Provence
It’s difficult to believe that Evelyn will be 90 in a few months’ time. I’ve known her for more than ten years and, because she can converse on most subjects, I look forward to seeing her when she visits. A retired British archaeologist who ran departments in some of the best universities for most of her life, Evelyn still travels ten months of the year. She is also more knowledgeable about geopolitics than most, and a formidable political debater who can sometimes be prone to anger during discussions. I like to thrash things out too, but quietly. I can’t bear shouting. If things start to get shrill, I leave the room.
The passing years haven’t diminished Evelyn physically or mentally. She can still rush about airports and ancient sites, and reads several newspapers cover to cover daily. But she doesn’t get het up as often as she did before. Even at the mention of the ‘T’ word.
I had a nasty bout of pneumonia over the holidays and ended up at A&E via a GP surgery on Christmas Eve. Because I was still tired and coughing, I was hoping, when I went to a friend’s house for Sunday lunch with Evelyn, that all would be restful. Then Donald Trump ordered the abduction of Nicolas Maduro. After the initial hugs and clinks of glasses we talked about our Christmases. Theirs had been quiet while mine, apart from a few happy hours in the late afternoon and evening of Christmas Day, had been febrile and painful. In the early hours of Christmas Eve, I’d watched geckos crawl up the walls, then vanish. After a pause, someone mentioned Venezuela. ‘Let’s not.’ We didn’t.
I can’t bear shouting. If things start to get shrill, I leave the room
Over confit de canard we asked about Evelyn’s 90th birthday plans. Perhaps it was her great age and the fact I’d been very ill, but somehow the subject turned to lovers. ‘Have you ever had an affair, Evelyn?’ Thanatos left the room. She hesitated, smiled and looked dreamily out of the window at some goldfinches. My friend and I exchanged glances. ‘That’s a “yes” then…’
By the mid 1970s, Evelyn told us, her first marriage was all but over. She was offered a prestigious scholarship to open a satellite school of archaeology in southern Europe and travelled to Giza as part of a survey of similar extant projects. There she met and struck up a friendship with a fellow archaeologist, Paul. One evening they set off for the Great Pyramid to watch the sun go down. The site was already closed for the day but, explaining their professional interest, they got past the guards and began to climb. Halfway up they found the perfect viewing point and sat down. As the fiery sun slipped lower in the sky, then dropped below the red horizon, they shared Paul’s silver hip flask of whisky and embraced. Unwilling to relinquish the moment and slightly drunk, they stayed as darkness fell. Engrossed in each other, they didn’t notice movement below. Suddenly, a mighty searchlight began roving the pyramid, illuminating it for a group of evening tourists, and the couple were caught in full beam. Fearing arrest, they clambered down as quickly as they could away from the light and the guards and ran towards the second queen’s pyramid, which afforded cover – and hid. There, on the dust of ages, they consummated their relationship. But the silver hip flask got left behind and was lost forever. ‘The strange thing is, we didn’t get stung by scorpions or caught.’ Ever the romantic, I said: ‘Perhaps the old queen was protecting you.’ ‘Oh what’s that poem? You know the one,’ she said and began reciting: ‘“The Grave’s a fine and private place,/ But none I think do there embrace…” We thought that was funny and beautiful.’ I knew the lines but it took my phone to find ‘To his Coy Mistress’ by Andrew Marvell.
Suddenly, a mighty searchlight began roving the pyramid and the couple were caught in full beam
Those Metaphysical poets. I’ve long thought that the better schools, colleges and universities must offer young men a semester on how to impress gullible women. They study the works of Shakespeare, Donne, Marvell, Yeats, Eliot, Dylan Thomas and, in Scotland, Burns, so they can punctuate an evening with a few well-chosen lines. For a week they contemplate the night sky so that outside the pub they can, with confidence, come up behind you, put a hand on your shoulder, press their face close to yours, and pointing vaguely upwards say ‘Look, there’s Venus…’, before spinning you round and gazing into your eyes. Both of the great loves of my life did this and a few hopefuls tried.
Later, on the sofa with tea, the conversation reverted to cataract surgery and hearing aids. That evening, I sent a message to my friend thanking her for lunch. She sent one back: ‘Evelyn’s a dark horse, isn’t she?’
Comments