FOUR LAST SONGS
1. Heart's A Mess
Fury and frustration fought in equal measure inside his head as he strode away along the Embankment, oblivious to the passing crowds, the sunshine and the view. And also oblivious to the beseeching gaze that the woman still seated on the bench behind him was casting his direction from wounded eyes. There were times, including now, when he could either roar or punch something when he was dealing with her and her convoluted thought processes but he knew that doing either would achieve nothing so he continued to walk, fast, until the two emotions simmered down enough for him to take stock. That took him until he was past Lambeth Bridge and approaching the 1930's Dutch barge "Tamesis", now permanently moored up against the shore as a party boat, where he finally came to a stop and stared out over the river, not seeing the buildings, including the Tate and Thames House, brooding on the other bank.
He really had no idea of how to deal with this new incarnation of Ruth Evershead. In the past, all it had needed was patience although, he supposed, her hypersensitivity on the subject of other people knowing about them should have been a warning of sorts even that far back. Had they had the time he was certain he could have talked her around from that issue, though, but of course they hadn't had the time... Now, ever since her return and the events tied to it, he had been at a total loss as to how to proceed or even whether to proceed. He knew, deep down, that they still felt the same as they always had but George and his death had built an apparently insurmountable obstacle between them and he was fast getting to the point of wondering if it would be better for them both if he were to detach himself and let her go. Not that, even if he did, it would make things any easier for either of them.
Watching a police boat motoring past, heading upstream, he admitted to himself that he had wanted her to get up and follow him just now, maybe as some sort of unstated test, but she hadn't so he was left contemplating why that might have been. Either she was in as confused a state as he was or she didn't think it was worth it. That they were worth it. He devoutly hoped it was the former because the latter would be totally crushing. With that thought came the acknowledgement that he really wasn't ready to give up the fight yet, leaving him with no option but to try and work out what was happening and how they could get around it. On the subject of the Cypriot doctor he couldn't quite decide whether she had really forgiven him for the decision he had made or not but he also had to wonder whether her recognising that she understood, perfectly, why he had had no choice but to let George die had actually wounded her more, adding to that self-perpetuating feed-back loop of guilt and punishment that he knew existed deep inside her mind. He made no claims to being any good at complex psychology but he had known her long enough, and was familiar enough with her background, to know that a lot of her internal talk was not good.
He leaned on the concrete barrier and briefly scrubbed at his eyes. If only he could work out a way to pick apart the defences she had erected around herself and encourage her to let him in, just a little, to her thoughts and heart so he could understand better and act more in a way she would appreciate because it seemed that all they had been doing since her return was talking at cross-purposes and achieving nothing except inflicting pain on each other. Not wilfully, they just seemed to be inhabiting completely different planets most of the time, with work being the only place where they occasionally seemed to be on something approaching the same wave length. It was becoming a private obsession, this desire to know her thoughts, but it wasn't getting him anywhere and he often wondered if he registered at all on her internal monologue. Probably not, or not to the same extent as she did on his, at least.
A gaggle of tourists pushed their way past behind him, intent on getting to the barge for some refreshment, momentarily breaking his train of thought. Contemplating the surface of the river, flowing swift and silent as always, he considered the little he actually knew about her background and how it may have influenced her. Losing her father at a very impressionable age had obviously been the first and probably the major hurt, probably leaving her feeling adrift and rudderless and so, as she would do later with her work, she had thrown herself into the certainty and safe haven of education and knowledge. Presumably that was the first time she had locked away her feelings and thrown away the key and he suspected that, every time she had cracked the door open since, she had quickly slammed it shut again through either being hurt or the fear of being hurt. Certainly the fear would explain her behaviour before she had had to leave while George's demise had proven to be the ultimate example of the actuality of hurt. So now she had locked herself away again, perhaps permanently, meaning she wouldn't get burned but making it almost impossible for him to make her see it didn't have to be that way.
Not that he could talk. Not with his history of locking away his own emotions behind impenetrable barriers when things had gone to shit several times in his life. The difference was that he was now old enough to know that locking yourself away not only didn't work but, in the long run, genuinely didn't help. At all. Watching a duck dabbling with more interest than success at the muddy water's edge below him, he silently observed that there was probably some considerable irony in the fact that he, notoriously contained and unemotional, was now desperate to find a way to emotionally connect to someone who had also buried her desires so deeply she could barely recognise them. In his case the lockdown had been a result of a combination of not trusting himself to not stuff everything up yet again, should he ever be given another chance, and a strong dislike of emotional pain; for her, he wondered if it was a mix of the same pain-aversion along with her deep-seated lack of self-confidence and a strong tendency to blame herself every time something around her went wrong, whether the failure had anything to do with her or not. She had always taken their defeats far too strongly to heart but in the past she had at least been able to enjoy their victories; now, she seemed to have lost even that ability, viewing the world entirely through a lens of negativity. It lent her a veneer of hardness that quietly broke his heart and made him despair of ever getting through to her. He sighed silently. If his heart was a mess, hers was worse but at least he recognised it in himself while she apparently couldn't even do that, let alone admit it to anyone else, least of all him.
He suddenly felt very tired and rather old, despite the warmth of the sun on his back and the light dancing on the water's surface. An intense desire to give this woman he loved, despite everything, a gentle shake and tell her that love, like life, was neither fair nor safe, washed over him but he knew he wouldn't do it because he had a good idea of what her reaction would be and, having felt the sharp side of her tongue too often of late, he knew it wouldn't be positive. The only thing he was certain of was that she couldn't continue to live like this or it would destroy her. He had to find some way to get that through to her otherwise this massive waste of their lives and love would drag on and on. He didn't want that and, deep down, he was certain that she didn't, either.
The duck had lost interest and paddled off down-stream to find a happier hunting ground. After watching it disappear he heaved another silent sigh, turned away and walked back towards Lambeth Bridge, more contemplative this time. If there was a way through this mess he would find it. He had to, for both their sakes.
Heart's a mess (W De Backer, I Burgie, W Attaway): Gotye
Pick apart the pieces of your heart and let me peer inside.
Let me in where only your thoughts have been,
Let me occupy your mind as you do mine.
You have lost (too much love) to fear, doubt and distrust (it's not enough).
You just threw away the key (to your heart).
You don't get burned (cause nothing gets through).
It makes it easier (easier on you) but that much more difficult for me to make you see.
Love ain't fair. So there you are, my love.
Your heart's a mess. You won't admit to it.
It makes no sense but I'm desperate to connect and you, you can't live like this.
Love ain't safe.
You won't get hurt if you stay chaste so you can wait but I don't wanna waste my love.
