Brian Medhurst

  

     

Jonathan Wildchild ranked propriety above all else.

     If you had known Jonathan Wildchild at that time you would have said that he was anything but wild and that at the age of 42 it was quite a while since he had been a child.  He was tall and thin and he might have been good-looking but for an untidy straggly beard.  Very much a creature of habit he was a solitary man set in his ways galloping towards middle age.  Despite making little contribution to society he considered himself to be a pillar of the establishment - to be an upright and responsible member of the community.

     He lived alone in suburbia, in a semi-detached house on the edge of Guildford - it was the better side of town he believed.  He worked as an assistant manager in Lloyds Bank.  Every weekday he walked the half-mile to the bank from his house arriving promptly at 8.30 a.m. and he left at 4 p.m. on the dot in the afternoon.

     Most evenings he would sit at home and read plays or novels or he would sometimes watch documentaries on the television.  He had a large collection of books which were sorted alphabetically by author.  Once a few years previously his sister Alice and her husband Gavin had come to stay for a few days.  His brother-in-law had borrowed a book without his permission and then returned it to the wrong place. Jonathan had made such a fuss about it calling Gavin a Philistine.  Nowadays nobody ever came to stay with him.  He collected stamps and coins and he kept them carefully catalogued in grey folders which nobody else ever saw.  About once a month he would go to the Yvonne Arnaud theatre to see a play or to listen to an opera.

     On one such occasion in late February 1970 that year he found himself sitting next to two women who annoyed him dreadfully at first by their constant chatter. 

     "Do you mind keeping your voices down," he had said and was mightily relieved that they had finally stopped talking once the opera had begun. 

     It was a production of La Bohème and the principal soprano, a big-bosomed lady, had a superb strong voice that stirred the emotions.  It was a very moving performance but all the same Jonathan felt quite embarrassed when the more handsome of the two women who sat in the seat immediately next to him suddenly began to cry.  Big wet teardrops were falling from her eyes and splashing her dress as Mimi died of consumption.

     He smiled at her, "It's very powerful isn't it?"

     "Oh yes indeed," she said, "but I'm afraid I always cry when I see La Bohème."

He was going to correct her, to say "Surely you mean when you hear La Bohème," but something made him hold back.  Perhaps it was a visual thing for her and he couldn't help wondering if she cried a lot.  Having broken the ice he began to talk to her about what operas she liked, about which theatres she had been to.  They got on to plays and playwrights and finally to books and their authors. The woman was very animated her face changing from a smile to a frown in a second and then back again like a small cloud passing over the sun.  Her laugh was a rippling brook.  That was the only way he could describe it.  He noticed her eyes were green, her hair fair and cut short and that the woman's friend who was excluded from their conversation seemed quite put out by the fact.  

     And later that evening at home again when Jonathan thought about the woman at the Yvonne Arnaud theatre he couldn't help but think how personal their conversation had seemed to him.  He had very few conversations he could describe as personal especially with women.  He could never discuss the books he read with anyone at the bank.  He didn't think most of them looked at a book from one week to the next. 

     He hadn't thought much about women in recent years, but there was something about the woman in the theatre .... He wondered how old she was; after all she was a mature woman though still probably a few years younger than himself.  She seemed different from the flighty young women he had known in his youth.  She was educated, interesting to talk to, vivacious and yes she had a certain refinement, a certain sophistication.

     He was in the library on a Saturday afternoon as he usually was when he saw her again.  Maybe she was there every Saturday afternoon too but he had never noticed her before. 

     "Oh hello," he said, "I suppose you're looking for a George Eliot or a John Steinbeck?"

     "Oh no not today," she said laughing, a smile lighting her pretty face.

     "Actually I'm reading Iris Murdoch at the moment and I thought I'd get something else by her."

     "Oh Yes I think she's good.  I expect you like Virginia Woolf too?" said Jonathan.

     "One of my favourites.  I like everything she's written especially 'The Waves'. It's so clever."

     "Yes I read that a couple of years ago.  It certainly gives a different perspective on life," he said as if he were the sort of person who would be extremely tolerant of other lifestyles.  If he thought about it he was more tolerant when he was reading. He could identify with all kinds of characters and situations from which he would run a mile in real life.

     "I come here every Saturday afternoon," he said as he left the checkout.

     "Maybe I will from now on," she said her green eyes sparkling.

     And she did. Her name was Winifred. He thought of her as 'Wacky' Winifred because she had some bizarre ideas - most of which he loved even if they were bizarre. For instance she thought all books should be hardbacks with dark blue leather covers. She thought that digital watches without hands on them should be banned and that men should not have wanted to go to the moon.

     He found himself excited, as he hadn't been since a child, every time he met her.  He wondered if she felt the same about him.  After all she did keep coming every Saturday afternoon.  He even changed his appearance for her, trimmed his moustache and beard, bought himself some more fashionable clothes.  But he dared not allow himself think of her of her in romantic way for as he discovered early on in their friendship she was married to a Colonel in the army.

As Spring turned to Summer and the afternoons became warmer they would walk together from the library to a café by the river where they had longer more meaningful discussions while white swans sailed gracefully by.

     One evening she invited him to her house.

     "It's all right. I'll invite Ginny too, my friend from the theatre," she said when he hesitated for he knew her husband was in Germany.

     He came and the three of them drank white wine on the patio until the sun went down. The conversation improved the more Ginny drank because it made her sleepy. He preferred the discussion and the delicious merging of their minds when only he and Winifred were involved.

Eleven o'clock came before he knew it and he was getting up to leave.  Ginny gently snored in her chair as Winifred took his cold hand and kissed it before pressing it to her cheek.

     He lay in his bed his hand burning where her lips had touched it.  He wondered what was happening to him - whether he was in love with her - whether she was in love with him.  Oh no that would never do he thought - for she was married - and he was a respectable man - a pillar of the establishment - whatever would they think at the bank.

     He didn't see her the next week. He even went to the library on Saturday morning to avoid her. His mind was in turmoil. He was thinking about her all the time now and it wasn't just the conversation he craved.  Since she had laid his hand on her cheek he could not prevent himself thinking about their bodies merging as their minds had done.

     He had never told her his address and he didn't have a telephone at home - after all who would he ever ring?  He managed to avoid her at the library the next week too. That was the end of it he thought but coming out of the bank the following Monday at 4. p.m. there she was waiting for him.  

     They walked arm in arm through the streets of Guildford as if they were lovers and Jonathan Wildchild loved it and hated it at the same time.

     "I do have affectionate feelings for you Jonathan," said Wacky Winifred wanting him to kiss her. They were like besotted teenagers thought Jonathan not mature people but he put his arm around her and kissed her forehead.

     "What about your husband?" he asked.

     "What about him?" she said, "I never see him. He always seems to have a new mistress.  When he is home we hardly ever talk and certainly not about the sort of things you and I discuss. We lie next to each other in our bed like cold statues on the top of a tomb. "

She paused before adding "And I hate him. Take me away somewhere Jonathan. Let's go today or at least before Friday when he comes home."

     And Jonathan thought to himself that this was like something from a book. How exciting it would to go with her, to give up his boring job at the bank, to be her lover. Why not be daring? After all Jonathan knew that he had never been happier than he was in Winifred's company - that it was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his life. That for the first time in his life he really was in love with a woman who loved him equally in return.  

But because to Jonathan Wildchild propriety ranked even higher than love or happiness instead of going away with her he asked Winifred never to see him again.

"My feelings for you are to strong - too emotive - too personal. And you're a married woman," he declared and she felt his pain - and her own.    

     And Winifred cried as she had when he'd first met her as Jonathan kissed her lightly on the lips and said goodbye.

     For Jonathan Wildchild ranked propriety above all else.