It all began quite simply, almost textbook-perfect, one might say: they had been classmates since their first year of school, and by the time they reached the sixth form, they had fallen in love. Their love flourished over those final two years, admired by all, for both were fair, and their bond seemed pure and noble. Everyone assumed they would marry once they left schoolit was only a matter of time. Alexander and Vera.
Alexanders faith in their shared future was as steadfast as a boys pledge to his scouts honour. And Vera never doubted him, as certain as the chimes of Big Ben ringing in the New Year.
Even I, their form tutor, held them in fond regard. Alexander was disciplined, steadily pursuing his ambitions. He meant to become a barrister and so devoted himself to history and politics. Vera, meanwhile, was destined to be “the greatest English novelist of all time,” as Alexander often declaredfor she wrote endless tales of knights and courtly love, which Alexander always read first. I was the second, for I taught them literature, and English, of course.
Her stories brimmed with grand passions, the kind where She renounced all worldly comforts, and He fought endlessly against any who sought to part them. There were castles, drawbridges over fathomless chasms, wicked mothers and cruel fathers who, blind to their childrens true happiness, sought to shape it to their own design. Yet always, in the end, “the dark enchantments shattered,” though unexpectedly, at the very last, Sheor Hewould perish. There was triumph in Truths victory, yet sorrow, too, for it had come too late, as Truth so often does.
Despite these florid tales, Alexander and I believed in Vera. Alexander because his heart and eyes seemed forever bound to her. I because, now and then, piercing through the lush thickets of her prose, came words of startling precision. Sometimes even whole images:
“… the husks of last years leaves crunched wetly underfoot…”
“… the cowls of the monks, drifting slowly above the crowd, looked like sugarloaves of sin…”
“… the door yawned heavily, and all sank back into mornings slumber…”
Such phrases linger with me still.
But all things, as we know, must end in time. So too did their schooling.
Vera won a place at a prestigious college in London, studying under a celebrated poet. Once or twice, she invited me to her readings, where I heard the very voice that had once conversed with Auden. She excelled, publishing early in her first year. I was proud of herand, in truth, of myself. Had I not “seen, nurtured, and coaxed her talent to bloom”?
Alexander, though, had eyes only for her. With each new piece she published, he would visit me at the school, fidgeting as I read, rubbing his hands, urging me to revisit certain lines, to “pay special attention” here and there. Then he would search my face and ask, “Well…?” And in that single word lay all the fervour of Veras early tales: hope, adoration, a jealous dread of criticismeverything that fills a soul not yet twenty.
Yet Alexanders mother never warmed to Vera. Why, I cannot say. Still, she worked subtly to unravel their love, never letting either suspect her hand. She knew better than to enlist me, for I would have only opposed heryet she remained cordial, even overly so. Imagine drinking tea already laden with jam, syrup, and cream, only to be pressed with sweets, honey, and more. What seems like hospitality is, in truth, a torment.
Such was the manner of our rare exchanges.
In the end, she succeeded. Alexander left to study law at Oxford. Vera brought me the news, her eyes dim as a fortune-tellers, her voice hollow as she spoke of his departure. Then she sighed and declared it mattered not, for once he finished his degree, they would wed. His leaving was a boon, she saidshe had a manuscript to complete, debts to settle. Now she would have the time.
And so life settled again, if not happily, then quietly.
Both studied, though continents apart: he a little west, she a little east of Parisor so Vera would say on her visits. Yet these grew fewer. Alexander wrote less still, for life in Oxford was steady, unremarkable.
Then, a year later, Vera came to me with an invitationto her wedding. To a fellow student, a poet. “Though he studies verse,” she said, as if that were the gravest obstacle. Her gaze warned me not to question, so I did not. I already knew how life was ordered.
What more is there to say? Another love had fallen. Another case where “the wisdom of elders” prevailed. Another household formed, unremarkable in the end. And in time, no doubt, Alexander would forge his own.
Vera never visited again. She moved away with her poet-husband. Alexander, too, was gone.
That was all.
Until yesterday.
I stepped out of the schoolhouse after the last lesson. Mays warmth hung bright and youthful in the airhow glorious it was! Then a man approached, older now, but unmistakable. Sixteen years had passed since last we met.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “Ive been waiting for you. Yes, all is wellmarried, two daughters. Work? I own a firm now. But Veraher husband died. Nine days ago. Shes alone with their child. Come, Ive a car.”
His eyes held the same unspoken warning. So I asked nothing, for I knew well enough how life was ordered.
