My Ragges of Heart

CHAPTER 1

It is cold today. The sort of bone-chilling cold I had almost forgotten. It's colder than I have ever known it in Cornwall. The sky is cold blue and empty. There are no birds, no sounds - not even the distant murmur of water. This is a strange, white land, foreign in its whiteness.
The lane I have been following is ridged with ice, where the tractor has ploughed through the snow, impacting it again and again, until the furrows of frozen snow seem like stone. Patches of sand have been thrown down, allowing my wellington's some grip on the track. But now I have reached the fork where the lane branches away from the farm track. In front of me everything is pristine, untouched for days, perhaps weeks. The meandering of the lane would be indistinguishable but for the shrouded humps of hedrow on either side.

It is forty-two years since I last made this journey, in another century and another lifetime. I drove along the lane then, but no one can drive here today in these conditions. At any time it was a long, slow drive down to Carnellis from the Coast Road; I have only walked this way once before, and that was on a warm springtime day. I hesitate, wondering how deep the snow is, and then tentatively take the first few steps. My new green wellies hardly break the virgin surface. So many days of snow, followed by the big freeze, have built up an almost solid road. It is not level but undulates gently where the fresh snow drifted days ago.

It is so, so different from that first time I drove down here in 1961.... I remember that day so well - the anticipation, the knowledge that all my life had been leading towards that one day...
He told me to write about it. Those were his last words to me on the telephone. Not our last meeting, or his last letter, but our last telephone conversation. That was thirty five years ago, and I often thought about those words. I tried once; I still have the paragraph...

I look into the faces of the crowd moon faces, expressionless, unalive. Now and then there is a glimmer of something, but no more than the faintest glimmer. And I know I am one of them, the living dead. But there was a time... I am still looking: searching for a look in some gentle brown eyes; listening for the tone in a musical voice; watching for a walk, a gesture. Where is he now? He is remote, undead, yet unalive, a recluse in his world. He is my executioner; he was the catalyst of my life. I am a soul torn in half, still aching through the years, incurable; a body, lusting still for remembered ecstasy; fragments of heart, reminiscent of a Donne poem. This is what I am, what I shall be, but not what I was. Time was when life was here, blazing like a July day on Dartmoor, where we first made love; glowing like the glow worm in the night on the hedge we used to pass. Life was elemental, flaming, earthy, torrential and light as air a storm of passion a meeting of spirits. I lie on the sun baked earth and feel the life around me. I breathe the salt laced air and know that I live. I throw my arms up to the summer sun and plunge my nakedness into the rushing surf. But where are you who should be part of this?

I could not go any further. The story had not ended. Now it is different. Now I have seen his body pale in death. Now I know the story will never end. But where did it begin? There is a far corner of Britain where the land tapers into the ocean. This place of mists and legends has a strange primeval ambience. It is a land where granite menhirs thrust up from the stony earth; a land where long deserted engine houses litter the landscape; a land which calls the Celtic spirit home. Many born in this place do not have an awareness of its magic, whilst others are called from distant parts to a place they recognize as home. Perhaps that is how we came to be there...

Life is a cycle of birth, death and rebirth. For those who believe as I do, the idea of eternity is not difficult to comprehend. But I must begin somewhere, on this earth and in this lifetime. His father and my father came from the same Northern town. His father built the house where my father lived as a boy. I only ever remembered one road in that town, but that is the road in which he lived. It was the road where I visited my aunt and uncle as a young child. Our families came from the same roots. Perhaps they knew one another in that not so large town in the early part of the century. I search for the roots of our love in this life wondering how many times our paths might have crossed. I seek out all the tenuous threads which might link his existence to mine. Everything is important now. Each memory is cherished and I try to make new memories, new connections in the long ago time.

There was a house, with an old fashioned kitchen. I was perched on a handmade kitchen cabinet, which was painted in that shade of green so popular in the thirties and forties. My mother was setting my hair. There were flat metal hair curlers and wavers, which clipped into the hair with sharp teeth. I moved and upset a bottle of setting lotion. I can still see the thick green fluid oozing down the side of the cabinet... This is the clearest memory from my early childhood.

There was an old farm with an adjoining barn, and dark stables where bats hung from the dusty rafters. Behind the house was a pen where large, hissing white birds frightened me with threatening, lowered heads. I was only a toddler but my fear of geese followed me into adult life. I remember an old man in bed; I sat and talked to him...

I remember staying with my grandmother in the distant days of childhood, the bathroom smelling of Pears soap; the beaded muslin covers over the milk jug and sugar basin. I remember the potted beef, farm butter and the thin slices of Hovis which my grandmother cut horizontally from the loaf with a sharp knife... I remember the half wild farm cats afraid of children. I remember the orchard, filled with apple and pear trees, plum and damson trees, and tangled undergrowth. But most of all I remember lying in bed...
The feather mattress is soft and comfortable on the large bed. It is going dark and I like that. There are one or two large flies on the ceiling and I don't want to be able to see them. I don't like flies.

Outside everything is quiet in the fields behind the farmhouse. Perhaps the bats from the stables are flying. I have seen them before - tiny creatures creating huge shadows on the moon. I don't know whether they are flying now; the curtains are closed. This is my favourite time. The time when I create my dreams, plan a magical future. I am still immersed in fairy tales, although I have already read Shakespeare, the Brontës, Dickens and many other classics. My dreams are still peopled by princes and princesses who live in turreted castles.

My name is Princess Rubia: a strange name, pure invention. My imaginary age is ten at first. Later, as I gain in years, it is eighteen, a magic number for some unknown reason. In those days one had to wait for twenty one years to become an adult; one was merely licensed to drink alcohol at eighteen and to have sex at sixteen!

Of course, I have a lover who will kiss me chastely and promise undying love. He is Prince Ruben, my androgyne (although I do not know that word in these long ago days). We always live happily ever after, I and my faceless prince. I suppose he must be tall, dark and handsome, but I never really see him. You see, I just know him as I know myself.

I was a child, innocent in the ways of adult love. Yet my one purpose in life became to find my prince; everything else was secondary. This was an odd awareness for a young child. Perhaps young children retain some of their memories from a previous existence. I have often compared the memory to blotting paper, which can only absorb so much. We learn and retain more as children because the blotting paper is fresh and unused. But perhaps the paper isn't entirely blank. Perhaps there are faint markings there, barely decipherable and soon to be overwritten.

In addition to those early imaginings were the other dreams. I call them dreams, but I do not think I was ever really asleep when they came. They just invaded my empty moments with half remembered people and places. Sounds, smells, impressions those are what they were: places which felt familiar; sounds of water a stream or sometimes the sea; salt in the air, and honeysuckle; gulls high above, and him. He was always there, but I never saw his face in the dreams. I saw the love in his eyes, felt the brush of his lips on mine and heard the caress in his voice. Strange dreams for a ten year old, but in those dreams I was older and different. Yet, through it all, somehow I knew I was that other person.
Searching, searching for my prince. Here and there a glimpse of something that might be, a glimmer of the magic for which I search... I try to impose a face on my dream, but there is always something missing. Searching, searching but never finding. Despair, lost virginity, feared frigidity, disillusionment. Can he really exist? What am I looking for?

Physical attraction proves transitory and mental boredom sets in. Yet mental stimulation is insufficient without passion and desire. By trying too hard to bring dreams to life, I force myself to believe in half truths, offering love when love is incomplete, then wanting to change, to mould, and to create my perfect lover out of impossible material. Loving and yet knowing this is not my all. Being loved for what I might be not for what I am. Not knowing myself or being known.

Yes, in my childhood dreams I was a princess and he was a prince. Our names were significant they changed, but one was always the counterpart of the other: Paul and Pauline, George and Georgina. It was a long time before I realised the implications. Although I always recognised the princess as myself, the face of the prince was blurred, insubstantial.

As I grew older, my prince was superimposed on real males, but somehow the face never fit: not only the face but so many other aspects. I had deep psychological needs of which I was only half aware. Sometimes I would catch a glimpse of my prince, but disappointment always followed. He had many facets, and only the right man would display all of them. There were times when I thought my prince was merely a childish myth a being who could only be created by taking different characteristics from different men and combining them in an imaginary character.

Time after time I tried to convince myself that I had found the prince of my dreams, but it was a conscious deception. Always I knew I had only found a second best. Perhaps, I thought it would be better to settle for second best; to strive for contentment rather than the agony and the ecstasy. In fact, I did so, sure at last that my prince was nothing more than a figment of my imagination.

But did my story begin in this lifetime? Or did it start long before I was born, in another time and place? Something deep inside tells me the beginnings are lost in the mists of time and the end is somewhere in eternity. Until I was twenty-five, I existed but never really lived; the princess had not been awakened from her sleep. My life seemed settled. I had a steady job and lived in a pleasant flat. I was on quite a good salary as an accountant, quite an achievement for a woman in the sixties. There were other dreams in those days more practical dreams. I wanted to be a writer and was selling short stories, articles and poetry now and then, both at home and in America. The dream of writing a novel was still only a dream, but I knew I should do it some day. Things were looking up as I had just found an agent, who had sold a series of articles for me.

Who was this agent who had sold my features but had not sent me the money? I knew the first piece had been published as I had seen the magazine. Who was this man who had failed to reply to my letters? I was becoming quite angry about the whole thing. Late one afternoon, in exasperation, I decided to telephone him.

I spoke to a man in a magic place called Cornwall, and my life changed. Is it possible to fall in love with a voice on the telephone? It was a beautiful voice, but I did not know the man to whom it belonged. We talked, and talked, and talked. There was always plenty to talk about. We were mentally in tune, but in love? I did not realise immediately what was happening. I only knew there was a strange compulsion to talk to him. I resisted as much as I could, but we talked every week after that. I remember wishing away the hours until the moment I might hear his voice again. I remember the increasing reluctance to finish each telephone call. Simon even his name had a strange magic for me.

It was over a year before we met and by then he was selling almost everything I wrote. I still did not know anything about Simon. What did he look like? How old was he? Was he married? I did not ask. Perhaps I did not want to know.

"When are you coming to Cornwall?" he asked me time and time again, until I had to go, even though I was afraid. So I went and saw the wild moors and rugged cliffs I had imagined. But before I saw anything, I telephoned him again.
"Where are you?" he asked, as he had asked many times before.
"In Cornwall," I whispered. "I'm here at last. When can I see you?"
"Tomorrow," he replied. "Come tomorrow." And he told me how to find his isolated home. But I could not wait until the next day. At the very least, I had to drive along the route: to see where he lived. Late that afternoon I drove along the coast road from St. Ives, looking for the turning to Carnellis. I was so excited, so afraid - afraid of meeting him, afraid of disappointment. I drove through the small village of Towednack, and felt a shiver down my spine. There was something about the place... It was the sort of feeling you describe as someone walking over your grave. I saw the turning to Carnellis and carried on driving towards Zennor.

I drove all the way to St.Just, loving the moorland scenery as it swept down to the sea. The landscape intrigued and beckoned me. I wanted to be a part of this place. This was the Cornwall I had dreamed about - the Cornwall I loved already. At St.Just, I turned around and drove back again, savouring the different aspects of the same views.

That night my mood was matched by the elements. I stood by the window of the farmhouse, where I was staying, looking out towards the Atlantic. An ominous crash of thunder heralded the storm and soon the sky was illuminated in a way I had never seen before and never experienced since. As the wind moaned around the lonely house and the rain lashed the granite walls, lightning flashed from coast to coast across the narrow peninsula from Hayle to Marazion.

The storm echoed my excitement, my fears. Why was I afraid? I never really asked myself, but I knew deep down that I was afraid I might be disappointed when I met the owner of the beautiful voice. I wanted to meet him, yet I was terribly afraid. Even then, the idea that I might be in love with him did not occur to me. I fought it for a long time after that first meeting, but it was already far too late. Only now, remembering that storm, do I wonder if the elements were warning me...
The sun rose on a vibrant, refreshed world of green and blue and gold. I remember everything about that day. I went for a meal at a restaurant in Lelant; I wasn't hungry but I needed to do something. I was counting the seconds all the time. Years later, I recognized faces I had seen only once before, on that special day the proprietor of the restaurant, a traffic policeman...

I had been to Cornwall once before but had never visited this part of the county, yet it seemed to be a place that was a part of me. I felt at home. I belonged here where ancient stones littered the moors and ruined engine houses dominated the sky line. Sunshine and blue skies could not hide the primeval wildness of the landscape or disguise the elemental call of wind and sea.

Narrow, stone hedged lanes led to my destination. A long rutted track wandered down into a wooded valley, close to the coast. I parked the car and listened for a moment. Civilization seemed far away, the only sounds those of birds, trees, running water and the gentle murmur of the sea. I began to walk towards a group of buildings, anticipation growing with every step.

I couldn't see anyone around, although there had been a couple of cars in the tiny car park. Further down the track was another structure. Which building? Which door? I chose the wrong one and a woman opened the door to the house. She was small and dark with a lilting Welsh voice, and I knew she was his wife. I wonder whether Dyllis sensed my dismay when she introduced herself. She took me to the office where I met her two children, Paul and Maggie: they were not much younger than I was. Maggie took me to meet Simon.

I don't know what I expected, but I was not disappointed. He was tall and slim with longish greying hair and beard. His jutting nose and shaggy eyebrows gave him a fierce aspect which was tempered by the gentleness of his brown eyes and the strange vulnerability of his mouth. He was beautiful. I could not have dreamed a prince more perfect... but he was already married. We talked and talked. We talked for five hours... about everything.

What did I learn at that first meeting? He wasn't only an agent but a novelist in his own right. Both his children worked in the business. He was once a professional musician with his own band and had been in the entertainment corps during the war. He told me he loved Steinbeck, particularly The Wayward Bus. At some point, I insisted on buying a spare copy of one of his novels which he autographed for me. He told me I wouldn't like it, but of course I did. We talked about other novels he had written, particularly one with a similar theme to a very popular novel of the fifties. Unfortunately, the author of that bestseller beat him to the publisher! I learned about the town where he had grown up. The mundane backroom media job he had taken after the war. He told me how he had eventually taken voluntary redundancy so that he could set up his own agency and spend more time writing.

We talked about his home, Carnellis, too. About the path running down to a tiny cove where seals play among the rocks, a path which D. H. Lawrence walked when living in nearby Zennor. He told me about a neighbouring cottage where a well-known Satanist had lived many years before, sending ripples of fear and shock through the local community. He told me about Carnellis itself, a seventeenth century mill house where a heavy wheel still paddled the stream. The place was home to dogs, cats, geese and bees, whilst the stream was populated by beautiful rainbow trout. Foxes and badgers lived all around and the woods were filled with unusual birds. It seemed to me to be an original paradise on earth.

How I remember that visit! I suppose I talked about myself too, but I remember my feelings best. Suddenly I knew this was where I wanted to live. I wanted to be here in the far West of Cornwall, meeting other writers and artists, not caring how I dressed or how much money I earned. Simon said he had not worn a tie for twenty years. That would have been unheard of in the community where both his and my roots lay. But I'm making excuses. It was not the attraction of the place, its atmosphere or its beauty. The biggest attraction was Simon himself.

There were times, both then and later, when I suspected some of the stories he told were slightly embroidered. Perhaps they were, but it didn't really matter. We all romance a little at times, especially when we are trying to impress someone who might be important to us. Anyway, we talked and talked. I heard about his first ventures into agency work and his gradual move to Cornwall a little at a time, as he was afraid he might be disappointed in the reality of the place of his dreams. We talked about the features and stories I was writing, and how I might broaden my scope. And he tried to sell Cornwall to me. He did not have to try very hard, as I was already well and truly hooked. Not only by the strange beauty of the place, but by the man who was sitting in front of me.

I discovered later that he was two hours late for his dinner that evening. He ate early, but he had not told me. We just talked on, regardless of time. Paul took some photographs, for publicity. I still have the one shot of Simon and me together and, in that first photograph, there is a look passing between us which might have been a suggestion of things to come. Yes, I might as well admit it; the attraction was there from the moment we met. We took photographs of one another, and there was a sort of electricity between us even then A few days later I went again to Carnellis. This time I had an invitation to dinner.
I went early, so that I could explore the area. After parking the car in the small private car park, I followed a mysterious overgrown footpath down to the loveliest cove. There was a real smugglers' cave there, supposedly boasting a tunnel back to the cliff top. I sat on the beach among the numerous rock pools and watched seals playing only a few yards away. This was a new world to me a place of beauty and serenity.

Again, when I returned to the office, Simon and I talked. Later we went down to the house. It was a lovely old building with walls not quite straight and twisting passages. It seemed to have been built on several levels, as there were steps here, there and everywhere. The original flagged floor had been covered with mats in the dining room. A large fireplace contained a few large logs, but the fire was not lit. The weather was warm, even when the sun had gone down. We had a pleasant meal with the family, and then returned to the office to talk again.

I left Simon at about ten to return to the farm. On my way up his lane, I saw my first badger. I could see the shaggy grey creature quite clearly in my headlights, as he waddled slowly down the centre of the lane. He did not seem to panic as I drove slowly behind him, but just ambled along in front of me. We must have carried on like this for almost half a mile before he dived through a gap in the lane and disappeared from sight.

One final meeting was necessary before I returned to the north. Simon had asked me to revise a feature I had sent him earlier. I promised to drop it in before I went home. I called at nine thirty on a Tuesday morning, the eighteenth of July. Maggie was in an early morning mood, and Simon had not yet arrived at his desk. I met him walking up to the office, not yet fully awake. There was something endearing about his morning persona. Perhaps his larger than life personality had not fully expanded at this time of day. He seemed more accessible somehow.

Too soon I had to leave again, and I knew I should not see him for a year. There were many more telephone calls after that, with me thinking aloud about moving to Cornwall and Simon encouraging me. Then there were letters: business letters, but with the occasional personal comment.
It was nice meeting you, Cathy, although we were all a little bruised by the number of visitors we have had during the past four or five months. Never can I remember so many people dropping in, and it can be something of a trial at times, but of course this did not apply to you. Meeting you was a pleasure... Have you given further thought to coming down here to live? I will enclose some newspaper cuttings with this latter, by the way...

Returning to the question of confession stories, Cathy, take my advice and don't give up the idea of writing for this market, for there's real money in it. This can help to further your writing career by buying you the necessary time to write in ideal surroundings, if this is what you want. Cornwall changes utterly once August is gone and the tourists and visitors disappear. Everyone that really matters comes out into the open and it's a rather nice atmosphere out of season. It's a very friendly place during the winter months and I know of no other area than Cornwall where such honest friendliness exists in the UK. I know you would love it here but then, I must not persuade you. You must build your own future...
Piles of work on my desk as usual so must leave you for the moment, but thanks again and do keep writing, Cathy. You have the ability, make that ability produce a very good living. Kind regards. Love to you from Carnellis, Simon

Of course, I didn't really need much encouragement. I told people I knew that I had fallen in love with Cornwall, and I had, but that wasn't the full story. From the start I knew that Cornwall was not the real attraction. In May 1962, I was already planning my next visit. Meanwhile, Simon's letters continued: business mixed with the friendliness which had sparked at our first meeting.
I've arranged with Thornton Beckerman for interview, by the way. We had dinner together yesterday evening. Traumatic events too, as often happens when we get together. The chimney of his house caught fire and for half an hour we thought the place would burn down. Fortunately we managed to put the flames out before that happened! About midnight a visitor came down the chimney in the shape of a jackdaw, who might we hoped not have been looking for her young out of a nest which had possibly been blocking the chimney...

We are experiencing beautiful sunny weather currently and everywhere is a mass of blossom let's hope the weather continues when you reach Cornwall. You might be down here in time to catch the BBC filming a du Maurier novel they're busy at the moment but it is expected to take some time before the filming is completed... All for now... Love, Simon X

It seemed I had found my prince. I was unprepared: I had no longer been searching for him. I had to test my feelings, explore the facets of my perfect man. It was obvious from the start that he attracted me both mentally and physically. But was this a transitory thing? Why, after only three meetings, did it hurt so much to leave him? Why did I spend the next year saving my holiday time so that I could spend three weeks near to him instead of just two? Why did I feel this longing to hear his voice on the telephone? But that was where it had all started...

I stayed at a farm just outside Hayle. It was the place where I had stayed the previous year. I remember that the weather was foul for the first week of my holiday. The rain lashed the countryside, and campers packed up and went home early. I spent a lot of time just driving around. But there wasn't much to see in that murky misty climate. I would have spent every moment visiting Simon, but I could not do that.
The interview with Thornton Beckerman went quite well. He had written some beautiful novels and short stories set in Cornwall, and he was quite a popular author in those days. His books were always in demand at the libraries and he was one of the authors campaigning for lending rights. He lived in another old mill-house, on the opposite coast to Carnellis. His wife ran a pottery there and his children were all involved in the arts. Thornton was a friend of Simon, and so the conversation inevitably turned in that direction.

"Simon would have been a different man with a different woman," said Thornton, shaking his head slightly. "It's a pity, but..." His voice trailed away and I had to bite back the urge to ask him to elaborate. I longed to know why Thornton felt Dyllis was holding Simon back.
I murmured something and mentioned that I had read one of Simon's novels.
"What about his short stories? Have you read any of those?"

"No, I don't think so. Where are they published?" I hadn't even known Simon wrote short stories.
"Oh, all over the place. Women's magazines, literary publications, just about everywhere." Thornton smiled. "Of course, he wouldn't admit that half of them are his. He writes under quite a few different names. But I know his style."

I asked Simon about that when I saw him, but he didn't give me a straight answer. However, I guessed from the twinkle in his eye that Thornton was right. Simon claimed to be merely the agent for all these writers. That way, he increased his stable and made his agency appear to be more successful than it really was. In those days, I think Simon was writing far more than he ever admitted. The agency grew later, when Paul became more involved with the business.

Simon had arranged several other interviews for me while I was in the area, as there were quite a lot of fairly well-known artists and writers in West Cornwall. I even managed to interview a couple of best-selling authors to my delight. Of course, each of these interviews provided an excuse for me to visit Simon. I had to take my copy down to him and each visit always stretched into a few hours. I told myself these visits were necessary as I was providing articles for which he had obtained commissions. But deep down I knew I could just have easily posted them to him. Perhaps he saw through my flimsy excuses too, but he never suggested I should not visit Carnellis.

Those three weeks ended too soon and I could not wait another year to see him. The feeling of destiny had been so much stronger this time. I seemed to be motivated by something outside myself. Three months later, I returned. Naturally, I had arranged a couple of interviews en route. They were my excuse for being there.

It was late September, and I had come down for a reason other than my writing. For months I'd carried a photograph of Simon around with me. By then I knew I was in love with him, but I had to be sure. I hadn't intended to fall in love. As soon as he knew I was down there, he asked me to go round for a meal and to take the tape of my latest interview with me. That night, at dinner, we laughed and laughed. I think Dyllis thought the two of us were crazy. She didn't know what we were laughing about, and neither did we. I had taped this very serious interview and we played it back. For some unknown reason, we found it hysterically funny. Perhaps we were laughing for the pure joy of being together. After dinner, we went to the music room and listened to records. He looked at me across the room and the look in his eyes made me melt inside. We were talking about me coming to live down here, and he threw me a challenge. He accused me of being all talk and not intending to do anything about it. That did it. I told him I was coming, and I knew I wouldn't change my mind.

When he came to see me off, we talked for a while in the car park. I wanted to grab him and hug him. We'd talked about people being afraid to express their feelings and we were behaving just like that. I had been so conscious of that fear during our meetings. I'd wanted to tell him how I felt but had been afraid of rejection. Even now that I had made this decision, I told myself that I merely intended to claim his friendship because I could not believe there would ever be anything more than that. Apart from anything else, I would not admit to myself that I was pursuing a married man.

As I sat in the car, ready to drive away, Simon bent and kissed me very swiftly. I was so surprised I didn't react. Then it was over. It had happened so swiftly that I wondered if I had imagined it. What I had wanted had happened and I hadn't been prepared. My last picture of him was standing holding the gate open with a curious, lonely expression in his eyes. This was the way I pictured him for months afterwards. It was good bye again, but this time I knew I was going to come back for good.

I returned the next morning because I needed to see Simon again. I made up some feeble excuse. He had promised to let me have some newspaper cuttings of properties for sale, so I said I was calling to pick them up. I discovered that he hadn't gone to bed the previous night until he was sure I was safe back with my friends. I was staying about forty miles away, with friends near St. Austell. He said he was glad when I came back, and he could see I was safe. I knew I had to go home the following day. I didn't know when I'd see him again. I remember that feeling of emptiness when I finally drove away. It didn't feel right to be going so far away from him.

I went home, applied for several jobs in the area and started planning my big move. Everyone said I'd never find a post in Cornwall, but I did, and the following March I started work here. It had taken six months to arrange everything and the last three of those months were so empty. It was one of the most awful things. Simon was ill and I couldn't speak to him. I was making all my arrangements and I couldn't share any of my excitement with him. In my mind I could still see him standing by the gate, with that gaunt lonely look.

Simon was ill and I was too far away; I did not even have his voice at the other end of a telephone line. Then the waiting ended and I was there.