Ramblings

Growing up one of two brothers in a generally happy family, from childhood through to my twenties, I had assumed I would in time marry and have children, as my father had done. I was socially ill at ease, and had few grounds for this confidence. Yet there, in my mind’s eye, was future Rik, with his wife and children in fuzzy outline. There had been girlfriends, but none whose face credibly populated the image.

When I was thirty, Caroline and I had become friends, exchanging chat and banter to relieve the tedium of calling over unit trust valuation figures every afternoon on the phone. We had seen a few films and shows together, and she invited me to see Children of a Lesser God – starring William Hurt and Marlee Matlin – at the Barbican Cinema. Her flatmate and friend from university, Debbie, would be there she said, with a group of her work colleagues.

So I met Caroline in the cinema foyer in the basement at the Barbican at 5:40 pm on Monday 13th April 1987, accompanied by a group of archaeologists in their twenties. We were all introduced: Debbie was one of the quieter members of the group. We enjoyed the film – although I found it rather worthy – and afterwards mooted a meal over in Chinatown. In the event, just three of us went: Caroline, Debbie and I.

The meal was good and the chat flowed. We showed our sophistication by ordering sake, served warm. Debbie had not long ago finished an uninspiring relationship, but seemed happy in herself, and presented light-heartedly as against the whole idea of men. We discussed the film, and I offered the rather cynical view that its main message appeared to be that being deaf wasn’t too much of a problem if you were drop dead gorgeous.

Debbie removed her glasses, and I had a clearer view of her face. Kind, open, humorous, gentle, soft. Beautiful. She expressed concern about the quantity of sake she had put away: “A couple of glasses of wine, and I’m anyone’s” she volunteered. I picked up the small china bottle and topped her up. “Out!” was her response, pointing to the door. She seemed to find me funny, or at least pretended to, which would do.

My head was light as I made my way home on that Spring evening. It was a poor night’s sleep, but spiced with a dreamy excited wakefulness. Was I in love already? Had I met The One? Slowly the outline had started to fill in. Within a year Debbie had moved in to my flat, and in another eighteen months we were married.

But does the flame still burn as bright? On Monday as I drove back from the village, there she was walking along the lane in front of me. So naturally I drove up close behind her and blared the horn at her. She turned around, put on her Albert Steptoe face and rained v-signs at me. I ask you, who else would do that for me?