that at eighteen – or on the cusp of nineteen – are so easily made. Karen and Ella both had a circle of friends already – people they had known for some years – and these friends welcomed Clover too. But she sensed the importance of having a life independent of her flatmates, and they understood that too. “I don’t want to live in your pocket,” said Ella, adding, “but of course that doesn’t mean that you can’t live in mine, if that’s what you want.”

But she did not. She made friends with several people studying her subject – Padraig, a young man from Dublin whose interest was in the Post-Impressionists and who had come to university slightly later than most of their classmates. He had worked in a bank in Ireland but had hated it, he said, because art was what he really wanted to do. He intended to write about it, he said, and he gave her criticisms that he had written of various art exhibitions. These he sent off to the Irish Times and other newspapers, although they had never been published. “You carry on,” he said. “You send them your stuff and then eventually they publish something. Their regular art critic gets sick – or is arrested – and then they think, There’s this guy who’s been sending us this stuff – let’s ask him. That’s the way it works.”

“Really? Is that the way it works?”

He shook his head ruefully. “No. But it gives me something to do.”

In the second week, she went to a film at the Filmhouse, the arts cinema, with Padraig. He had invited her because he had a spare ticket and he thought she might like the film. “Iranian,” he said. “They make pretty impressive films.”

“I’ve not seen any.”

“Nor me. But they do.”

“About?”

He paused. “Oh, about the clash between modernity and the old ways. That’s a good theme for an Iranian film. There are lots of clashes between …”

“Modernity and the old ways?”

“Exactly.” He paused. “You go anywhere there and you see it.”

“You sure?”

He grinned. “I have no idea.”

“You could be talking nonsense, you know.”

“Of course it’s nonsense. Life is nonsense, don’t you think? How much of it actually makes sense? It’s just us filling time because we know that we’re tiny specks in a great broth of galaxies and black holes and gas clouds. We’re nothing, and so we try to make structures and meaning for ourselves, but it’s all nonsense underneath.”

She thought that a bleak view, and said as much. “But some things aren’t nonsense at all. Some things are deadly serious. Pain. Hunger. Human suffering. These things actually hurt people and only …” She struggled to find the right way of saying it. “They only seem meaningless to people who aren’t actually suffering them.”

At the end of the film he turned to her and said, “You were right.”

They were leaving the Filmhouse, but she felt she was still in Tehran, in the cramped house with the young woman arguing with her indoctrinated brother.

“I was right about what?”

“About suffering. About how simple human concerns mean a lot. How they mean everything, really.”

She thanked him. “I’d forgotten our discussion. But thank you anyway.”

“Like loneliness.”

They were out on the street now. He had suggested they go to a bar – and there were plenty about – but she was tired.

“I have to get up early tomorrow.” Then she asked, “Loneliness?”

“Yes. Being … I don’t know – separate from people and being unable to do anything about it. It’s a form of suffering, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.” She smiled at him. “You’re lonely, Padraig?”

He looked embarrassed. “I’m so cheesy. I say cheesy things. It’s just that …” He looked up at the night sky. “I like you. That’s what I was trying to say.”

“Good. That’s nice to know.”

“Can’t we go for a drink?”

“I told you: I’m tired. Do you mind?”

He shook his head. “Of course not. I’m not much good at these things.”

She said nothing.

“At dates,” he said.

It had not occurred to her that they were on a date, and she was about to say, “But an Iranian film is not a date …” but stopped herself. He now turned to her and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you.”

She told him not to be silly. “I’m glad you asked me. But …”

He winced. “But …”

“But, well, there’s somebody else.”

It took him a few moments to digest the information. “I thought so. I didn’t imagine that somebody like you … I mean, somebody who looked like you would be … Not that I judge by looks, of course. I may study aesthetics, but philosophy and well, the way your hair looks and your …”

She laughed. “Padraig …”

“And you’re three years younger than I am.”

“So?”

“That counts. You’re not going to be interested in somebody who’s twenty-two.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But you told me yourself. You’ve just explained. I’m Irish – I can take these things. We can take anything. Come to Dublin and speak to people and they’ll say to you: we can take these things …”


She took his hand. “Don’t be silly.”

They were standing at the pedestrian crossing opposite the Usher Hall. They had not crossed, although the light had changed several times in their favour. He said, “We can’t stand here. There’s a bar over there – look – the Shakespeare.”

She did not resist.

“So tell me about him,” he said as he brought the drinks to their table.

She had ordered a cider, and the glass was cold to the touch as she moved a finger down its side, tracing a pattern in the condensation. “He doesn’t really exist,” she said. “Or at least, I don’t exist for him.”

Padraig shook his head in puzzlement. “I’m not sure if I understand. You’re not actually seeing him?”

“No. I never see him.”

He frowned. “But you have actually met him? We’re not talking about some film actor here, are we? You don’t harbour a secret passion for …” He named an actor. She would never fancy him, she said.

“Good,” he said. “I can’t understand why anybody would.”

“Money, glamour, looks …”

“Small things. Irrelevant.” His eyes lit when he smiled; she noticed it. “So, you do know him, but you don’t see him? I get it. He’s in Africa or South America perhaps, doing something really important – selfless, too – and you promised him that even if it takes ten years you’ll wait for him and …”

“No.”

She took a sip of her drink. She regretted telling him now, and she wanted to talk about something different. “I don’t know if we should talk about it.”

“I didn’t exactly raise the subject.” He looked at her over his glass. “I think that you probably need to talk about this.”

She hesitated before replying. He was right, she thought.

“It’s going to sound corny to you because … well, because men don’t think like this, I know, but I do. It’s just the way I think – the way I am.”

“Of course. We’re all different.”

“I’ve known this guy forever. Since we were kids. He was my best friend, I suppose, or that’s the way I thought of him. Then I realised – a bit later – that he meant more to me than that. I wanted him to know that but I couldn’t tell him, could I? I left it.”

He interrupted. “But you should tell people.” He shrugged. “Otherwise they don’t know. How can they?”

“Yes, maybe. But I didn’t, and all the time I thought of him. And so the years went by and nothing happened. That’s all there is to it, I suppose.”

He stared at her in silence. “You still love him?”

She avoided his gaze. “I suppose I do.”

The admission – to Padraig – made her feel light-headed, and what was more, seemed to carry with it an unexpected sexual charge. In the past, on the few occasions when she had talked to anybody about her feelings for James, it had been to a girl friend or to Ted, and that was different. Now, talking to Padraig, she felt in a curious way that James himself was there – that she was talking to him about her feelings for him.

But then it occurred to her: the sexual charge had nothing to do with James, or talking about James; it had to do with Padraig.

He probed further. “And is he seeing somebody else?”

“I don’t know. I never see him. I told myself I shouldn’t, and I haven’t. I haven’t spoken to him for … for months. A year maybe.”

“He probably is. People don’t stay by themselves unless there’s a reason.”

She felt a stab of pain. But she knew that what he said was true – and applied to her, too. James was the reason why she was alone.

He lowered his voice. “I think it’s sad … I mean it’s sad in the sense of being bad luck for you.”

She nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”

“You need to forget him, I think.”

“I know. But it’s not easy.”

He smiled at her. “Can’t I help you? I’m not him, I know, but if you got to know somebody else, then that might help you to forget this other person … what’s his name?”

“James.”

“James. Predictable.”

“Are you laughing at me?”

“I’m not. I’m being unkind, and I’m sorry. I’m called Padraig myself, for heaven’s sake – how predictable is that, if you’re Irish, which I happen to be? There’s nothing wrong with being called James. But let’s not mention his name.” He made a slicing motion. “James is now an un-person. It’s official. James has been abolished.”

He made her laugh. She liked that, and they had another drink. He said, “Feeling better?”

She felt the effect of the alcohol. The cider had not been very strong, but it had been strong enough. “Yes, much better.”

He reached for and pressed her hand. “Me too.”

She let her hand linger in his; returned the pressure.

That was the beginning of something that lasted for four years, throughout their university years in Edinburgh, until they both graduated. It was a friendship and a romance, but the emphasis was on the former rather than the latter. Each provided for the other what the other needed: Padraig was looking for something, for the perfect love, the head-over-heels affair that would bring him his life partner, but he knew that this would not be Clover. She had already found, she felt, exactly what she was looking for, and it was not Padraig – but it seemed that it was forever closed to her. Both settled for something less than they thought they might find; neither wished to hurt the other, and neither did. Clover, though, began to lead a secret life – out of desperation, out of disappointment, as most secret lives are led.