Smitten

As a child, I was shy, awkward, fat and plain-looking, with straight, mousy, wispy hair, cut unevenly by my father into a jagged fringe.  However, I was a dreamer and an idealist.  I dreamed of attaining intellectual excellence, of sitting in an ivory tower, apart from the world.  Gauche and unsure of myself in company, I was, nevertheless, happy and confident when alone with books.  My home was an unhappy place, and the idea of being as my mother was, a slave to a husband, was anathema to me.  Marriage was not an option in my dreams.

Thanks to private tuition from my primary school teacher, I won a scholarship to secondary school.  She used to talk with pride about Sandy, another pupil she had tutored privately.  “When you and Sandy meet,” she would say.  “You will love one another.”

I dreamed of being equal to this paragon.  Obviously, my teacher had high hopes for me.   Sandy was six years older than I was, and he had won a scholarship to Campbell College in Belfast.  Boys’ education at that time was far superior to anything on offer for girls.  Wealth was also an important factor in determining the quality of one’s education, so I faced a double handicap.

I was 15, going on 16, when I finally met Sandy.  My uncle was getting married in December 1943, and I was one of the six bridesmaids.  He sent me money to have my hair permed for the occasion.  I hated permed hair.  Mine would go all frizzy and the smell of ammonia, which lingered for weeks, made me sick.

At that time I had little in the way of clothes, apart from my school uniform, but my bridesmaid’s dress was waiting for me at the bride’s home.  Made of lemon-coloured taffeta, it was floor-length and very pretty. The headdress was a coronet of golden leaves, and the bouquet was a large sheaf of bronze-coloured chrysanthemums.  Cinderella must have felt as I did, scarcely believing that such a beautiful dress was mine.

I was over-awed by everything and everyone around me.  The wedding was one of the biggest in Dublin during the war, and I was part of the centre of it, stared at by the crowds and photographed by the Press photographers who had gathered outside Christ Church Cathedral to watch the bridal party arrive.  In a dream, I walked with the bride’s sister behind the bride, up the long aisle, being stared at afresh by the assembled guests.  The reception was held in the adjoining Synod Hall.  Alone and bewildered among the throng of guests, I longed for a screen behind which I could hide myself, where I could see but not be seen.  Standing apart on a slightly raised platform, I was surveying the crowds when a tall young man, one of the ushers at the wedding, was there in front of me, dropping on to one knee and extending his hand, asking, “May I touch an angel?”

An angel!  Me!  I soared away on a cloud of bliss.  It was Sandy.  That moment changed me forever.

The dreamer, conjuring up visions of a future career as a shining academic in her ivory tower, was now experiencing first love.  All my fancy, feminist ideas of making men in general pay for my mother’s unhappiness, came to nothing.

“Will you be at the ball tonight?” Sandy asked.

“Yes.  My escort is Bill.”

“I’ll see you there, then.”

The ball was a celebration of the bride’s sister’s 21^st birthday, and the bridesmaids and the ushers had been invited.  My escort was a shy young curate, who was as awkward in my presence as I was in his.  Shortly after arriving at the ball, I noticed Sandy talking to him.  Then Sandy came and told me that Bill had agreed to let him be my escort for the night.

There are not many occasions nowadays in my life when one could say that I was tongue-tied or stuck for a word.  I am an inveterate chatterbox.  However, that evening in December 1943 passed as if in a dream. Mesmerised, dumbstruck, bowled over completely, well and truly smitten, I hung on every word of Sandy’s.  We sat on the wide, stately stairs and he fetched me glasses of sherry and offered me cigarettes.  I felt so grown-up, so sophisticated, so daring.  Did it matter that the smoke made me cough or that the sherry tasted awful?  If only my schoolmates could have seen me just then!  I sat there and listened, spellbound, wishing Time would stand still.  We showed little interest in dancing, being deliriously happy just sitting there together in our own little world. 

We left the party at 2am and walked back from

Shrewsbury Road

to the city.  I had chosen the option of walking rather than the offer of a lift on the crossbar of Sandy’s bicycle.  Apart from the fact that I was wearing my long dress, the mile-long walk would prolong that magical evening.  The midnight clock was going to strike at any moment and then the magic of the evening would suddenly melt to a mere memory of a beautiful dream.

We arranged to meet over the Christmas holidays at the table tennis club back home.  Sandy’s father was the rector of my parents’ parish, and Sandy was much loved by everyone.  I enjoyed several evenings of table tennis with him; he was a brilliant player.  I felt happy and honoured to be playing with someone so wonderful.  However, Time moves on, and at the end of our last evening before the New Year, Sandy announced that next day, sadly, he would have to return to University to study for his finals.  He said he would see me on his first day home for the Easter break.  Then he was gone, and I returned to my boarding school to dream my dreams and to tick off the days to Easter.

I decided not to share with my friends what I felt was too precious to be talked about.  I wanted to keep every word, every gesture, every thought, to myself.  Thus, I passed the time daydreaming and looking forward to that Easter date.

Then, early in March 1944, came the day that would shatter all my dreams and introduce me to the greatest pain and shock imaginable.  In school, we boarders were gathered as usual to await the distribution of mail by the prefects.  I was handed a letter. It was from my uncle who wrote regularly, so there was no great excitement in opening it.  Like everything else that was going on just then, his messages pretty well went over my head. The first few words, however, caught my eye.  “By the time you receive this letter, Sandy will probably be dead.”

Those words etched themselves indelibly into my mind.  Was I dreaming and having a horrible nightmare?  I read on, numb with shock.  Sandy had developed TB meningitis and was in a coma.  Within a week he was dead.  It took me many years to come to terms with the fact that a beautiful budding friendship with someone so special could be cut short so cruelly and so abruptly.  It was something I had to deal with alone, and at the age of 15 that was hard.  What I had failed to realise at the time was that my infatuation was so obvious.  I thought I had kept it hidden from everyone, but I was wearing my heart on my sleeve and I never knew! 

“Touch me not,” was my reaction for a long, long time to anyone approaching me emotionally. Five years after Sandy’s death my little sister, too, was taken ill with TB meningitis and was dead within a week.  She had always worshipped me, and I was deeply affected by losing her so tragically just before my 21^st birthday. 

Death is a difficult thing for young people to cope with, and even now I find it impossible to be of much help to anyone in similar circumstances.  For many, many years I felt that I must never allow anyone to become close to me again for fear they, too, would die.

Time is a great healer, however, and I have enjoyed tremendous happiness and fulfilment and love in my life, the best parts, perhaps, being reserved for my later years.  I never reached my ivory tower, but I still dream my dreams.  With our eyes fixed on the stars, life has meaning and purpose.  We are never too old to reach for the skies.