I was, slowly, being put back together: daughter, sister, friend, home-owner, teacher, woman. Remembering who I was; in some ways who I was before I lost him; in some ways who I was before I met him. In other ways an experience like this inevitably changes us and we are never the same person again. Some might say we owe it to those we have loved to be shaped by loving them and by losing them. By 26 I was feeling quite reshaped already (and there would doubtless be more reshaping to come).

A few short months earlier, I would stay at school as late as I could, to avoid time alone and awake in my rental cottage. James was achingly lacking from my house – a house has never felt so empty. In fact, the more I missed him, the more I loathed that space. The 1700s stone terrace that had been decorated for a tenant twice my age; I had never felt at home there and I’m not sure I had felt like myself inside it, since the late August day I moved in. The low beams, 1970s kitchen, patterned wingback armchairs with lace head rests and the pine…oh, the pine…everywhere orange pine. I didn’t want to be there, whether in the evenings or at weekends. Yet, ironically, the rent was bankrupting me. The only time I could tolerate the house was while sleeping!

I had to get out.

So, my little, modern, shared equity terrace sprang into my life at exactly the right moment. Once cleaned, painted and pared back, it was a blank canvas for me to express myself and create a space more my own. I had been to the ‘Libby Burton School of Architecture Appreciation’ and I discovered the truth of so many of my second sister’s architectural philosophies there in my first house. “Don’t allow anything in your home that you haven’t decided should be there.” “Choose contrasting colours or textures that are aesthetically pleasing.” “Ensure your design scheme flows, so that your house is one cohesive whole.” I listened well. And I did my best to improve my ‘2 up, 2 down’ property. It gave me a fresh aim in my life that was not inside my French and German classroom.

Then somehow, I woke up one day and realised I wasn’t sad. Not all day anyway. I had lost a lot of weight (over 2 stone) and was now at my all-time adult thinnest. Bizarrely this gave me a quality of self-confidence that I had never known before. I had to buy new clothes and I was looking good. Family said I had lost too much weight, but I was sure they simply weren’t used to seeing me a size 10.

People were noticing me. I felt male eyes on me in the street and at work. Teenage boys made inappropriate comments in my classroom. And when I was out with friends I got attention…I was not used to getting attention like this. That was when I realised there was one pair of eyes I wanted on me more than any other. I always knew where he was in the room (how is that even possible with the man who says so little?) Those soft, dark eyes burned into mine with no effort at all. And all the while, he had no idea of the effect he was having on me!

And then would come the guilt. Less than a year before I was in love with James. To the day he died we were in love. The odd thing about your lover dying is that you don’t stop being in love. It’s just the object of your love is no longer alive. I can’t really put into words how that feels…there is a strange conundrum hanging over your existence.

So, was this a deception? Was it betrayal? Was it unfaithfulness? How long do you have to wait before you can love again? How much time and pain are required for the heart to recover to the point of loving another?

While this melee of emotions rumbled around my heart and mind, a wonderful friend put me in contact with her husband – he had lost his girlfriend several years before. And I am so happy that she thought to do this. In the middle of our lengthy conversation, he spoke seven words to me that changed the course of the rest of my life:

“There is no rule book for grief.”

He was so right.

I’ve been through many difficult times in my life; times you look back on and think, “How did I get through that?” Somehow you do. One day at a time. In the case of losing James, it was more like one hour at a time, moment by moment. I had some amazing people around me, and for that I am so grateful. My strong, close family went into ‘rapid response’ mode. Those first days and weeks they were with me round the clock, bringing drinks, treats, walks, anything that might bring me out of my profound inner sorrow. So, I made it through Christmas with my sisters, my brother and my nieces and nephews around me. I was dreading the return to work. As a teacher you cannot retreat inside yourself; nor can you show weakness around teenagers and expect to survive.

But I was underestimating several things;

1.      How absorbing teaching is.

2.      How supportive my colleagues would be.

3.      How well planned my middle sister was.

4.      My own inner strength and resilience.

Once you are in the classroom, 28 adolescents in front of you, expecting to learn, you just slot back into your teaching groove. You do what you were trained to do. You lean heavily on your routines and resources and you respond to the myriad questions that bounce your way each minute and before you know it, the bell has gone again, and you’ve ticked off one more lesson on your countdown to the weekend. As a teacher you have to be very, very present: teaching is essentially a powerful act of mindfulness.

The teachers in my department were incredible – those with families would invite me round for a meal, or even to stay over; single colleagues would come to my house or invite me to town; those living near a station were so helpful, realising it was urgent for me to get away to friends and family at weekends (challenging in a village and without a car).

But then there was Lois. Lois would start my day. Every day. She would call me in the morning, when she knew I needed to be getting up. She knew I would be fine once I got to my classroom, but there was no guarantee I would go in. More often than not, I was still in bed when she rang. Or at least still in my pyjamas. I would try to convince her I wasn’t going in. I couldn’t. It’s too hard. There’s no point. And every day, somehow – I’m not sure how – from 35 miles away, over the phone, she would get me dressed, out of my 18^th century rented front door and on the tree-lined path to school.

Every Friday my brother-in-law (Lois’ husband, Matthew) would leave his Birmingham office as early as he could, drive down the wintery country lanes, to take my sorry self to the safe haven that was their home. Their orange-haired two-year-old was an absolute tonic, with his innocent games, mischievous grin and endearing chatter. He was the one I could rely on not to look deeply into my eyes, to plumb the depths of my sadness.

Week by week I dug deeper and found the inner strength to face each day, drawing heavily on the belief of those around me, that ‘this too shall pass’, that I would come through this ordeal, that life would again be worth living, that I would smile again…one day even laugh?

And so, I made it to February half term. And then to Easter. In the new year, I received good news that gave me a positive new focus. I had been struggling to pay the rent on the only available small house in one of England’s most desirable chocolate box villages. So, I had made enquiries with an estate agent to see if there might be an alternative home? I mean, seriously, as if I would be able to invest in property in the Cotswolds on a salary of £13,500 after tax! But then the estate agent rang me with surprising news. [Had he heard of my plight?] A shared equity house had come onto the market and more than that, he had researched that I was eligible for a key worker loan to buy the house, because housing was so exorbitant, and I could not drive. It was like a little miracle – I struggled to take it in. But he was true to his word, helped me fill in the forms and by Easter (with my Mum paying the deposit from her widow’s pension and my brother-in-law getting me out of student debt by cutting up my credit cards and consolidating my loans), I got the keys. It was so exciting to have my own little place, I ignored multiple warnings about how many of my pupils lived on the same road.

The terraced house had not been left in good condition, but over the next two weeks Mum and I grafted until it hurt, to make that house habitable. My brother came to help paint. Some of my pupils surprised me by volunteering their decorating services; one even knew how to wallpaper! They were all so kind and each, in their own way, wanted to put me back together again. It’s fair to say that they succeeded…

…until it was time for the housewarming of #49, named, ‘Serendipity’…

 

 

No. He didn’t kiss me back. A cocktail of rejection, confusion and bewilderment welled up inside me and followed me to bed as I sobbed into my pillow. The truth was he had just looked startled. Utterly startled. I think my kiss was genuinely the last thing he expected that night. But why?

I was so relieved when we were able to talk about it the following morning.

Steve explained how he wanted to be friends, good friends, that he really valued our time together but he did not think I would be ready for another relationship; it simply wasn’t on the cards. It was not that he wasn’t attracted to me. Nor did he find me unattractive. He just considered me off limits right now – like someone still in a relationship. And when I came to look at things from his perspective, that made perfect sense. What amazed me more was how gently and eloquently he had told me how he felt – for one so unused to expressing feelings, he’d done remarkably well.

Was he right? That it was too soon? I had pushed those thoughts to one side, desperate for a second shot at happiness. When it first happened, I had believed happiness was over. Gone forever. I felt empty. Pointless. Yet unspeakably sad. Numb and yet bereft. If one of us had ended it, things might have been simpler. But when he left that morning he told me how much he loved me. I expected to see him in a few days. Things between us were not perfect…does that even exist? But we loved each other deeply. We needed each other: together we had found a way of getting through the PGCE year at Brookes, which we had both found so tough, in our different ways. James was getting over the great love of his life and really he’d needed clinical help for depression. I was recovering from a whole host of career failures, among other things that I was seeing the College counsellor about.

But somehow, one day at a time, we had both passed our teaching placements and the final assessments. James had even been offered a job at his main placement school. While I had a job in the languages department of this idyllic school in the Cotswolds. We had been seeing each other at weekends during term time since September of our NQT year. Until that fateful day. He’d kissed me goodbye in the morning and set off. I went to school. At around 11 there was a fire drill and the whole school filed out onto the playing field. As I registered my year 7 class I heard sirens in the distance and thought nothing of it. Later that evening he didn’t text me to say he’d arrived. I tried to call, but no reply. I put my phone under the pillow in case he had forgotten or run out of battery and would message during the night. No text came. No call.

By the morning I was in a state of panic. I called his best friend from his village and as soon as he picked up I knew something was horribly wrong. Mateo broke down…, “He was in an accident on the Burford road…he was overtaking…there was a truck…Claire-Lise, he’s dead.”

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. It was time to go to school. What should I do? My lessons were planned. I should go in. I needed to tell someone. I picked up the phone and rang my first reflex person. My poor Mum. I hope she never takes a call like that in her life again…I think I just howled down the phone to her. I’m not sure if she could even make out what had happened. But I heard her say she’d call my sister. That was good.

Then I rang the Deputy Head. I tried to explain what had happened…started to break down…she was amazing and to this day I am so grateful for her kindness. She asked if anyone was with me. She dropped everything and came straight to my house. She stayed with me until family arrived. She did my washing up.

Then my big sister and my Mum were there. They scooped me up off the floor and held me. They said everything would be OK. They promised to stay with me. Libby had the cathartic idea of buying flowers and taking them to the spot on the hill where it happened. So wise was she, she knew I was struggling to process if this was even real. She was so right. I needed to see it. To be where he last was. On the brow of the hill beside bales of hay with the hills rolling out on both sides. And the winter sun was low in the sky – it was easy to see how he could have missed the truck coming the other way as he took that fated decision. But do you know what struck me most? It was so beautiful. It was so, so beautiful, the last view he took in. And I laid down my flowers and said goodbye.

So was it too soon? Was I still grieving? Was I fragile and raw? Yes. On all three points, yes.

 

 

 

 

So I’d established that I wanted to know more about this very tall and mysterious teacher of Chemistry. I knew he was from the North East. I knew he was Dr and not Mr Harrison. I knew he’d taught in Botswana. And I knew he thought I was a southerner, given that I’m from North Yorkshire and his home town is another two hours’ drive north from mine!

But how was I to find out more when he always seemed so happy to sit with his pint on the edge of the group, observing, listening, watching, whenever we were out with friends? It was clear he wasn’t one to be the centre of attention and there was no way he was going to join us on the dance floor at the end of the night!

My opportunity to get to know him came at different times…

…it turned out we both worked late at school, for our different reasons.  We were the ones the caretaker often had to turf out; me from my classroom, Steve from his lab. So it often happened that we were both leaving school via the staffroom at the same time of evening. With no one else around, his reserve had gone and conversation flowed naturally, until one of us would turn to leave; Steve to drive over Cleeve Hill in his Astra, me to walk or cycle back to my little house in the village.

It began to feel  like the norm, that we would meet like that for 20 minutes’ chat before going home. I almost wondered if he was now timing his daily departure in order to see me and on the odd evening when our paths didn’t cross, I felt a surprisingly deep sense of disappointment.

Then one day, instead of having our easy chat by the pigeon holes before going our separate ways, we must have been particularly engrossed in our chatter and it was a light, Spring  evening, so one of us must have suggested we chat over a drink in the pub by the little river that runs through the village. I can’t remember who suggested it, but looking back, I’d have to hazard a guess the suggestion was mine.

Half an hour went by. An hour. Towards the end of the second hour, when it really was time to head home, Steve said he’d really enjoyed the evening, that he’d never found it so easy to talk to anyone as he found it with me. He said it without guile, in a matter of fact way and my heart soared. The thing was, I’d been attracted to men before. Let’s be honest, I’d been in love before. I knew what it was to have my heart broken too. But with Steve, things felt different. In some ways he was a mystery to me. His personality was the antithesis of mine. Gosh, he was the antithesis of any other man I’d fallen for before. There were moments of guilt with this consciousness – it was still very soon…

But in our interaction everything felt so straightforward, so uncomplicated. Steve would not play games; flirting wasn’t in his repertoire. But integrity certainly was; he had that in spades and at this point of my life nothing seemed more attractive to me.

But was he attracted to me?

I decided I had to find out…

…one night after a function (admittedly I’d had more to drink than I intended, following a very awkward phone call earlier in the evening), I couldn’t get back to my village, so Steve kindly offered me his spare room. I knew he was being a gentleman, but secretly hoped it might be the ideal opportunity for him to show me how he really felt. Back at his house his body language gave nothing away. He got his spare bed ready and said goodnight. I couldn’t bear it. I needed to know if this was mutual or if it was just me. So I went after him, to kiss him goodnight…