Chapter 15 Elsa
ELSA
This morning’s itinerary was a feast of choices – a tour of London’s historic bookshops, a visit to the Charles Dickens Museum, and a trip to Cecil Court – but none of them could compete with my top choice, a trip to the British Library.
I’d planned to take the main tour, to view literary treasures, to spend time in the reading room, and perhaps walk one of the four hundred miles of books, but at breakfast in the hotel, Marleen mentioned she planned to take the Conservation Tour and that was that, my mind was made up.
‘In another life I’d like to be a book conservator,’ Marleen says.
‘You and me both,’ I laugh, having fallen for the disciplines involved in the process: fine art, textiles and embroidery to name but a few, some of the same disciplines I learnt at college, and the stillness and patience the work requires.
It occurs to me that it’s part of the fabric of the house I live in, a quiet discipline imbued into the walls.
‘What is it you do, or did?’ Marleen asks, correctly assuming that I’m now past retirement age.
‘I was a weaver and gallery owner, but I had to let work go when my husband Bill became unwell. He has dementia.’ Much like grief, the sadness comes in waves and one washes over me now as I voice the words afresh, having not had anyone new to tell in some time.
In the quiet that follows, I fall into a memory of when Bill and I first moved up to Edinburgh from London with Nancy and Tom, after Nancy’s mother died younger than expected.
I’m reminded of the early days of us establishing the gallery, now Robin’s bookshop, when Bill made tiles, cups and dishes in the garden, while Nancy painted relentlessly in her studio at the top of the house.
Nancy’s husband Tom and I built up the gallery together, curating our spouses’ work, writing notes, designing brochures, doing everything we could to support them.
And I remember how Fran, around ten years old, would split her time between the three spaces, as comfortable making clay sculptures with Bill as she was painting canvases with her mother or greeting customers with her father and me in the gallery.
Bill and I marvelled as Fran grew into a teenager, student and young woman, determined to make a life as a writer.
And when her mother grew sick, and the odds grew slim, we marvelled even more at her ability to absorb life’s knocks, to make them into something others could learn from, all neatly packaged under the guise of romance.
It was the easiest thing in the world for me to promise Nancy that I would care for Fran as long as I was physically able, not knowing then that Fran would become my own leaning post, my own solid ground to stand on.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Marleen says, placing her cup of hot water and lemon back on its saucer. ‘How is he?’
‘It depends on the day,’ I answer, wondering how he is right now, how he’s slept and how the waking has been. How he wakes in the morning is always telling and often sets the tone of the day ahead. ‘He’s heading towards the later stages; each day is unpredictable.’
‘That must be difficult,’ she nods.
‘Yes,’ I pause, considering if ‘difficult’ is right, because loving Bill isn’t difficult, nor is caring for him, though it is tiring. ‘One wants so desperately to give everything, but there are days when you need something else.’
‘To take care of yourself,’ she says, hitting the nail on the head. ‘Have you found a way to make that happen?’
‘That’s one of the reasons I’m on the trip,’ I explain, turning my cup slowly. ‘To see if I can find a way to create more balance for me that isn’t detrimental to Bill.’
‘Finding compassion for others is often easier than finding it for ourselves,’ she replies, and I nod. ‘But it can and must be found – nobody can drink from an empty cup.’
‘I’m just not sure how,’ I ponder. ‘There are only so many hours in the day.’
‘It starts with acceptance of your situation, and grows from being present in the here and now.’
‘A theory I understand but find hard to apply to my own situation; it’s almost impossible not to fear what is to come,’ I say, breathing out slowly as a surge of anxiety wells inside me. ‘Bill and I have been together for over fifty years. I can’t imagine what life will be without him.’
‘Do you try?’
‘Yes,’ I whisper, a tear escaping my eye.
‘And does it help?’
Brushing away the tear I reply, ‘It only ever ends in making me feel worse.’
Marleen reaches a hand across the table.
‘Remaining in the present is a great skill, but it takes time.’
I want to tell her that time is not on my side.
‘Not to regret the past or fear the future, this is a strong step towards finding that compassion and balance you need.’
I’m giving thought to Marleen’s comment when I notice Frank, his cane hooked over his arm, tentatively carrying a tray towards a table on the other side of the café.
‘Let me take that for you,’ I say, having crossed the space to reach him.
‘That’s very kind,’ he replies without protest.
‘Why don’t you sit with Marleen and me, we’re just over here.’
‘An offer I couldn’t possibly refuse,’ he smiles, sounding quite upbeat but looking a little unsteady on his feet.
At the table, Frank tells us that he’s enjoyed a quiet morning in the reading room of the library, in preparation for the next stage of the journey to Paris. ‘I’ve never been, so I want to be well rested,’ he explains.
‘A man of the world like you has never been to Paris,’ I tease. ‘How is that possible?’
‘Have you been?’ he asks, not answering my question, a sorrow coming over his eyes.
‘A handful of times for the galleries when I was younger, for my husband’s exhibitions and for pleasure, too,’ I say, remembering meandering visits to galleries with Bill in our younger years, then leisurely meals outside watching the world go by, followed by coffee and cassis macarons.
‘My family come from Rotterdam and it’s an easy enough train ride from there. ’
‘Rotterdam,’ says Frank thoughtfully. ‘It took a lot of damage in the war. My father dropped supplies there during the occupation.’
‘My mother lived through it in her teens,’ I share, aware that the experience shaped her whole being, and mine to some extent.
‘When I was a teenager in the sixties, my mother actively encouraged me to become part of the peace movement, to follow the arts, to experience new places, hence why I ended up in London.’
‘I was a little younger, growing up in Kent, but it doesn’t leave you. I joined the army in ’fifty-one to help with recovery efforts however I could.’
‘So you’re a military man,’ says Marleen.
‘Indeed I am,’ he says, lifting his tea slowly, his hands shaking.
‘You must have seen much of the world,’ I say.
‘More than I might have liked,’ he replies, and I sense it’s a subject he’s not keen to discuss further.
In a place of so many open books, I think, Frank seems curiously closed.