The Tall Girl from Somerset 8 Anne

 ANNE 

Writing letters and a trip to Manchester

Oxford    October 1965

The daies gon, the yeres passe,

The hertes waxen lasse and lasse

Of hem that ben to love untrewe.

John Gower         Confessio Amantis   1390

‘The days go, the years pass,

The hearts grow less and less

Of those that are to love untrue.’

Old Gower was right, wasn’t he?  The hearts of people who are false in love shrivel up.  They just shrivel up.

Anne’s second year at university was a strange year.  Going to lectures, going to meals, going to films.  Yes, she did all that. One carries on, you know.  One carries on.  But it all seemed rather humdrum to her now.  She knew Qxford quite well now and her familiar round of lectures and tutorials had become second nature. She knew the short cuts through narrow streets and the best places to leave her bike. The novelty had gone. And so had Harvey. She was alone again. It was all rather grey now. She wrote letters to him, of course.  In those days we wrote letters, you know, and the post worked well even out in the country areas. The postman mattered. The postman could tell you who was ill and who was well, and who had just inherited a fortune from an uncle in Westmoreland that no one knew about.  He could tell you if those clouds meant rain or if they were just passing by, and he could tell you if Somerset would win next weekend's county cricket match against Surrey.  He could even tell you about your aunt Bertha’s holiday in Bognor Regis because he read the postcard she had sent you before you did.  Those were the days before computers, and life moved at a different rhythm.  News never broke in those days.  It arrived at its own slow pace.  And going further back, how long did it take for news of the battle of Trafalgar to reach London?  How many days?  I was pondering this when I happened to leaf through Wordsworth's 'Guide to the Lakes' which appeared in 1810. In November 1805 he was walking around Ullswater and wrote this entry in his diary. "Saturday, November 10.  At the breakfast table tidings reached us of the death of Lord Nelson, and of the victory at Trafalgar.  ...The priest on the banks of the remotest stream in Lapland will talk familiarly of Buonaparte's last conquests, and discuss the progress of the French Revolution having acquired much of his information from adventurers impelled by curiosity alone."  Trafalgar took place on October 21. So the news took 20 days. If Wordsworth thought that was quick, what would he say today when news breaks every second? And if he was amazed at travellers reaching Lapland, what would he say to the thousands of earnest tourists that that are smothering Venice and Rome,  Stratford upon Avon and Oxford today? 

Harvey was in Manchester.  Of course, he was a bad letter writer, just as Anne was a good one.  In fact, he hardly wrote at all.  She wrote very often, especially at first. Although Harvey hardly wrote, he thought of Anne a great deal.  Anne both wrote and thought.  But distance has always been an evil. Does absence really make the heart grow fonder?  Harvey became involved in rugby and the film society.  He didn’t become involved with any girl in particular, but with several in general, but only in a non-committed-on-either-side sort of way, more out of goodness of heart than anything else.

 ‘I’m going to Manchester this weekend.  My brother’s there. Andrew.  You remember him? He helped me with all my things when I first came to Oxford. That's when you met him. I’m going to stay with him for the weekend. I’ll be driving up on Friday evening.  Why don’t you come too? You can stay with me at Andrew’s place and you can drop in on Harvey as well.’

Janet Parry-Smith, who gave this invitation, was studying law with Anne.  Her parents had just given her a Mini, and she planned this trip to Manchester to celebrate her new freedom.  England was at her feet.

In those halcyon days there were no mobiles, no emails and there was no messaging on WhatsApp.  Anne couldn’t let Harvey know she was coming.  The ease of those days!  But they are long gone.  Peace has long gone, and now we are all connected.

It was unfortunate that Harvey was involved with a girl in precisely his non-committed, goodness-of-heart way on the same  Friday evening as Anne went up to Manchester with Janet.  It was December 9th.  Christmas was coming and the goose was getting fat.  The day had been wet, grey and cold, with scuds of rain and gusts of wind from Siberia which chilled people in the street. It was the sort of evening when you wanted to get home as soon as you could, close the door, heave a quick sigh of relief, take off your coat and put the kettle on and make some tea.  It was the sort of day when you had to make your own luck because the weather would not do it for you. There was no sun, little light and no warmth.

‘I had been thinking about Harvey during the whole journey from Bristol to Manchester, when I could, that is, because Janet kept chatting to me. I imagined the look of surprise and pleasure on his face when he opened the door.  It wasn’t hard to imagine. I saw exactly the smile, the warmth, the hug, the contact, the catching up on news, the hot mug of coffee, stirring in the sugar.  Two spoonfuls for him, none for me.  Why does he never get fat? Neither Janet nor I knew Manchester but after a few wrong turnings we arrived at Harvey’s house in Rusholme.  It was just after ten o’clock in the evening.  We’d just heard the headlines of the news on the car radio so I know it was just after 10. We had driven slowly up the street looking for the house number in the rain.  Why do some people paint the number the same colour as the door?  Why do some houses have no number at all?  Then at last we found it.  Janet parked just outside. It was like in the films when people can always park directly in front of the house they are visiting.  Why can they always park so easily in films? And why do the suitcases they carry have nothing in them? They are always empty. And why do they always have exactly the right change for drinks? Never mind. It’s not important! Anyway, there was a space waiting for us outside his house.  Number 23A. That was lucky.  I got out, waved goodbye to Janet and went in the front door just as someone else was coming out.  That was lucky too, no need to ring the bell. I ran up the stairs to Harvey’s room, knocked on the door and went in.’ 

Anne had imagined how surprised and pleased he would be. Surprised Harvey certainly was, but his expression was more of confusion than of pleasure.  Do things in this world ever turn out the way we imagine?  ‘The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley.’ Harvey was very involved with a girl in a way that did not seem non-committed at all.  Appearances, and indeed much reality, were against him.

Anne, unused to this situation, just turned around and walked out of the small bed-sitting room. She left it, with the usual mess of clothes strewn over the floor. No, it was not as usual, since this time not all of them were Harvey’s.  The way she ran down the stairs was very different from the way she had run up.   She went out into the cold street of small, semi-detached houses.  They were grey in the rain. Of course (like in the films?) Janet had already driven off, sure that Anne was happily installed. 

Anne walked alone down the rainy Manchester road, past the Indian shops, still open, selling bright saris and past a group of friends chatting happily as they went into a pub.   Life goes on.

She had left Harvey and his companion together.  He was in that unenviable state of mind of wanting to explain everything and being able to say nothing.

 Anne first walked down the street, but then she started to run in her hurry to get away from the house which she had been longing to reach the whole day. The rhythm of running quieted her.  She wanted to run for hours so that she would not have to think or even to feel.  She had been warm before, but now she felt cold.  Luckily she had the phone number of Andrew’s flat and when she came to a phone box she called him. Janet had just arrived at Andrew’s and when she heard what had happened she insisted on coming back to find Anne. Andrew came with her to make sure she didn’t get lost. They found Anne, a forlorn figure, tall, drenched, standing in the rain by the phone box, her dark hair glistening in wet strands.

Ah yes, our best laid plans go oft awry.