Myrthcottle’s Memories - 1. Story

The restaurant was busy serving dinner this Christmas Day. Mainly large tables with families, that made an agreeable background noise of happy voices, while the violin quartet in the back of the grand dining room had just enough volume so the Christmas music could be discerned over the bustle.

There were several smaller tables, most of them occupied by couples of which some of the younger ones looked like it was their first celebration of Christmas together. One couldn't tell for certain, of course, but a look or a gesture one mainly sees in the earlier stage of a relationship, gave them away.

There was only one table with a single person dining this Christmas Day. She recognized him as the recluse writer, living well outside the village, who was a regular visitor. For a once a year visit, when consecutive for many years, makes it regular, doesn't it ?

The man had clearly dressed for the occasion, A suit, that, although not threadbare or wrinkled, belonged to another time. Lapels too broad, shoulders too artificially filled, a fit that on closer inspection made one aware of the fact that at one time the body containing it had more volume than the more modest one that filled it now. On another man the outfit might have looked pathetic, on the old writer it didn’t seem out of place.

What was different this year was that he was alone. Previous years there had always been another elderly gentleman present. She remembered because the looks and gestures she so often noticed with the younger couples, oddly enough also applied to the writer and his companion. When they looked at each other there was always such happiness in their eyes, even if subdued by their wrinkled faces.

The reservation this year had only been for one. Him being not so frequent a regular made her apprehensive about inquiring about his companion. It was not her place to make a direct comment, although she was curious.

She had served him the main course a few moments earlier. He raised his glass from a distance to her. The tremor in his hand she noticed earlier, made a ripple in the dark red liquid. She nodded in recognition of his gesture and he smiled, while bringing the glass to his lips.

Her attention was diverted as she had to attend to other guests.

The next time she could pay attention to the old man it was to serve him his coffee. He asked her for the guest book. The restaurant had several of those. They served diverse purposes. The clientele could give a review of their culinary experience; the staff could pick up points for improvement and visitors that were new to the restaurant could get a glimpse of what was ahead of them, while they waited to be seated.

She brought him one of the newer ones, leather-bound, heavy creamy pages waiting to be filled with –hopefully- praise.

Although she had provided him with a ballpoint, she saw him reach inside his jacket, produce a fountain-pen, unscrew the cap and start writing.

At a table nearby a guest raised his hand to get her attention and responding to his beckoning she was soon on her way with other chores.

As more and more tables cleared, the violin music, while still modest, became more noticeable. She saw the table of the old writer was no longer occupied. What was left were an empty coffee-cup, a cognac glass and a plate with what was left from the assortment of season-themed bonbons. The guest-book lay closed in front of the empty seat, the ballpoint on top of it.

She cleared the table, brought the used coffee-set to the kitchen and placed the guest book next to the other ones on the rosewood table in the reception hall. Only a few lingering guests; soon this Christmas Day would be over.

She thought of the hot bath she planned after this long day on her feet.

                                                -*-*-*-

The first edition in the new year of the local paper had a short notice in the “obituary” section:

We regret to have to inform you that Clement Eugene Myrthcottle passed away on New Year’s Eve. He reached the age of 93 and will be remembered as the author of several novels, such as “The former teacher”, “A bright future”, “Not for any old puppy” and “Roses in autumn”, all having appeared under his pen-name John Struddle.

Mr. Myrthcottle lived in our village in his youth, and was once again a resident of our community for the last twenty years of his life.

He will live on in his writings.

The cremation has taken place in a private ceremony and by request of the deceased his ashes will be scattered in the woods surrounding his property.

                                                -*-*-*-

A friend of mine had invited me to visit an exhibition of his more recent paintings. I had decided to make a short holiday out of it. With only a short deviation from the road I had to take, I found out it was an excellent opportunity to dine at a restaurant several friends had recommended. I knew I should have made a reservation, but being negligent I decided to take my chance anyway.

I was welcomed most friendly, but was informed I had to wait at least an hour before a table would be available. As I did remember to make a reservation at a hotel that was near enough the restaurant to reach it before midnight even considering the wait, I had time enough to be lazy and enjoy not having to keep an eye on my watch, like I normally have to.

I walked around a bit, admiring a few rather good paintings in the reception hall and made myself comfortable on one of the leather couches. Looking around I saw a few guest books on the central table and decided to have a look at the reviews.

The usual praise from guests all over the country, most of them no more than a few lines. As always there were –be it only a few- vinegary remarks as well. One made me chuckle: “Sorely missed a finger-bowl to go with the white asparagus”. Feminine old-fashioned handwriting. Surely a sour old maiden. I could almost envisage the raised eyebrow, the disapproving face and the no doubt black dress.

I closed the book and took up another one. While leafing through this one there was an entry that stood out: several pages in a neat, fluent, almost print‑like hand. Intrigued both by the handwriting and the length of the entry I took the book with me to the comfortable couch. The entry was dated the 25^th of December last year and signed C.E. Myrthcottle, Pearlbrook Cottage.

This is what was written:

As always your Christmas dinner was sublime. The food was of the usual high standard, the decorations a joy to behold and the music traditional enough to make me dream away and remember the many Christmas dinners I enjoyed in your restaurant.

Yet it felt different than the past ten years. That is not your fault though, nor mine. I just missed my dear friend Adrian. Our history is tightly intertwined with this place and as I feel I will not make it to another Christmas Dinner, I decided to tell you a bit more about what this place has meant to Adrian and I.

I was six years old, when my parents sent me to boarding school. That may seem a bit harsh these days, but back then in certain families it was the normal way of life. I was allowed home for the Christmas holiday and for several weeks in summer.

The first Christmas home from school my parents took me here for our Christmas dinner. At a table next to ours a couple more or less the same age as my parents were having dinner as well, but what is more important, they had a boy about my age. He wasn’t anything like the boys in my school and his bright green eyes kept searching for mine with regular intervals. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him and may have stared a lot that day.

I can’t remember much about the actual dinner, but as luck would have it, when leaving this place my parents and his started a conversation and I had a chance to talk to Adrian, as his name turned out to be.

We became friends, well as much as the limited times I was home allowed. As he was one year my junior and was enlisted for a different boarding school the next year, soon it was only the holidays we saw each other. Our parents met socially and the next Christmas dinner was a joint occasion again in this restaurant. Without fail the years following our families met here for Christmas dinner. It was an event we boys looked forward to in the months ahead when we were far apart being educated.

When we got older being mere friends was not good enough anymore. There was a mutual energy, new to both of us, that made dormant feelings surface. It came quite natural to us, although we were well aware that whatever it was between us, should be kept just that … between us.

I will never forget the Christmas dinner of the year 1938. I was 16 at the time and got my first kiss from Adrian in what was then the cloak-room and after your big renovation I believe is now part of the kitchen.

Our love kept growing through the years and in the limited time the holidays gave us, we tried to be together as much as possible. Having to study was always a good excuse to prevent the parents from getting too inquisitive. Needless to say the study of each other’s physique soon became a subject we excelled in.

The Christmas dinners in this restaurant stayed a tradition and Adrian and I started to contemplate the possibility of a life together after we would have graduated.

The last traditional dinner here with both our parents was Christmas 1942. The war made an end to our plans.

My parents had to move to another part of the country. Adrian’s parents even had to leave for another continent. Communications were few and far apart. My parents and I had to move a few times and the same seemed to have happened at Adrian’s side.

At the end of the war the postal services were so disrupted, that I didn’t receive any letters from Adrian anymore and had a few of mine returned with either “address unknown” or “no resident on this address” written or stamped on the envelope. The loss of my friend broke my heart and all efforts to find him had no result.

I lived a solitary and rather withdrawn life writing my books and never met a man like Adrian again. The men I did meet always had some flaw when I compared them to Adrian and I never quite gave up hope of seeing him again.

Some twenty years ago I bought Pearlbrook Cottage, a place I remembered from my youth and was fond of for the secluded setting in the woods.

I also remembered my Christmas dinners in this restaurant and resumed the tradition of enjoying my dinner here at Christmas Day.

I will never forget Christmas Day of 1995.

When I arrived here for my dinner and entered the restaurant I couldn’t believe my eyes, for –although it had been more than fifty years since I last laid eyes on him- at a solitary table sat my Adrian. It was unmistakably him. The years showed, of course, but I didn't look that youthful anymore either. I slowly approached his table and when he finally noticed me his face lit up and he stood up. We embraced and I can truthfully say we were both very emotional and needed our handkerchiefs to dry our eyes.

We asked for a table for two and that being arranged we could start catching up.

To keep a long story short, I learned he gave up searching for me when all his inquiries didn't get the desired result. During the war his parents at last settled down in yet another continent and the distance didn't improve the ability to search effectively. When he got on in age he convinced himself he could be straight, met a woman and married. The marriage was not a success, although it left him two children and because his wife died shortly after the divorce, he raised them by himself.

His life was now embedded in another country, home of his children and his grandchildren.

Getting older he started looking for me again with no result and as a last straw he came to the restaurant for Christmas dinner, hoping I had kept up our family tradition.

I invited him to stay the rest of his holiday at my cottage, where we had a week to get re‑acquainted before he had to leave for his family. We started corresponding and agreed to re‑instate the tradition of Christmas dinner at this restaurant.

So for the past ten years we had a week of bliss that had to make up for a whole year and enjoyed our Christmas dinners here at your restaurant.

Last spring his family informed me that my Adrian had passed away. Unfortunately I was too fragile to make the long journey to attend the funeral.

Adrian and I didn’t have a lot of time together. I feel Alfred Lord Tennyson's lines couldn't be more suitable, for the loss, now definite, I felt twice:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

C.E. Myrthcottle, Pearlbrook Cottage.

“Your table is ready, sir.”

-*-*-*-