We met, we paused, we moved on forever
Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
During the course of our lives we meet and get to know many people. Some of these people are relatively inconsequential, being classmates, colleagues, store clerks, neighbors, and so forth. Others, however, strike a chord within us and enter the realm of the ‘consequential’.
These include ‘significant others’, certain cherished friends, mentors of worth, and ‘ships that pass’ but do not stay around for long. Just a wave and a blown-kiss, and then they are gone. They are gone except for the place they burn in the memory-bank – for whatever reason. As follows is one such tale.
This particular ‘ship’ was a colleague in my second year teaching. A fellow teacher for only a few brief months she was. She was an English girl, tall, blonde, exquisitely proportioned, with a wonderful ‘plummy’ accent, very intelligent, and with the bawdiest of senses of humor. She looked remarkably like the English actress Patricia Hodge (pictured), whom I can never see in something like Rumpole without immediately thinking of my special friend.
She was very flirtatious, and slightly exhibitionistic, and a toucher, and a hugger. What red-blooded lad in his mid-20s couldn’t have been smitten? I know I was. The fact that I was also married didn’t detract from my fantasies about this Miss from the English Channel Isle of Guernsey. I wasn’t alone in my carnal mental meanderings. After she had left, a friend said: “It was a good thing she moved away. I think there would have been broken marriages all over the place if she hadn’t.”
She too was married. She was married to a handsome, brilliant, highly-creative, and intensely moody Welshman. He was also intensely jealous of her – which seemed to fuel her shenanigans even more. I yes, quite a psychological profile happening there. Stuff of novels. Hey, I might even ‘use’ her in some future creative endeavor. Oh, and he was also a physical abuser, I was later to find.
I recall sitting next to her in a staff meeting on a hot June day. She was sucking on an orange Popsicle. I won’t describe what she was doing with her ‘lolly’, as she called it.
We were invited to dinner at her place one evening. After a fine meal and some good wine, we settled in to chat. She sat directly across from me. She was wearing a tiny mini dress (as she always did, and which showed off her very long legs to fine advantage). As she sat, she made herself ‘comfortable’. Comfortable meant hiking her skirt up well above her knickers, which were fully exposed. Her husband was not pleased with the show, and mentioned it to her.
“Oh, it’s only Ian,” she said. “He’s a friend. He doesn’t mind.”
Esthetically I didn’t mind at all. But, at a personal level, I rather did. My wife and I grew increasingly uncomfortable, and her husband grew increasingly broody. Eventually we made our excuses. We didn’t want to be a part of whatever game was going on.
Shortly thereafter they moved away. They moved to Vancouver. She passed her telephone number and address onto me a while later. The following summer I gave her a call. “Oh, you must come over and visit,” she said. “I’m moving back to Guernsey, and I’d love to see you before I go.”
We went to the address she gave. She answered the door. We were both shocked. She sported two black eyes. She’d left him and he’d punched her out. It wasn’t the first time, she told us, resignedly. That was why she was leaving.
That was the last time I ever saw her. But, as I said, I thought about her and wondered if I’d ever see her again. I wasn’t in love with her, but I confess I was fascinated at many levels, including a lustful one.
I did hear her voice one more time. When I was living in England in 1981 I phoned her on Guernsey, whence she’d remarried and as raising a family. She was thrilled to hear from me and insisted we had to come to visit. My wife was on a break so we set in motion plans to cross the Channel. The channel, as it turned out was hit by unspeakable storms in the time we had free. We couldn’t make it. I called to tell her. She sounded dreadfully disappointed.
I’ve never heard from her since, and she never responded to any letters I sent to her. Sad. Ships, as I said.
Do you have any ships that passed in your own night?
These include ‘significant others’, certain cherished friends, mentors of worth, and ‘ships that pass’ but do not stay around for long. Just a wave and a blown-kiss, and then they are gone. They are gone except for the place they burn in the memory-bank – for whatever reason. As follows is one such tale.
This particular ‘ship’ was a colleague in my second year teaching. A fellow teacher for only a few brief months she was. She was an English girl, tall, blonde, exquisitely proportioned, with a wonderful ‘plummy’ accent, very intelligent, and with the bawdiest of senses of humor. She looked remarkably like the English actress Patricia Hodge (pictured), whom I can never see in something like Rumpole without immediately thinking of my special friend.
She was very flirtatious, and slightly exhibitionistic, and a toucher, and a hugger. What red-blooded lad in his mid-20s couldn’t have been smitten? I know I was. The fact that I was also married didn’t detract from my fantasies about this Miss from the English Channel Isle of Guernsey. I wasn’t alone in my carnal mental meanderings. After she had left, a friend said: “It was a good thing she moved away. I think there would have been broken marriages all over the place if she hadn’t.”
She too was married. She was married to a handsome, brilliant, highly-creative, and intensely moody Welshman. He was also intensely jealous of her – which seemed to fuel her shenanigans even more. I yes, quite a psychological profile happening there. Stuff of novels. Hey, I might even ‘use’ her in some future creative endeavor. Oh, and he was also a physical abuser, I was later to find.
I recall sitting next to her in a staff meeting on a hot June day. She was sucking on an orange Popsicle. I won’t describe what she was doing with her ‘lolly’, as she called it.
We were invited to dinner at her place one evening. After a fine meal and some good wine, we settled in to chat. She sat directly across from me. She was wearing a tiny mini dress (as she always did, and which showed off her very long legs to fine advantage). As she sat, she made herself ‘comfortable’. Comfortable meant hiking her skirt up well above her knickers, which were fully exposed. Her husband was not pleased with the show, and mentioned it to her.
“Oh, it’s only Ian,” she said. “He’s a friend. He doesn’t mind.”
Esthetically I didn’t mind at all. But, at a personal level, I rather did. My wife and I grew increasingly uncomfortable, and her husband grew increasingly broody. Eventually we made our excuses. We didn’t want to be a part of whatever game was going on.
Shortly thereafter they moved away. They moved to Vancouver. She passed her telephone number and address onto me a while later. The following summer I gave her a call. “Oh, you must come over and visit,” she said. “I’m moving back to Guernsey, and I’d love to see you before I go.”
We went to the address she gave. She answered the door. We were both shocked. She sported two black eyes. She’d left him and he’d punched her out. It wasn’t the first time, she told us, resignedly. That was why she was leaving.
That was the last time I ever saw her. But, as I said, I thought about her and wondered if I’d ever see her again. I wasn’t in love with her, but I confess I was fascinated at many levels, including a lustful one.
I did hear her voice one more time. When I was living in England in 1981 I phoned her on Guernsey, whence she’d remarried and as raising a family. She was thrilled to hear from me and insisted we had to come to visit. My wife was on a break so we set in motion plans to cross the Channel. The channel, as it turned out was hit by unspeakable storms in the time we had free. We couldn’t make it. I called to tell her. She sounded dreadfully disappointed.
I’ve never heard from her since, and she never responded to any letters I sent to her. Sad. Ships, as I said.
Do you have any ships that passed in your own night?
Labels: Strangers in the night
posted by Ian Lidster at
1:53 PM
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