A
few years back I was sitting having a drink in a Sussex pub and across the
gangway I noticed a group of young women, laughing and chattering. I’m an
incurable people-watcher and continued to watch them surreptitiously for a
while until it occurred to me that a rather vivacious, dark-haired young lady
looked rather familiar. The more I watched the more her face, hairstyle and
general manner reminded me strongly of someone I had enjoyed sharing a
literature course with whilst studying at Sussex University a few years
previously. Should I continue to sit
here and wonder in case she failed to remember who I was or should I approach
Rosie and remind her of our shared past? At last my curiosity got the better of
me, after all I wanted to know what she had been doing these last few years and
whether she had achieved what she had set out to do following her degree. I got
up and walked confidently up to her, banishing doubts and embarrassment. I
explained who I was to Rosie and then waited. The group chatter subsided and
there was a moment of silence. It wasn’t Rosie and she had never been to Sussex
University.
Yesterday,
unbelievably the same thing happened to me. This time I was sitting in a
National Trust cafe, drinking tea and eating the inevitable piece of iced
sponge. I was on my first visit to the Red House, where William Morris, along
with a bunch of friends, had conducted some experiments in interior design.
Halfway through our tour of the house another couple came in and examined the
icy cold rooms with us, chatting in quiet voices as they went. I scarcely
looked at them. Then they joined us in the tea shop and again I embarked on my
rather impolite hobby of people watching. The lady had red hair and a manner
that reminded me of someone I had once known, a long, long time ago. As she
chatted to the man with her I watched and gradually it came to me – Nicola – I had
been at school with someone like that. Strangely, at first, it never occurred
to me that it could really be the same person. Although I guessed she was
around my age and we were both visiting this National Trust property not ten
miles from the school, I never entertained the idea that it could be her. No.
That would be too much of a coincidence. I sat for a long while, trying to
remember Nicola’s surname.
Finally,
I recalled an incident which still makes me laugh even now when I occasionally
think of it and the name resurfaced along with the memory. I was in a coach
with a school party on an educational visit to the open air theatre in Regent’s
Park, London. I was about 14. We were on our way back to school at the end of
the day. Suddenly, someone said “Where’s Nicola?” A minute later, someone else
shouted “And where’s Ann?” Ann and Nicola – firm friends all the way through
school – they were sure to be together. Unfortunately the coach had left
without them. Panic ensued. A teacher’s worst nightmare! The unfortunate
teacher eventually stopped the coach, got out and went back in search of the
two missing children. We continued on our journey back to school, concocting
stories of their probable demise. The next morning we learned the news that our
English teacher had discovered them back in the park, standing forlornly by the
entrance from which the coach had left, holding hands and telling each other
staunchly “Don’t panic!”
Now
I had a name. I looked again at my companion in the tea room. The more I looked
the more I seemed to discern the old Nicola within this rather more mature
version in front of me. It would have been more than forty years ago! You would
think I had learned my lesson from Rosie – or rather, from the woman who wasn’t
Rosie – but not a bit of it! Eventually, my curiosity again getting the better
of me, I said boldly “I’ve been looking at you...” (she gave me a curious
glance) “...and you really remind me of someone I was at school with...” No
response. (Oh dear, had I done it again?) “Are you... or were you...” I said,
looking at her possible husband next to her, “Nicola _____?” This time the
answer was yes. I was so relieved!
A
rather stilted conversation followed. Where do you start with someone you lost
touch with 40 years ago? We exchanged family histories, careers and children
and introduced our husbands. We asked after mutual friends. She had done far
better than me at keeping up with them. She still lived in the same area. I did
not. I traced some of my various travels since leaving the school. Then the
conversation faltered a bit. We sat there, marvelling at the coincidence that
had brought us together. It began to sink in. This chance encounter was indeed
something of a miracle. What if my sister and brother-in-law had not decided to
give us a joint birthday gift of membership to the National Trust this year?
What if we had decided to go to Ightam Mote instead of the Red House as our
first outing? What if we had chosen Tuesday instead of Wednesday? We would
never have met up. Better than that, what if we had decided to move from our
old home in the Netherlands, where we had been for the last fifteen years or
so, a couple of months later? What if we had stayed somewhere else whilst
searching for our new home in the UK? What if my sister had said “no, we can’t
put you up”? What if we had found our new home a little quicker? We would no
longer be here in my old stamping ground. We were just passing through. What
if? Isn’t life strange?
Best
of all was the joy with which we discovered each other after all this time.
Amazement and joy characterised the encounter. We left school 40 years ago,
without giving each other too much thought. 40 years later friendships somehow
have more value and it is so good to be given a second chance to get
acquainted. We will no longer stand side by side on the station platform each
afternoon, waiting for the train home from school. We will no longer even live
in the same vicinity. But maybe, in these days of internet, better travel links
and an enhanced understanding of the value of relationships, we can make
something of our second chance.
No comments:
Post a Comment