Lucy Part III of III

This is the last installment of my father's writing about his affair with his 19-year-old student Lucy. It's unfinished in that he was still writing it at the time of his death on January 15, 1995. In fact, judging from the time stamps on his computer files, this was the last thing he ever wrote. But you can read about the end in his letter of Tuesday, July 26th, 1977 to me in The Summer of 1977 post.

I guess the daily chronology of this is less than exciting and it doesn’t go very far in conveying my troubled state of mind. It was getting so that I didn’t want to go anywhere where my emotional security regarding our deeper relations might get tweaked. Lucy has always, like any truly beautiful woman, been vain, impressed with the power which her looks give her, and, quite normally, with the nice looking men whose attention she can command. Since she is also searching for herself, her identity, some relation to a field of interest, and exploring all that the world has to offer, it would be restrictive indeed to censure her for the effects of all these qualities and these drives. They are normal, and easily anticipated in someone so ideally endowed. But NEVER, NEVER get romantically enmeshed with such a person at this stage. It is death: slow and sure and painful. And the more sensitive the person who falls, the more endlessly devastating will be the effects. I know, for I shall never never be the same again. It will be better, much better for the man who claims Lucy at the end of this tunnel of growth and experience. Lucky will be the man who claims the last dance and takes her home. I shall always regret that it will not be me . . . with anyone . . . with her above all.

 So many things now seem clearer in the perspective of time. She didn’t feel, couldn’t feel, and she was only aware of a small part of it. She said that she was a total loss in the mornings . . . not very amorous (at all!), not very with it. But, you know, while I accept this on one level, I still deny it on another. Sure, if she stays out late, has a nice draught before going to bed, etc., she’ll still be out of it in the morning. But, on the other hand, if you love and are loved, if you feel and are felt, if you are really into sharing, well, it all just flows . . . there are no demarcations. Look, it isn’t all that bloody important to me but obviously this is providing that it doesn’t represent a turn off that lies just a little deeper. Just that I can imagine Lucy so happy and so into life that I can’t see such an artificial distinction.

But then there’s more. For Lucy does like to call the tune in a sexual way. A cue rarely, in itself, turns her on. It is merely like a request to be considered and she reacts to it in whatever way she feels at the moment. It is her own well circumscribed ego that accepts or rejects; sadly it is rarely an ‘ego involved’, if you know what I mean. I think that her past ecstasies have very much been selfish ones, bits of self-fulfillment . . . I don’t think she’s ever put her neck in the noose, handed someone the loaded pistol. I might even venture to say, since she is older now and projections are now potentially more accurate, that she may not be capable of true abdication (however impermanent) of self. But she knows how to get what she wants. She got Morocco, but she agreed that she wouldn’t stint on the loving (sun, sand, and salt water really turn me on, I’d said) up to a point and if I’d agree to lay off stiff morning overtures. Well, we both lived up to our promises, as it turned out. I am still amazed how many things I must have felt but repressed during all those days. Indeed, to read them paraded out on paper, in limited context, one would think I was miserable 99% of the time. Far from it. Just that, having ended disastrously for me, I tend to analyze and explore those elements which seem to have signaled or contributed to it. This accounts for subjective distortions and, relatedly, a little unfairness.

On Monday morning we zipped down to Abbotts and plonked our money down for a 7 day all in trip to Tangiers, leaving the very next Wednesday from Luton. We busied ourselves with preparations, between brass rubbing, pubbing and the like. Lucy was noticeably ‘up’ once the Moroccan die was cast. We drove to Luton on a bad afternoon and took off for Tangiers about 4 p.m. British time. We arrived in Tangiers around 7 p.m. It was a cool 66, but Lucy was brimming with happiness . . . and wearing a straw hat I’d bought her in the market square . . . and looking gorgeous in it!

Our hotel was quite nice and quite modern. I was a little shocked when I saw two single beds at right angles to one another, and fixed so that they could not be placed side by side. But the view of the Straits of Hercules beyond the Bay of Tangiers was really nice . . . in fact, we faced nearly due West and the sun set right out our window. We put our gear away, showered deliciously, redressed quickly, got a light evening snack, a meal, took a walk, then it was bedtime.

Of course, being fairly familiar with Tangiers from my previous trip, I was brimming over with things to show Lucy. Our first minor problem was that Lucy was already well tanned and would and could soak up the sun for hours at a time. I, on the other hand, could take no more than a couple of 60 or 70 minute exposures on the first day and only about 20 more on top of that for each of the next three days. The longest I could stay out under that sun, even after a week, was two 50 minute stretches a day . . . if that. I’d say that Lucy could be out, after that same period of time . . . at least two 3 1/2 hour stretches a day. And, remember, this is not counting the exposure that comes from all that walking around in the city and touring!

I seem to be returning constantly to the subject of differences. Look, I don’t think the seeming disparity between me, who could spend 5 to 6 hours at a stretch with the colorful denizens of the Casbah, and Lucy who could spend the same amount of time basking in the sun poolside, is significant. Remember, Carl and Lucy’s current boyfriend could enjoy the security of knowing that Lucy loved them. I never could (because she never ever did). Had I that security, the story would have been very different. Very. First, she could have talked to Sammy for five hours and it wouldn’t have made any difference, though I might still be angry at Sammy for using up her time and energy; or anybody for that matter. Indeed, an honest and close examination of those few of my past relations that involved me being loved clearly and unequivocally by a good woman (Mary Ann, Helen, Diana) reveals that I often take advantage of the situation and hurt them with my consequent inattentions (or attentions elsewhere!). You know, it’s a funny thing, but I caught myself feeling this very early in my affair with Lucy.

I guess it was in late April one day in my office. It may indeed have been that same day that Lucy told me that it was quite likely that she would walk away from me after the summer. I can remember feeling that although I was completely emotionally ensnared by her at that moment, and that I was a captured victim I knew if I only could succeed in bringing her around to loving me equally, then the balance of power (so called) would shift immediately. I knew that if I could only reach that stage (of her loving me) that it would instantly cure my insecurities and I’d have exactly the right operational attitude that would be required to hold Lucy completely. It has never ever failed though not something I would ordinarily brag about: once they fall, they never fall out (unless I want them to). This is because my tremendous self-sufficiency doesn’t spell ‘need’ or at least that kind of ‘need’ that turns people off. I treat them at best well and considerately and as independent and intelligent people, and they never know for sure . . . .at worst I let them on their own if it’s not me who’s off on his own. I was made to be some explorer or sea captain type who has to follow his urge to go off and return to pick up my love when it suits me. But this is a failing. And here’s where Lucy comes in. You see, she represents so much to me, in terms of what we can be to each other together, that we would move a distance from each other and this would trigger reactions that would make us come together again . . . from natural, internal mechanisms . . . neither of us would go beyond a certain point, because of love, selfishness, and mutual consideration. Interesting . . . and I had a vision of a near perfection that I cried for my failure to get even to the necessary starting point! And I was so confident; I had not the slightest worry if I could only get to that magic point. It wasn’t a matter of time, per se, just a matter of a few days or weeks at most, but starting only from that moment that Lucy unequivocally—not necessarily permanently—invested her heart in me. But that never happened. Alas. It is so nearly equivalent to the bottom line, that I am tempted to stop the story at this point.

And I have to be careful, elsewise this will be merely a chronicle of hurts and pains. Let me carry on by regaling some of the beauties. We did indeed share love for travel, meeting new people, eating new and exotic food. We had a liter and a half of good white wine with lunch, two with dinner, whisky in our tea in the late afternoon and always a night-cap. Lucy had a great sense of humor and got a real kick out of rare and unusual people of character. She warmed immediately to our little hunchbacked guide, Hassan, who, in turn, warmed to her. She really savored our mint tea that we had in the back of Ali’s shop in the Casbah. We could have both sat there and did quite often for hours. Only her requisite sunbathing kept us from staying even longer within the walled city. We enjoyed our shopping, though Lucy had too much heart to be a stern and unrelenting haggler . . . but she shared my victories with great relish. She made everything we did together a really enjoyable experience. She had that sensitivity and quickness of mind to reflect on the great beauty and happiness of everything we did right then and there while we were doing it. She was, to borrow a loving term from Gudrun of old, “fine, very fine.”

We walked, talked, took pictures and I took great pleasure in the hungry happy way Lucy drank it all in . . . like watching a little girl in a toy shop. She wanted everything. And how I wished I could have given her everything. Indeed, I felt so bad that I hadn’t planned to take more money than I did, for my only credit card was not honored, except at one bank where I did manage to get an additional $150 advance. In fact, we spent about six hours of our vacation doing just that: trying to get enough money to buy even more and, more importantly, to rent a car to take a side trip down the beach to Tétouan, but we had no luck. But Lucy took it in good stride and we did have one great evening before we left—almost.

Unfortunately, Tangiers was not without incident. Let us say at the outset that I am glad that I am writing this and not relating it verbally to, or in front of, Lucy; for she would probably laugh and make light of the whole incident but maybe not. Depends on how self-perceptive and honest she is.

It seems that there was this attractive young Dutchman probably about 27 or 28 who was at poolside daily. He had come down with his girlfriend (as we learned later) of several years’ standing. He had taken a fancy to Lucy and had taken to nodding a hello and an acknowledgement about the third day before we were to leave. He had noticed that Lucy and I had taken to having a bottle of the white local wine at poolside at midafternoon. On the next to the last day the waiter brought us over a 2nd bottle of wine and nodded in the direction of the sunbathing Dutch gentleman. We saluted him without glasses and drank his health. He did not come over immediately. In fact, we’d gone upstairs, showered, and come down again and were in the bar/restaurant area adjoining the pool area when he came over. And he made no bones about his interest in Lucy. By ordinary American standards it would have been embarrassing, I contend. Less than three minutes of perfunctory questions during which time he ascertained the usual details of nationality, occupations, relationships, he began straight at Lucy and his own interest in coming to the U.S., his need for contacts and all sorts of things. The man was clearly nobody’s fool, he was good at it. And I know that he caught something in Lucy’s eye, that invisible something  . . .  ‘interest’ you might call it for lack of a more suitable word. She was clearly flattered by his attentions and that almost invisible dropping of guard that often follows. As I like to say, like the zebra in the herd of tens of thousands who has a limp or infirmity that is almost naked to the ordinary eye. But not to the lioness. With uncanny perception it can find the one animal with the slightest disadvantage/weakness. And so on. This guy knew, he got the scent just standing slightly downhill. And man, he knew no social bounds.

I can just hear Lucy laughing and arguing and getting irritated if she had to hear this to her face. What an imagination she would say! And that in itself would tell a tale. I would stake my life on my perceptions. It was a bit like the Sammy situation, only this guy was not only humorless, but deadly serious. Well, I figured on being about half European myself and decided on a European answer to the situation—the American one would have been to either tell him to piss off, thump him on the spot, if he didn’t, or gather the lady gently by the arm and move away. I asked him if he wasn’t sure he didn’t want me to leave because clearly he seemed to have something very personal he wanted to say to the young lady. A slightly less deadly but more sophisticated chap would have stepped away then. But he merely said ‘no’ and kept at it . . . talking as if I weren’t there. He told her how much he wanted her. I interrupted again. “I think you’d really like to take her upstairs and have it off, wouldn’t you?” I said, almost a little incredulous myself. He seemed a little surprised at my directness but only for a split second. Still a little surprised, he looked at me and said “You would give your permission?” I looked at Lucy this guy was too much. “I don’t think it’s mine to give, is it?” Lucy dismissed us both with something like ‘don’t be silly’ and the conversation took on a suddenly less heavy breathing tone as he plowed on about needing to have someone in the U.S. to sponsor him, etc. In the end these two swapped addresses!

I am also 100% convinced that if this guy had met us on, say, day 2 of our trip, our love affair would have ended on June 17, not when it did. I would have been ‘set up’ by his persistence and her refusal not to abruptly cut him off but to enjoy his attentiveness. I would have taken the next plane to London, without a doubt. Fortunately, as the case was, we had less than 24 hours left and Jan, or whatever his name was, left us for that brief period. But I hurt deeply with the knowledge of what clearly, to me, would have or could have happened.

On our last night in Morocco we joined out travel group and went out to a ranch about 17 miles outside of Tangiers for an evening of music, wine, & barbecue. Everything was going fine, it was a pleasant farewell evening. But then it happened. I get on line for the chicken and this over-zealous waiter’s shoulder hit a large ornamental tree trunk on which a small lamp had been set. It tipped over and fell. On my left foot. The tree trunk weighed about 400 pounds . . . and I was only sandal-shod. Even at that, the ground below being sand, my toes simply went down into the soft ground. But the buckle over the second little toe went down as well, and broke the toe. At first I thought I could make it through the evening. But then the swelling started . . . and the pain commenced. And it was painful indeed. And I felt such a fool. In the end the photographer took Lucy and I back to Tangiers and the hotel in his car. I still recall it all with great embarrassment.

If Lucy only knew . . . I was hurting from two things at the same time. I felt the decay and ruination of everything I had wanted. I only wanted her love . . . they could cut the damn toe off! I’m not saying she was not solicitous, she was indeed. One fact. Weird as she thought my request was, she did agree to make love—and me with my left foot in the air! I paid her kindness back by walking the two miles to the Casbah (we couldn’t get a cab to save our lives that morning!) and spending another hour-and-a-half picking up all the items we thought we’d leave until the last day. Instead, that last day we made two trips to the Casbah and bought every single item that we wanted—using up just about our very last cent. On the surface—and in many ways—it was a wonderful trip and I knew we’d both love to do it again.

We landed at Luton at nearly midnight, were delighted that the old Jag started up right away, pleased that my painful foot could still manage the clutch pedal . . . and got home to Cambridge about 3:30 in the morning, exhausted but full of loot. That early Thursday was the 23rd of June . . . one week and we’d be off for Pamplona.

Dreary England soon dragged on Lucy again. We went down to see Clive in London on Friday. We met him in a wine bar in the West End with his new housemate, the soap opera star Alan Browning. Alan was going to Pamplona with him . . . they were going to fly down. Lucy and Clive took to each other immediately. We really had quite a bit of wine that lunch-time. Clive gave Lucy a nice Coronation Crown (coin) and we parted looking very much forward to rendezvousing in Spain.

I can’t remember all we did in Cambridge that last week. We did take the girls to the Midsummer Fair . . . but again the weather plagued us every day. I do, however, remember one more bad day. I guess it began with me caressing Lucy around 9 am. It might sound like I was making excuses if I try to recall what kind of day I’d had before and thus whether it was in need of assurances. I was. I guess there’s always that element. But clearly, the days in Cambridge were a strain for both of us. Anyway, Lucy wasn’t having any of it—and she was snapping and bitter. She was offended, insulted even . . . to her it was just getting prodded by a penis and she found it demeaning. But, naturally, I was hurt. But even then I was going to let it pass. I had, however, to go out to Pampisford to return the lawnmower and the vacuum I had borrowed, and to see the girls. Jessie was nearly hysterical when it came time for me to leave. And, although I knew that Lucy was enjoying an excellent, and rare, morning of sunbathing, I was anxious to return because I was sensitive to her being hurt by a too-lengthy absence at Pampisford. But I had to take the extra time to walk with Jessy down to the Rec Ground to reassure her of my love and non-desertion.