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The Photograph (cont'd)

The Scottish Trossachs were as magnificent as he remembered: rugged hills sparsely sprinkled with heather just coming into bloom, a wild rough beauty unlike anything he'd seen since. He had counted down the days until they finally reached the hotel near her village, but when he put the coins into the pay phone to call her number, he found that his courage had left him. The sound of a male voice on the line when he finally steeled himself up to dial the number was the final straw: his English deserted him, he could not even find the words to ask if he could talk to her. He hung up.

Desperate to make contact, he found a bilingual receptionist at the hotel and shakily begged for help: make the call for him, tell her that he was here and waiting for her.

She arrived within an hour of the phone call, her eyes just as bright as he remembered, her beauty just as overwhelming. He stared at her, dumbstruck, wanting to tell her everything in his heart but unable to string words together into coherent sentences. His hands shook as he held them out to her, his eyes wide in the hopes that she could read his thoughts.

They started a stilted conversation, the young receptionist translating between them, caught up in the romance of the story he had related to her. Slowly, his confidence returned, and he began to remember the English words he had so sought after before. His wife, who had sat on listening quietly to the translations, now found herself completely excluded and excused herself to go to bed. He barely noticed her leave.

He had dreamt of this moment for years, of having the opportunity and the freedom to speak to her about what really mattered, about their love, about what could have been and perhaps what could still be. They sat in the hotel garden under the stars, holding hands, but she did not talk of the future; she was content to reminisce about their shared past and tell him about her life with her family now.

As he listened, his confidence waned again: he found himself biting back the words he had so longed to tell her. The tenor of her voice, the smile on her face, the confidence of her movements: she had not held him in her mind in the same way that he had her. He had used her memory to put a purpose into his life, passion into his world of post-war depression and pressing responsibilities. Guarding himself from any further emotional attachment, he'd believed in their one true love, that fate would find a way to bring them together again. Her demeanour made it clear that she had held nothing back after he'd left, never felt that she had missed out. She was happy with the memories he had given her, but equally happy in the life she had made herself since: in love with her husband, and content with both her past and her prospects of the future.

Unwilling to admit to anything that could mar this reunion and leave her with a bitter aftertaste as a result of their meeting, he said nothing but listened quietly, ignoring the frustration he felt.

Finally, it became time to say goodnight; she wished to return to her home and her happiness and he knew now that he had nothing to offer which might tempt her to stay. He kissed her, gently, and said goodbye, both to her and to his dreams.

He stood in the gravel car park alone, watching as her tail-lights retreated into the distance. The night air was cool, a scent of autumn on the breeze. He stood there until the car disappeared around a bend, taking her out of his life forever.

He took the photograph out of his wallet, crumpled it up, and threw it into the breeze. The stillness of the night seemed overwhelming as it landed on the grass only a foot away. He stared at the picture in the moonlight as it slowly uncrumpled itself, considering his options. Then, as the summer moon began to set, he turned away from the hotel and walked into the darkness, following the direction her car had taken.

What else, at this stage of his life, did he have left to believe in?