Third Time Lucky

He was silent for a long time. "I sometimes try to exorcise my ghosts. But I'm not very good at it; they will sit on my shoulder at night."

Then he unzipped his bag. "Would you like some chocolate?" he said.

It was getting dark when they rode through St Petersburg on the way to Pribaltiyskaya Hotel. It didn't have the same variety in restaurants as their Moscow hotel, but there was a good Chinese restaurant on the corner of the road alongside it. They went there together to find one of the couples already having their meal. They said it was very enjoyable, and they sat down and ordered.

"You don't seem too troubled by your ghosts," Caithleen said after they'd looked around for some time.

Leonard looked at her quietly. "They are not too horrible," he said. "They're sad, rather. And I usually don't meet them in the daytime, or when I'm at work; but I may meet them in books, or scraps of poetry or bits of song, and they assail me when I can't sleep. Or perhaps it's the other way round; I've never been able to decide."

"So what do you do to exorcise them?"

He grinned. "I try to catch them in poetry - or verse, probably - and put them in their place. It helps, I think, but it doesn't suffice. I don't believe in psychologists and stuff. They wouldn't suffice either, and versifying is much nicer." He thought for a moment. "And just as ineffective."

Their meal arrived and they wielded their chopsticks with inexperienced fingers. It wasn't too difficult, they decided, and they really enjoyed their meal; it was the best one they'd had in Russia so far. They ate in silence; eating took too much time and energy to conduct a conversation easily.

Neither of them returned to the subject they'd been talking about; somehow they didn't dare risking the possible unburdening of oppressed feelings. Instead Caithleen told him a little about her home and work. When she told him she played the recorder he smiled.

"I wish you lived in my neighbourhood," he said, "then we could make music together."

He told her he played the lute. There were a good many pieces for lute and woodwinds, he said, and it might be nice to try. If music and sweet poetry agree...

Caithleen raised her eyebrows. "One of your poems?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Shakespeare," he said. "The Passionate Pilgrim."

After their meal they walked to the shore but it was to cold and windy to be comfortable so they returned to the hotel and went to their respective rooms. Leonard felt tired; he really enjoyed Caithleen's company, and he wanted to give her all the attention she deserved. That was not easy, though, because she seemed to have many hidden depths he wasn't allowed to probe. But then, he thought, he wasn't any different in that respect.

On the day before they were to fly back they had some time for themselves. Most people rushed to one of the eateries on Nevsky Prospect; Leonard and Caithleen stood looking down the long road. Then he asked her to come and have coffee in the old Singer building. The entered through the ornate art nouveau door and climbed the stairs to the first floor where they found a table at a large window overlooking the somewhat formal Cathedral of Our Lady of Kazan.

They ordered coffee and shared a piece of carrot cake. It was a good place to be in, and they enjoyed the ambiance and the view.

"Back home tomorrow," Caithleen ventured.

"Yes. All good things end too soon. I enjoyed myself immensely. Thanks a lot for putting up with me." He smiled at her and shook his head. "Oh well," he said.

"Did your ghosts come round again?"

Leonard smiled at her a little crookedly. "I'd rather not talk about them now," he said. "I don't think I'd be too coherent if I tried."

Caithleen felt a little hurt - but then, she thought, I'd do the same. "Will there be anyone meeting you tomorrow?" she asked.

He shook his head. "My friend are too busy, and they live too far from the airport. I'll catch the train back. I still have one book left to read."

She looked at his eyes but he was not looking at her; he sat staring into the distance. She finished her coffee.

"Come," she said. "It's time to join the others."

It was raining in London. The airplane taxied down the runway slowly, and everyone disembarked and went through customs.

At the luggage belt they stood a little apart, waiting for their suitcases. Caithleen's suitcase was the first to arrive. She took it off the belt and waved at Leonard.

"Bye, then," she said.

"Goodbye, Caithleen." She could hardly hear his response; then she disappeared into the throng outside the luggage reclaim area where she was immediately picked up by Roseanne.

"Welcome home," she said.

Caithleen felt less listless and unhappy than before. The trip had done her a lot of good, and her contacts with Leonard had restored her faith in man a little. He was quite courteous, she thought, and not as cocksure as some other people she could mention.

She told Roseanne about the highlights of her trip.

"Met any nice people?" she wanted to know.

"Yes, there was one nice man. He was single too, and we often did things together. He was nice to talk to."

"He didn't make a pass at you?"

Caithleen shook her head. She wasn't sure what she would have done if he had.

"No. When you're on holiday things are different, aren't they? I wonder if he'd be just as nice in real life..."

She would never know, she supposed. She had kept the list of group members, and there was his Leicestershire address... Hmm. She put into a file with the other papers, receipts and mementos.

She had recovered enough to resume work, and that in itself did her as much good as the trip to Russia. It wasn't too long before she felt her old self, more or less, and she seldom thought of Leonard any more. When she did it was with pleasure, though.

He sent her a card at Christmas; she also received cards of a few others. So it needn't be their contact then that made him send it, she thought.

January brought a lot of work. Caithleen had to do a lot more than she liked, but it was a temporary fluke and she settled back to a normal rhythm by the end of it.

In the week preceding February 14 there was the usual torrent of ads, trying to get you to buy your lover roses, or sexy underwear, or a candle-lit meal... Like Christmas it was one of those days better forgotten when you were single. Caithleen went to work as usual and ignored the conversation of a few of her co-workers who were telling each other about their friends' or husbands' attentions.

She came home to find a letter on her doormat. There was a single card in the envelope. It showed a detail of a medieval portrait of Maria: two birds cooing in a rosebush. It was a beautiful picture, she thought.

Then she turned the card over. There was a poem on the reverse, without an address or signature. It was in small letters and read:

Clear eyes that speak of happiness & light
And sweetly smile upon the world, and show
In their calm vision all I need to know

To be contented in a face so bright.

Hard light diffused, the raging world gone mute,
Lean years forgotten in a brilliant spring:
Each new day's warmer and the blackbirds sing

Extolling joy, life's winter to refute.

Now if you'd smile on me, my barren heart
And tired eyes would brighten with your shine,
Your heart my beacon and your gaze a sign -
Essential to my world, you're Cupid's dart
Replete with love, my fate, my inner shrine,
Seductress, saint - the one true dream of mine.

Hmm. She started her computer and fed the first line into Google. Almost 4 million hits, but no exact ones. She added double quotation marks. No hits whatsoever. Leonard had told her he sometimes dabbled in verse. Perhaps he had written it? But of course in that case he could send it to any girl he thought might allow him to woo her.

She reread the verse. It sounded positive enough. What if he'd really written it for her? She shook her head and put it on the mantelpiece.

A few days later Roseanne came round for a chat. She saw the card and commented on the picture.

"It is a Valentine," Caithleen commented.

"Who is it from?"

"I'm not sure. It's a poem, but... Oh well, I just don't know."

"Can I have a look?"

"Be my guest."

Roseanne carefully read the poem. "Gosh," she said. "How nice."

Caithleen shrugged. "It's alright in a way, I suppose. He may have sent it to lots of girls, though."

"Of course not."

"Why not?"

"Well, I would go for him with a rolling pin if he sent it to me."

"And you tell me it's nice? There's being consistent for you."

"You mean to say you've not noticed? It's an acrostic! You can't send those to everyone," Roseanne said. "Look!"

She put the card in front of Caithleen who sat at the table with her head in her hands. She looked at it again; she saw and closed her eyes for a moment.

"Oh, damn," she said. "Oh, I never noticed."

"It's from your Russian, I suppose?"

"He's from the Midlands, silly."

"Wherever," Roseanne said. "But it was written for you, and it's a love poem, and that's for sure. And I don't think he can have written lots of these to bother random women."

Caithleen sat thinking of the trip to Russia. The more she did so the more certain she was Leonard must be the addressee.

"Now what do I do with it?" she said.

"What would you like to do?"

"I would like to find out what he's like when he not on holiday. He was a little like a cross between my father when he was young, and Joey, and something entirely different..."

"You know what? Let's compose some verse together and send it. You make ask him to make a date, and if it isn't him he won't know who sent it anyway. Right?"

They went to work at once, giggling and quarrelling good-naturedly, and having a lot of fun. Eventually they came up with a poem that seemed alright to both of them.

Oh Midlands boy, I like your verse full well

"Isn't that too old-fashioned?" Roseanne said.

"He quoted Shakespeare," Caithleen said. "He won't mind"

Provided that it is the truth you tell -

If not it is one giant step to hell

If what you say is true I'd like to see

You in a middle place that's safe to me

So we may find out if perhaps there'll be Some future for us here? You will know who

Has done this verse and sent it out to you;

Do not react unless your verse is true.

They took it to the post that same Tuesday afternoon, still giggling and light-headed, trying to predict what Leonard's reaction would be. Then Caithleen took Roseanne out for tea, and she promised to let Roseanne know if and when she heard anything from him.

On Thursday evening Caithleen got the call she hoped for.

"Hello Caithleen," a well-known voice said. " Thank you for your poetic invitation. I will very happily meet you on some safe middle ground. Have you any suggestion to make?"

Caithleen had. They arranged to meet that weekend in a small town roughly half way, in front of the town hall.

That Saturday Caithleen got up with some trepidation. She'd lain awake half the night wondering what she let herself in for, wishing she hadn't invited him and then glad she had, and now she wondered if anyone could like her at all - she'd never found herself exactly beautiful, and as she was well over forty...

It was unpleasantly hot in the bathroom. She had had a long shower, and her hair was damp. She stood naked in front of the mirror and examined herself critically. Her breasts sagged a little, but her bras would take care of that, and she thought they were still ok. She turned to the side so she could look at her stomach, and made a face. Joey had always said he loved her figure - nice and plump, and nothing like those fashion models you sometimes saw on the catwalk.

She sighed. That was all well and good, but when did one cross the line from plump to stout? She put on her underwear and went to the wardrobe. It took her some time to find the old jeans she was looking for; she looked at them with some misgivings. Much to her surprise the legs still fitted nicely, and she could close the waistband, albeit with some difficulty. Not too bad, girl, she thought.

She looked at her face. There were some slight bags under her eyes, and lines at the corners. There was a hint of grey in her hair, too. She grimaced again. Then she tried smiling, and sighed. She didn't think she was too unattractive - but you could never see yourself through other people's eyes.

Besides - it was all very well to stand here wondering, but she didn't even know if Leonard was really physically interest in her. He was quite nice. He was actually so nice that she had slept badly for thinking about him...

Now what could she wear over those trousers? She rummaged through her tops. Of course - the Warhol t-shirt. She'd never worn that one again after her first time with Joey; if Leonard liked it that would be a good sign. She finished it off with a red flannel shirt that she left unbuttoned.

She sighed deeply - she really felt like a teenager on her first date, torn between two opposites... Pull yourself together, girl, she thought. It will be alright.

They'd arranged to meet in front of the town hall. When she walked down the square a little voice inside her said that he wouldn't be there, but her heart started to beat faster when she saw him standing there, looking at the people around him, obviously as eager to see her as she was to see him. When he caught sight of her his face broke into a broad smile, and he waved at her while he quickly walked her way.

"Caithleen," he said as he took her hand, "I was afraid you might change your mind - thank you for coming!"

She grinned at him. "Hallo. Shall we find some place to have coffee first? I'd love to sit and talk for a long time."

"There is a nice place very near," he said. "Let's go."

When Caithleen took off her coat he looked appreciatively at her t-shirt. "I've got that picture in an album sleeve," he said. "I never play it anymore because I bought the original albums later. But the sleeve is fantastic."

Caithleen smiled. So he did like it, too. Good.

They settled down at a window table and ordered coffee and cakes. Leonard gave her a bunch of pictures.

"These are the better ones," he said. "This is the best one of the lot, I think -" and he took a picture from the stack that showed her own face, smiling happily while looking at the domes of the Kremlin. She'd never noticed he'd taken that; she'd been too busy enjoying the sights.

"You look absolutely stunning in this one," he said.

"Thank you," Caithleen said. she looked at the photograph critically, but she could understand what he meant. She looked happy and quite at ease.

"I'd like to thank you for your poem," she said after some time. "I didn't realise at first that my name was in it; when Roseanne drew my attention to it I realised it was not just something that could have been aimed at anyone."

She looked at Leonard pensively.

"If you are serious about your poem, I'd better tell you a little about myself first," she said. "And if that doesn't make you feel I'm too difficult or not to your liking, I would like to know some more about your ghosts."

Leonard nodded. "The recesses in our minds."

"If we are to be anything together we can't afford to have too many of those," Caithleen said.

Then she took a deep breath and told Leonard how she'd arrived where she was now. He was a good listener, she thought. To her relief he didn't but in with all kinds of suggestions, and he didn't laugh in the wrong places. He sat looking at her with a hand under his chin, sometimes nodding, sometimes shaking his head, and when she came to the really painful part of her misguided liaison with Fred he looked at her hands and allowed her to talk on without feeling his eyes on her; he didn't seem to want to pry.

Caithleen told him how embarrassed she'd been when she realised she'd been simpering and grateful for having a young and strapping lover and Leonard was struck by Caithleen's honesty. He wondered if he would have been brave enough to relate it; but then, he thought, it was obviously bad luck for her to have come across a creep like that.

When she'd told him all she had to tell she concluded, "And this is why I sojourn here, alone and palely loitering..."

She looked at him earnestly. "I've been a mess for a long time. My trip to Russia did me a huge lot of good, and I think you were largely instrumental in that. But I'm still rather insecure, and I had to tell myself it would be alright a couple of times this morning. If you want to back out..."

He shook his head. "My turn, then?"

She nodded. "Let's have some more coffee first."

When they'd been served she said, "Here goes, then."

"Yes. Well, first, there's my family. I have just the one brother; we never seem to see eye to eye. He can be somewhat pushy sometimes, and he thinks he has a right to - well, to anything the family acquired over the years. I'm afraid I do resent that a little, even though I didn't stop him from getting his way. But I didn't think it was worth the inevitable quarrels and shouting matches; so I'd just give in. I hardly ever see him nowadays. It saves a lot of trouble, and yet it doesn't feel too right."

He took a swig of his coffee.

"Then there is my personal life. I er - well, talking about messing things up, I really managed to do so. When I was at university I had a succession of girlfriends that came to absolutely nothing. We hardly touched, let alone kissed, all because I was far too shy. I suppose they must have either been hugely disappointed in me or had a good laugh at me - I must have been cause for both.

"I grew up with a confused jumble of ideas about courteousness and good behaviour, and my contacts were quite platonic, and no one put me wise to the idea that even girls might like to get physical sometimes, too. Then, eventually, I got a girlfriend that obviously did; she put the thing to practice. It felt rather frightening to me and it was such a shock that I fled. I never contacted her again; I still feel hot with shame when I think of how cowardly I behaved. Apart from that, I have regretted the lost opportunity ever after; I never met anyone like her again..."

He shook his head. "After a long time I fell in love; we married and made life a misery for each other. It wasn't long before there was no rapport left, either emotional or physical. That was when the ghost of my lost chances started to plague me; the fact that I had only myself to blame doesn't really help. We got divorced, eventually. Thank god there were no children; we only ruined each other's lives, not anyone else's."

He smiled a little ruefully, and concluded, "Since then I have more or less kept myself to myself. I haven't touched a woman ever since. The women around me are of no interest to me, and I tried to convince myself for a long time that I didn't need anybody, and that I was perfectly happy. I thought I had succeeded; but when we stood talking on that bridge in GUM I realised that I hadn't, and I went to sleep that night with your eyes on my retina. It was quite exciting and pleasant. It was also disturbing and very frightening, and I realised, too, that you were quite out of reach then. Since then you have been on my mind most of time."

He lifted his cup to his mouth but found to his surprise that he'd finished it already. "It's a little silly, but sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd met you before. But I realise that you'd probably not have been interested and that I would have messed thing up if you had."