Looking back, we were co-conspirators, we were complicit darling and how you loved me then. You even showed your admiration through that curious habit you perfected with the West Wing’s new plaster. Surely you can’t have forgotten darling? Warming your pearls at dusk.
Did you know your face can still be seen there with the right light? Your fingers linger there too – now there’s an image to play with. The competence of your hands makes me blush. I was, I am imprinted. Perhaps I will show you later, if you are kind enough to remind me. We could relive old pleasures. May be you miss me and my invitations? I have learned how to miss you.
But here I am, meandering as usual. Blame my sentimental heart darling , it’s my age. Let me escort you back in time to our very special ball where I came face to face with my heart’s rival.
Let’s find Mid May, about five years ago. We are at our Old Alumni Reunion. Professor Kinsley intervened at the last moment for our indisposed guest speaker, a poet whose love life the papers say far exceeded her expectations. What a lucky woman! She even sent her apologies in the form of a poem: a signed sonnet I believe, – rather overheated for my tastes, but there you go and you did go of course. With the sonnet too if the rumours were true.Your pension fund ma’am. Maybe it keeps you fulfilled on these long cold nights without me.
But I digress. We’re back in May again. 300 guests, our own chamber orchestra and you in Moroccanblue. Tilda Jones RA, confided within my hearing, that she came over all faint as you guided her back to her seat during the presentation of the Whitham Memorial Prize for Services to Abstract Art. Such a susceptible nature, and you so impulsively tender. I think that’s when I decided to kill you.
What an evening for us all, how it remains etched upon my mind even now- a stage perfectly set and then the pain of parting. The Prefects put on a special show and you sighed beautifully even hugging Marian Witter whom you once pronounced an imbecilic Geographer who could lose herself on the way to the bathroom.
Of course, I suppose, the way I am talking, with my tone, I could be accused of bitterness, but I’m not bitter. I am pleased to watch over you once more.
You’re back. How beautifully complete we are together. I am your enduring faithful foil; perhaps that is why you acquiesced to my invitation.
My goodness. There is Tilda Jones wearing something she must have invented. And life can be suddenly so short. Brief candles and all that. Of course she had to attend, I invited her. Forgiveness, I spit on it.
Yes, I am looking rather splendid tonight… I accept your most sincere compliment. Age cannot wither me either. My greatest asset has always been my symmetry. My majestic columns calm even the most tormented soul.
But we are no longer what we were Mrs Davies. Time’s winged chariot has indeed marched on and we have become more accepting of so much less. Look about you and maybe you will sigh. Could our decline be one of the spirits perchance? Even dare I say, of the heart? Darling, when did I discover that you were a disappointment to me? Shall I whisper in your ear and await your reaction? Will you hurry to the North window and check?
I’ll give you a clue. Alice Timperley. Shy, tall, taught Religious Studies on Wednesdays. She was very fond of birds, the feathered variety. Very kind to pigeons too. One particular pigeon if you recall, she baptised her Mabel Gertrude after her maternal grandmother. The lower fourth attended the ceremony and broke seeded loaves I believe. Alice loved Mabel Gertrude more than life itself. She really did.
Of course, Tilda should never have attempted the Chapel Frieze unaided. Her besotted gift to you my cruel darling. A Postmodern Michelangelo you promised in our biennial magazine.
Mabel Gertrude never stood a chance.
