"I”m sorry, I can”t just now. I just don”t have time. But I go to the town library every Thursday. I could meet you outside. Say at two o”clock? My name is Nannette by the way. What”s yours?"
"Yes. Oh, my name is Edmond, but please call me Ed, most people do."
I held out my hand and grasped a small, delicate and very female hand. Then, after this most unconventional of introductions—she was gone. Just how I would have been able to pay for tea and cakes, considering my lack of funds, was a question I failed to consider in the excitement of the moment. But that is how I first met Nannette.
Our first meeting for tea was just a few days later. I was standing outside the library for ten minutes before she came running up sharp on two o”clock.
"Oh, hello Edmond, I mean, Ed. Do you know somewhere we can go? Have you been waiting long?"
I noticed that she was carrying two rather large books. She seemed slightly breathless and she gave me the impression that she was somewhat frail. Apart from the books she held an elegant and seemingly expensive, if a little old fashioned, handbag. She wore over her shoulders a short, black cloak or cape, edged with a delicate sky blue motif.
"Yes. No, there is a rather good place about fifty yards away."
My words stumbled out something like that in my attempt to answer her confused questioning. There was indeed a small establishment a little way off, a couple of paces down a side street. It was more like one of those numerous little refreshment places that one tends to see in small seaside towns; that are generally run by two spinster sisters. Gothic white script above the premises proclaimed: Black an White Tea Room.
We went in and sat by a small table set for two by the window. The place was completely empty and seemed unusually quite. The noise and traffic in the busy street outside was barely distinguishable.
As I sat there for those first few moments with Nannette, I had a chance to really observe her. Her face was pale and her eyes were largish and a sort of amber colour. I would have said she was wearing little makeup if any at all. I could not help thinking that her face indicated some suffering or adversity. There was something else, I was puzzled for a while, and then I recalled those words of Edgar Allen Poe: "There is nothing of Beauty that does not have some strangeness about it".
"Well, Nannette, judging by those great tomes you are struggling with, we have something in common. I have my own small collection of antiquarian books and first editions my self".
A small, elderly woman appeared and we placed an order for a pot of tea and a plate of cream and chocolate cakes. She bustled off and the conversation resumed. She listened to me running on about books and authors, valuable and rare editions I had found and sold. Nannette”s replies surprised and delighted me, she seemed so knowledgeable, although this seemed rather precocious in one so apparently young. She seemed to possess a detailed understanding of the causes and development of the English Civil War. Her comprehension of 17th. Century England and the life of Charles the First was somewhat astonishing, not to say a little uncanny. There was no doubt that she knew her subject inside out, as my questions concerning some of the major battles of the era and dates drew out. Several times during our conversation she would suddenly say, "What is the time, Ed.? I don”t have much time."
I would glance at my watch and our conversation continued. After she had asked me this same question several times I asked her, "What do you do, Nannettee?"
There seemed to be a far away look in her eyes and some sadness when she replied, "Oh, I just look after people."
"I see. You must be a nurse." I remember remarking.
"I just care for people. But Ed, I really must go. I don”t have much time."
Her repeated remark made me glance again at my watch and say, "It has just gone four o”clock Nannette."
Moments later we were on the pavement outside. I touched her hand, she smiled, and then she was gone. So for several months we met at two outside the library, went to the quaint old tea-room, had tea and cakes and talked into the late afternoon. However, sooner or later the topic came around to the 17th. Century, The English Civil War, and of then, always Charles the First. On every occasion she always mentioned that she had not much time, more than once during the course of an afternoon. Apart from her seemingly obsession about time and my curiosity as to what she actually did; when she would always reply that she; looked after people, or she cared for people: I believe that a genuine affection grew between us.
afternoon sitting in the tea-room with my Nannette: there could be no mistake—it was she. I hurled the book from me and never opened it again.
Many months later I returned to the library and made my way slowly back to that side street where the tea-room was. I don”t know what I expected to see, but the place was all boarded-up and there were shutters over the windows. I never went back. Now, whenever I see a book concerning anything to do with the last half of 17th Century England, I feel nothing but a sense of repulsion. The period never had any great appeal to me anyway. I sometimes recall my afternoons with Nannette, and go over in my mind our conversations. But it is all a mystery to me. But then, what do I know? What does anyone know? I only know there are some things we can never understand—and, perhaps that is the best for us.
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