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Unrequited Love Requited
Dutchman Pieter Koop, a fifty seven years old importer of Dutch fine chocolates, Dutch fine cigars, and Dutch fine cheeses, died suddenly, while working late one evening in his well stocked warehouse Everything Dutch, in central London. His widow Imelda, as sole beneficiary in his will, suddenly found herself extremely wealthy, and for the first time in her life financially independent. In a position to do as she pleased, she decided after much thought, to let her large property in Kew, West London, and move, along with sundry books, a bountiful supply of good German Mosel, and her Russian Blue cat Machiavelli, to Cno Cailean, a remote cottage on the North West coast of Scotland. Machiavelli had been carried around London in a specially adapted back pack for years, along with Imelda’s emergency kit; a small torch, mobile phone, first aid box, lightweight binoculars, notebook and pencil, and half a litre of Scotch whisky. “The whisky is for remedial needs, and the book, pencil and binoculars for ornithological purposes”, she would tell her friends, although her fascination with native flora and fauna, especially birds was common knowledge to all those who knew her well.
The arduous removal to Scotland occupied “five barbed wire days”, Imelda remarked later. Waiting for the van to arrive in Kew, waiting while they went away to fill up with fuel, waiting for the men to pack the van, waiting for Messrs Walpole & Pitt to arrive after their long and sluggish trip northwards, waiting for them to unload the van, waiting for them to return from the nearest public house, fifteen miles away, and waiting for them to finish a meal she unwisely cooked for them. Walpole & Pitt, what a grand sounding name, “a small, caring and reliable company”, consisted of Mrs.Unworthy in office/administration, and two working partners, screwdriver thin Harry, ‘cockney’ Walpole, and his rotund partner Julian, ‘posh’ St. John Pitt. They were looking forward to the journey, “over the border into enemy territory”, Harry remarked good humouredly before leaving, but as was the custom before venturing forth – unknown to Imelda until after signing the contract, - they spent a couple of convivial hours supping pints of ale at the Rose & Crown Pub on the edge of Kew Green, while enjoying a Saturday cricket match. “Watching amateurs trying to imitate county cricket professionals could be a riotous fund of enjoyment”, stocky Julian remarked in his ‘superior’ voice as he downed yet another pint of Pickled Partridge ale. His comments, not the excessive beer swilling, reminded Imelda of times with Pieter on summer week ends; lolling at the edge of the green, listening to the intoxicating sound of leather on willow, and the polite applause of picnickers and cricketing enthusiasts. But, she wondered, would moving to a far – flung part of Scotland eradicate the pain of her transition into widowhood?
In the borough of Isleworth, a few miles to the west of Kew, Jack Clements had returned from inspecting his recently purchased cottage in Scotland. His mother had died, leaving him her freehold property in Hounslow, Middlesex, and her death after years of self abusive cigarette smoking and consumption of large quantities of vodka couldn’t have come at a more auspicious moment. He had just taken early retirement after years as Deputy Head Clerk at Financial Advice & Home Mortgages Limited. At fifty five, banking had become a bore; the daily grind from Isleworth to the city of London induced deep depression and panic attacks, and he was eager to liberate himself from the tedium and push and shove of city drudgery, and relocate to a life of independence, amity and quiet.
Love had given him the cold shoulder, perhaps middle aged Scottish ladies would change all that? He liked the company of women, but asides from fellow workers, referring to his oddness, his frugality and bachelorhood, invoked a subdued attitude in his approach towards the opposite sex. Any self esteem he may have harboured had disappeared ages ago, and establishing any semblance of a relationship with those at the office, let alone strangers he might have fancied, had been ineffective. Even so, he had maintained a secret amour for a lovely blue eyed, dark haired, satisfyingly breasted woman now in her late forties. He saw her first during a summer two years ago. She was watching a cricket match on Kew Green, and although the love between her partner or was it husband – there was no gold band visible, - was evident to even the most casual observer, Jack’s fixation, his flame of hope he called it, never wavered from the moment he first set eyes on her.
Deep down however, he had settled for the inevitability of a loveless life, and withdrawing from reality, had staked his claim for her on a blissful self centred reverie instead. Freedom from the cloying morality of continuing care and concern for his mother, and her sudden exodus from his life, had forged an overwhelming sense of relief in his heart. It was this unchaining from such a heavy and burdensome responsibility that enabled him to depart for bonny Scotland free from guilt. His inheritance, sold for a sizeable sum, had left him free to cross the border with a happy heart and bulging bank balance, while singing what he considered was a tuneful rendering of Scotland the Brave.
Returned to Scotland, he set about organising his changed life; acquiring a sketch book from the local art shop, Hearty Crafty, and planning long invigorating walks with Hovis, his collie cross aided by a quantity of substantial all-weather gear; haversack, boots, socks, thermal underwear and many other fundamental items from Hardman’s, ‘the centre for rugged walkers’. In Hardman’s however, he felt conspicuous; his smooth but pasty face was decidedly ‘unrugged’, and bore no similarity whatever to a craggy faced Kirk Douglas, Jack Palance or Lee Van Cleef, all of whom he was convinced, would have felt at ease and relaxed there. He on the other hand, was conscious of being personalised as an intruder, a mismatch, a sickly sham, unworthy of any link however tenuous with such palpable manly ruggedness.
Settling into his cottage took very little time. Fortunately, the garden, like that of his new neighbour three miles further south, was ‘manageable’, as the estate agent’s particulars pointed out, and “a bold, low stone wall separates the plot from the invasive wild moor land on the other side”. The pair of cottages were charming architectural doppelgangers, built for the crofting community by the MacClenny brothers in the 1850’s, but now re-painted in ‘modern’ colours; his being cream and his neighbour’s a loud pink.
It was early one evening, a few months after he had moved in, that to his relief; he saw a brown and green removal van leaving his nearest neighbour’s cottage Cno Cailean. On the side was written the staid and familiar logo, Walpole & Pitt, Twickenham, Middlesex? Lost in an instant, was any yearning for a distinctly Scottish detachment from the frenetic city existence he had endured for so long. Found, was a consuming need to visit his secret love, just arrived from Kew. Had she any inkling that he had moved to Scotland, just to be near her he wondered? Would she have come if she had known, or indeed has she come because she somehow sensed that he would be close to her? His need to resolve this dilemma required a visit to Cno Cailean cottage sooner rather than later.
The next day he was up and about early, anxiety and thoughts of Imelda had banished sleep. The already burgeoning heat of the sun, vied for ascendancy between his pounding head, the queasiness in his stomach, and the weakness in his legs. But why did he feel so apprehensive? Meeting her was the culmination of years of desire, and whatever the outcome he had nothing to fear surely? He set off alone earlier than intended and reached the cottage at midday. A few moments later, as the gate catch clicked into place behind him, his devotion was rewarded as the cottage door slowly opened.
When Imelda opened her front door and confronted “that oddball from Kew”, she dropped her tray in shock, scattering its contents at his feet. Most of it was broken in the fall, but her anger was not because of that, but the possibility that this person may have followed her to Scotland, and impudently impinged on a private ritual of remembrance for her late husband. She wished to remain in seclusion, and had no wish to speak with or to anyone, and certainly not this grey man from Kew who had ogled her at every available opportunity. An alarming thought had crossed her mind, “was his arrival planned”!? Or was it just one of life’s coincidences? Nevertheless, planned or an accident, the last thing she would ever want was him living in the vicinity!
With the sudden appearance of Imelda dressed in a cool loose fitting dress and carrying a well stocked tray, Jack froze, and in the time it takes to scuff a boot he experienced diverse emotions; delight that she was there, and anger that he had been responsible for such a disturbance. Quickly coming to his senses, he introduced himself, “Good morning madam I do apologise for any inconvenience I may have caused. My name is Jack Clements your nearest neighbour, and I live in the cream painted cottage Nith”, he said, stammering slightly with unconcealed embarrassment, while pointing in the general direction of his home three miles distant, “I called to see if I may offer my services in any way”? Greeted by a grim silence, he had no option but to accept temporary rejection. Giving a barely discernible bow he turned and hurriedly left her. On his return to Nith cottage however, he was elated to think that the subject of his reverie, was now living close by and hopefully, might be on her own; subsequent enquiries established that this was so. Over the next few months his relentless wooing, reaped no rewards. Regular and frequent visits were rebuffed, and gifts left inside the garden gate or by the front door, were either left to rot or returned unseen with a brief but firm note of refusal.
Then unexpectedly, Jack’s world, to use a naval term, ‘turned turtle’. In November, as the cold winds gathered, tragedy descended like a black cloud over the sparse local community that included Nith and Cno Calean cottages. Imelda went missing.
The last sighting of her was by Jack Clements at about ten one Tuesday morning. He spotted her walking north with Machiavelli in her knapsack and thought no more of it. A few days later however, a postman called to deliver a parcel, and noticed the door ajar and prepared food on the table untouched, and that same day, alerted by the postman’s concern, the local constabulary commenced enquiries. Their prime suspect Jack was questioned methodically, and his cottage searched thoroughly, but without any ‘evidence’ connecting him to her disappearance, he was allowed to continue with his daily routine. By this time, Imelda had been missing for over ten days. Extensive police enquiries in Kew and Holland revealed no clues either, while in Scotland large areas of the countryside were searched by police with sniffer dogs, aided by the army, and air and mountain rescue teams, but nothing was found. It was thought she might have been abducted or even left of her own accord, but both options were soon discounted, and months later the authorized search was scaled down. But Jack’s fixation on Imelda and her unknown fate, continued to haunt him. He dismissed out of hand the two theories put forward for her disappearance, believing instead that somewhere in the remote and hostile landscape, Imelda was waiting for him to come to her.
Unknown to him however, on that crucial last sighting, Imelda had only walked northwards for about a mile, and then on a whim had turned due east and a little later directly south. As later events revealed to him, the search teams had been concentrating their resources on an area too far to the north of the last sighting.
For Imelda, more than ten miles from home, the evening, like a high spring tide was coming in too fast; the gusting rain blowing horizontally, sliced into her eyes, and a menacing highland mist reduced visibility to a few metres. “Thank goodness I have my emergency stuff with me” she exclaimed while swallowing a warming tot of whisky “but should things get worse I can always hole up somewhere and use the mobile phone to call for help”.
But three years after her disappearance, Jack Clements, a delusional love struck optimist, continued to search on a regular basis in all weathers. November the 29th was no exception. As he set out, a dense mist was swirling about him. He trudged doggedly for nearly four hours, when suddenly Hovis, having disturbed a ground bird, vanished less than thirty feet in front of him. Walking to the spot, Jack noticed a narrow opening in the undergrowth, and heard Hovis whining and yelping at the bottom of a twenty feet deep shaft The opening was just wide enough for him to clamber down, but made slippery and perilous by a steady flow of water, and it was this that changed his spirited rescue attempt into an instant disaster. As he slipped, plunging down the shaft, the weak light from above had fleetingly revealed a small cavern to one side, but as suddenly, there was an ear-splitting crack from above followed by falling debris. Shining his torch towards the entrance, he saw in horror and disbelief that a huge boulder had fallen, and like a cork in a bottle, had sealed the opening completely.
The air was bitterly cold; a resolute drip, drip, drip could be heard. A disquieting odour clung to the walls like an imperceptible breath. He breathed deeply, fighting to overcome his fear, as the torch beam fixed itself like a cyclopean eye on ‘something’ at the back of the small cave. His eyes, adjusting to the sudden brightness revealed a gruesome sight. Resting on the wet, dank ground were human skeletal remains! Most of the clothing had rotted away. Scattered around was the flotsam and jetsam of a life abruptly ended; a shattered mobile phone, a rusting torch, a pair of mildewed binoculars, a rotting haversack, an empty bottle of whisky, its label rudely displaying its glorious name. The eyeless sockets of the skull peered outwards and upward. Nestled on the skeletal rib cage were the emaciated remains of a small animal, a spongy tuft of blue fur still clinging to it in desperation? Imelda and Machiavelli! An overwhelming and sudden sensation of peace enclosed him, realising in an instant that he had found his secret love at last, his quest fulfilled! Carefully lifting his injured dog Hovis into his arms, he lay down beside Imelda’s remains, and lovingly placed his head against her skull. Closing his eyes, he yielded to what he now understood was a moment preordained; his and Imelda’s destiny had been consumated, his secret love requited. Any stranger seeing him thus would have marvelled at the smile on his face.
Copyright: William Gladys – 2007.
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