The Forever Girl

28



James went to Glasgow at the end of the semester. He sent her an e-mail a few months later, but it did not say very much. She read it and re-read it, and then, resolving that she would treat it as nothing special, deleted it. Ted gave her news of him from time to time, and when Ted eventually paid his visit to Edinburgh she invited James to join them for a meal. The distance between the cities was not great – forty-five minutes by train – but they were different worlds, it seemed, and he rarely made the journey. On that occasion he was away – he played rugby for a university team and they had a match that weekend in Inverness. Ted seemed relieved that James would not be there.

“It is nice to have you to myself,” she said. “And besides …”

He looked at her quizzically.

“I’m over him,” she muttered.

“Are you? Really?”

She shook her head.

“You see,” he reproached her. “You should listen to me.”

“I will. Eventually.”

He looked doubtful. “Try harder.” And then added, “I like Padraig. What’s wrong with him? I don’t see anything. Mind, you get a bit closer to him than I do …”

“Padraig’s fine,” she said. “He’s considerate and witty and I like him a lot.”

“Like?”

“Like.”

Ted shrugged. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? Liking and loving really are different. But I’m not here to lecture you.”

The visit was a success, and he came back to Edinburgh later that year. She went to Cambridge, and Ted put on a picnic for her by the river. He took her to Grantchester and recited Rupert Brooke’s “The Old Vicarage” by heart, learned, he told her, specially for the occasion.

“You’re very clever,” she said teasingly. “How many boys can recite Rupert Brooke and understand about art and everything? And be good-looking at the same time. How many?”

“I’m not good-looking.”

“Yes, you are. You’re everything a girl could want.”

He laughed. “Except for …”

“Who cares about that?”

He affected surprise. “Are you asking me to marry you? Really, Clover, you’re rather forward, aren’t you?”

She said that she would be happy to be married to him. “We could have a pact. If nobody else ever asked us, then we could settle down together.”

“I’d love that,” he said. “No, I really would. I could promise that I wouldn’t ever look at men and you could promise to look the other way.” He became serious. “Does Padraig mind? Does he mind your going off to see another man like this? Some men would be jealous.”

He said this with a smile, and then winked at her.

“He’s not the jealous type.”

“Good.” Then after a pause, he asked, “Are you going to stay with him forever?”

She did not reply immediately. She had not really thought about it, but now that she did, she realised that this was not what she intended. And the fact that she had not thought about the question itself provided the answer.

“No.” The word slipped out.

“I thought you wouldn’t.”

“Things are all right at the moment. We enjoy being together. It’s …”

“Comfortable? Is that the word?”

“Maybe. But what’s wrong with being comfortable?’

He thought that nothing was wrong with it. But he pointed out that one could go to sleep if one became too comfortable.


“And what’s wrong with going to sleep?”

What was wrong with being asleep, he said, was that sleep amounted to nothing, and that the more you slept the shorter your life – your real life – became.

“Oh well,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Oh well. So how long are you going to keep Padraig? Until you finish at Edinburgh?”

“I’m not that calculating.”

“But that’s what’s probably going to happen.”

It was, she conceded, and he was proved right. Over the three years that followed, she stayed with Padraig. They did not live together, but they spent much of their spare time in each other’s company. In those three years, she saw James four times – twice at parties in Edinburgh when they happened both to know the host, once in a pub in Edinburgh after a rugby match between Scotland and Wales, and once, by chance, in the street. Although brief, each of these meetings seemed to open a wound that she had thought closed. James was kind to her – as he always was – and treated her as an old friend whom he saw very occasionally but was always pleased to meet again. But that was all. She did not see him with a girl, and hesitated to ask, even if he asked after Padraig. Ted had hinted that James had met somebody in Glasgow but he had been tactful and had not said much. She had closed her ears to the information; she did not want to hear it.

The meeting in the pub was the most difficult one for her. She was there with Padraig who had gone to the game at Murrayfield Stadium and had arranged to meet her for a drink before going out to dinner. Padraig was at the bar, ordering the drinks, and she was standing in a crush of people, looking for somewhere to sit. James had appeared beside her, and had leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. He was with several male friends, whom he introduced to her, but she did not get the names.

“You’re here with Padraig?” he asked.

She glanced towards the bar. It was taking time for Padraig to be served. “Yes, I am. And you …”

“Pity.”

The word was muttered, and she thought she had misheard him. But it had sounded like it; it had sounded like pity. She caught her breath. Pity. Did that mean that he hoped that Padraig was over – that she was free to go out with him? She closed her eyes momentarily, feeling dizzy.

The moment passed, and she thought: he did not say it. It was what I wanted him to say – that’s all.

He spoke about the rugby. “I’ve been at the game,” he said. “Scotland played okay – not brilliantly, but okay enough.”

“They try,” said one of his friends. “They try but in rugby it’s not a question of trying, but scoring tries.”

She looked at James. I’m standing next to him, she thought. I could easily say to him, James, I’ve wanted to say something to you for years now and here we are standing in this bar and I have the chance and …

The moment passed. Padraig returned with drinks and James went off with his friends. She could not stay.

“I don’t want to stay here,” she said to Padraig. “I’m really sorry. I’m not feeling well.”

He was solicitous – he always was – but she turned down his offer to accompany her home and left by herself. The street outside was filled with rugby supporters. Some of the Scottish fans, draped in tartan, were singing a song about ancient wrongs; she avoided them and went down a quieter side street. She stopped and looked in a shop window – the first shop window she came to. There was camping gear on display, and outdoor clothing too. There was a large picture of a young man and woman standing on top of a Scottish mountain, a cairn of stones by their side. She looked at them, and at their smiles. She turned away and began to walk down the street again. She felt the tears in her eyes, and within her a bleak emptiness – a feeling of utter, inconsolable sorrow over what she did not have. For all the time that had passed – for all her efforts – he could still do that to her. It was her sentence, she decided, and it seemed that it was for life.


When the time came for her to graduate, Padraig, who was about to embark on a master’s course, was awarded a six-month travelling scholarship. He chose to spend his time in Florence and Paris, with three months in each city. He told her of the award and shyly, and rather hesitantly, invited her to come with him. She sensed, though, that the invitation was less than wholehearted, an impression strengthened by the fact that he seemed relieved when she said that she had other plans. These plans were barely laid – her parents had offered her a gap year, which she had decided to take, but beyond that she was uncertain as to what to do. She had thought of going to Nepal with a friend who had taken a job as a teacher of English, but nothing definite had been arranged.

“I think we need to split up,” she said. “I don’t think you really want me to come to Italy and France with you.”

“But I do,” he protested. “I wouldn’t have asked you if I didn’t.”

“I’ll just get in your way.”

He seemed hurt. “What do you mean by that?”

She spoke gently. “Things come to a natural end, Padraig. It’s nothing to get upset about. We’ve had three years – more actually – and now …”

He looked resigned. “Your problem, Clover, is that all the time you’ve been with me, you’ve been in love with somebody else.”

She was unable to answer him. Had it been that obvious?

They sat and stared at one another in silence. She felt empty, but she could not rekindle something that she knew now, just as he did, had run its course.

Eventually Padraig spoke. “I suppose you can’t help it. I don’t hold it against you for exactly that reason. It’s your … how should I put it? It’s your burden. But I must admit I feel sorry for you. You’re in love with somebody who isn’t there. He just isn’t in your life. I’m sorry, Clover, but I think that’s really … really pathetic. Sad.”

His words struck home. He just isn’t in your life. But he was. He had been a friend to her over all these years. She rarely saw him – that was true – but he was always so nice to her when she did see him. He smiled at her. He clearly liked her. He was kind and showed an interest in what she said to him. He was in her life. He was. And as for Padraig’s pity – she did not want to be pitied, and told him so.

“All right, I’m sure you don’t – and I’ll try not to. But for God’s sake, don’t let it completely ruin your life. You only have one life, you know. One. And you shouldn’t try to live it around somebody who isn’t living his life around yours. Do you see that? Do you get that?”

She wept, and he comforted her. They would always be friends, he said, and she nodded her assent.

“Don’t wreck your gap year, Clovie,” he whispered. He rarely called her that; only in moments of tenderness. “People fritter them away. Do something with it. Promise?”

She promised.

“And don’t spend it thinking about him. Promise?”

She promised that too, and he kissed her, gently, and with fondness, in spite of what he had said – and what he had thought – setting in this way, with dignity, the seal on an ended relationship.