I made sure I was ten minutes early for my date with Suzie. I used the extra moments to buy a long-stemmed red rose from the flower stall in the station forecourt and to compose myself before meeting her. I was nervous. It was my first date since the first time I went out with Helen nearly 25 years ago. It had taken me five years to get to this moment, years of mourning, of agonising loneliness, of shattered self-belief slowly rebuilt with the constant love and patience of those who loved me the most. Until now I had been able to distract myself from my nerves with careful preparation; shower, shave, dressing in my favourite smart going out attire of black suit, dark blue shirt and contrasting tie with scarlet pattern, checking and rechecking the route to our rendezvous. But now there was no way and nowhere to hide from my anxiety. Whatever you do, don't mess it up, I thought to myself as I checked my watch for the dozen'th time.
As the minutes crawled by I got tired of scanning every face for a hint of recognition. I took out my paperback and began to read, every now and again looking up to observe the dynamics of all the human movement and activity around me on the station concourse. Other couples met with extravagant flinging of arms and smiling shrieks, or a chaste kiss on a demurely proffered cheek, or a politely wary shaking of hands depending on the degree of prior familiarity.
As the minutes piled up into a quarter hour and then another quarter hour, I was able to observe how the stream of humanity ebbed and flowed as trains disgorged their passengers from one side of the barriers while others arrived to flow through the barriers in the opposite direction to take their places. In all this human flux there were two constants; me and, standing a few yards away, a smartly dressed young woman. Whereas I was standing still as I read, she was constantly moving; backwards and forwards, round in circles, shrugging her shoulders, folding and unfolding her arms, checking her watch again and again. Several times I smiled and shrugged my shoulders sympathetically and each time she smiled back and shook her head ruefully.
After almost three quarters of an hour of waiting, fairly confident that by this stage she wouldn't feel threatened by my doing so, I walked over to her.
"Stood up?" I asked with a smile of sympathy.
"Tell me about it," she grimaced with fellow-feeling, "You too?"
"It looks like it," I smiled, "What did you have planned?"
"The new photography exhibition at the contemporary art gallery, then we were going clubbing," she replied, then added, "Did you have something nice planned?"
"Dinner at a jazz club," I said, "Nice evening for it too. Too bad."
I was about to take my leave of her when I found myself saying, "It's seems a pity to waste it, how about making an evening of it together? I don't fancy the clubbing bit but the photography exhibition sounds good if you'd like a bit of jazz with dinner afterwards."
"That sounds really cool," she said, "You're on."
**********
We got acquainted as we walked to the gallery. "I'm Tony Sutcliffe," I said as I reached across myself with my right hand to shake her hand as she walked on my left, "pleased to meet you."
"Hi, I'm Gemma Courteney, artist and illustrator extraordinaire," she replied.
Her outfit accorded with her assertion. She wore a man's double-breasted jacket in black pinstripe over a man's white dress shirt with turned back collars and silver cufflinks, beautifully cut and styled black trousers that seemed to flow and shimmer around her legs as she walked and gave brief glimpses of her feet, on which she wore over black tights black velvet ballerina pumps that looked like they had been covered in glitter, a silk scarf that covered her skin behind the open neck of her shirt, a crimson cummerbund around her waist and black lace gloves that left her finger ends exposed. Her jewellery consisted of triangular silver drop earrings and several rings including a beautiful butterfly with spread wings shimmering with glitter which spanned the length of her left middle finger.
She was slightly less than average height with slim build and small bust and slender arms and legs. She had long straight auburn hair that flowed freely down her back to her waist and partly covered her ears, which stuck out slightly from the flowing stream of her tresses. She had a lively and pretty face with dark brown eyes and a mouth that seemed to be always smiling or just about to smile. It was also covered in light brown freckles that to me enhanced her exuberantly youthful quality that was already obvious in the first few minutes I was in her company.
By the time we reached the gallery, she holding the rose she had graciously accepted from me, she had told me something of her work as an artist and I had recounted some of my more way-out experiences as a secondary school teacher and latterly as a schools inspector. We spent an hour looking at the exhibition, of modern Eastern European urban photography.
"Do you enjoy looking at art?" Gemma asked me at one point.
"I've always preferred music to visual art," I replied, "I've never felt familiar with art in the way I am with music. But I've always been fascinated by the idea that I'm looking at a tiny moment of truth that would have been lost for all time if the artist hadn't captured it in a picture or sculpture or whatever, and by the idea that if I or anyone else instead had somehow seen that exact grain of truth at that exact time and place, it would have been recorded completely differently."
"I think that's a tremendously positive approach to appreciating art," she smiled, "It means you can still enjoy it even if you don't know the background to it." Our conversation continued in similarly positive fashion and I felt myself being drawn closer to her by her youthful enthusiasm, charm and spontaneous and wholehearted pleasure in all she saw.
**********
We took a taxi to the jazz club. The band that evening played a mixture of traditional and Dixieland jazz, which made an enjoyably upbeat backdrop to our meal and conversation.
"I can't believe that I was stood up after it took me three months to get up the courage to go out on a date after my last disaster, and then I meet you," said Gemma as a swirl of bolognaise-coated spaghetti flopped off her fork just before it reached her mouth.
"What went wrong the last time?" I asked.
"It's a long story," she mumbled through her second, successful attempt and I could tell by the shake of her head that she wasn't yet in the mood to elaborate further.
"Anyway," I continued, "I wouldn't have thought you'd have much trouble getting a date if you wanted one."
"Believe me," she answered, "there really aren't that many great guys out there. But can I ask why you're dating and wearing a wedding ring?"
I had thought to leave it at home but had forgotten to take it off. I didn't really feel ready to talk about her this early but now I didn't have much choice. I felt the usual tightening in my chest as I began.
"I was widowed five years ago and it's taken me until now to get myself together enough to get back onto the scene again."
"Oh Tony, I'm so sorry." Her hand on mine was totally spontaneous and unselfconscious and she looked at me with complete sincerity of compassion. "If it helps you to talk I'll gladly listen."
My mouth tightened slightly as I began, "Helen died of a very rare and very destructive cancer. One moment she seemed in perfect health. Then the terrible pains in her back started and all of a sudden she was being given six months at the most and she was dead in less than four, which in a way was a blessing. She was in a hospice for her final weeks and they were wonderful to us. I was able to be in bed with her and hold her and stroke her hair as she was dying. That was one good thing about her having that kind of cancer; there was no point in giving her radiation therapy or chemotherapy, so she didn't lose her hair. And she was able to whisper, "I love you," to me as she died. And hundreds of people came to her funeral and there were so many people there for me whenever I felt I couldn't go on anymore and our children gave me far more love and support and understanding than I was able to give to them even in my best moments. And even tonight when I get stood up on my first date for nearly twenty-five years, instead of it being a total disaster I'm sitting here talking with you. With so much that's good in my life I can't go on being sad for too long."
"She must have been a very special person to have been married to you," said Gemma as she squeezed my hand.
