more peaceful, it was true, but only because she had given up on trying to make the children learn. She had stopped fighting them. She let them wear their personal stereos and read comics in her classes. And if she was no longer even attempting to impart knowledge, what, she wondered, was the point? Connolly had been her one talisman against the drear of St. George’s. Now that she had sent him away, she wasn’t sure why she was bothering with the job at all.
One afternoon, three weeks or so after Connolly had stopped pursuing Sheba, she was walking through the playground when she came upon him and some other fourth-year boys playing soccer. He stopped running when he saw her. His face reddened and he turned away. Sheba walked on quickly, but she was much affected by this surprise encounter. Connolly had looked awful, she thought. Tormented. She wondered whether she had not treated him unfairly. What had he done, after all, but confess a schoolboy crush?
Over the following days, she began working out possible compromises on what she called “the Connolly situation.” She
would allow Connolly to visit her, on a strictly platonic basis, once a week. No, once a fortnight. Perhaps there would be no limit on the number of times he could visit her, but she would restrict their conversation to matters relating to art. Then one day—I’ve been unable to ascertain the exact date, but it seems to have been in early March—Connolly came to her again. She was just leaving her studio when he ran up to her and thrust a note into her gloved hand. Without uttering a word, he rushed away again. Inside the tightly folded square of paper, Sheba found a terse, handwritten plea to meet him on Hampstead Heath the following night at 7:00 P.M.
She studied the note for a long time. Despite its brevity, it had evidently cost Connolly much effort. He wrote in an agonised scrawl—upper and lower cases mixed together. In various places, he had torn the paper with the pressure of his pen. She found herself curiously agitated by his bad penmanship. How, she wondered, was he ever going to survive out in the world?
For the next twenty-four hours, Sheba debated whether or not to go to the heath. On the afternoon of the proposed meeting, she had made up her mind against. Clearly, the boy still had romantic designs on her. The only sensible thing, she told herself, was to stay away. But as soon as Richard arrived home that evening, she heard herself telling him that her old school friend Caitlin was up from Devon for the night and that she had made plans to see her. She felt she had to see Connolly, she says; she had to explain to him, in person, why their friendship could not continue. Readers will have to judge the credibility of this rationale for themselves. To me, it has always seemed a little suspect. Surely Sheba had provided the boy with enough explanation at this point? I am hard-pressed to believe that any
woman—even one with Sheba’s highly advanced capacity for self-deception—could have set off for such a meeting truly believing that her sole mission was to deliver a refusal.
She rode to the heath on her bicycle. The country was undergoing quite a cold snap that month, but she pedalled so furiously that, by the time she reached the park entrance, she was perspiring beneath her sweater. She chained her bike to the railings and walked up the path to the pond. It was a large place for such an assignation, and she felt sure that she and Connolly would miss each other. She remembers being struck by the depth of her own disappointment. Then, without warning, Connolly appeared before her. He seemed younger and smaller than usual that evening, she says. As always, he was insufficiently dressed for the weather. He expressed surprise that she had turned up. He had been sure, he said, that she would “chicken out.” Sheba explained gravely that she was there only because she had been worried by the tone of his note. There was no hope of
One afternoon, three weeks or so after Connolly had stopped pursuing Sheba, she was walking through the playground when she came upon him and some other fourth-year boys playing soccer. He stopped running when he saw her. His face reddened and he turned away. Sheba walked on quickly, but she was much affected by this surprise encounter. Connolly had looked awful, she thought. Tormented. She wondered whether she had not treated him unfairly. What had he done, after all, but confess a schoolboy crush?
Over the following days, she began working out possible compromises on what she called “the Connolly situation.” She
would allow Connolly to visit her, on a strictly platonic basis, once a week. No, once a fortnight. Perhaps there would be no limit on the number of times he could visit her, but she would restrict their conversation to matters relating to art. Then one day—I’ve been unable to ascertain the exact date, but it seems to have been in early March—Connolly came to her again. She was just leaving her studio when he ran up to her and thrust a note into her gloved hand. Without uttering a word, he rushed away again. Inside the tightly folded square of paper, Sheba found a terse, handwritten plea to meet him on Hampstead Heath the following night at 7:00 P.M.
She studied the note for a long time. Despite its brevity, it had evidently cost Connolly much effort. He wrote in an agonised scrawl—upper and lower cases mixed together. In various places, he had torn the paper with the pressure of his pen. She found herself curiously agitated by his bad penmanship. How, she wondered, was he ever going to survive out in the world?
For the next twenty-four hours, Sheba debated whether or not to go to the heath. On the afternoon of the proposed meeting, she had made up her mind against. Clearly, the boy still had romantic designs on her. The only sensible thing, she told herself, was to stay away. But as soon as Richard arrived home that evening, she heard herself telling him that her old school friend Caitlin was up from Devon for the night and that she had made plans to see her. She felt she had to see Connolly, she says; she had to explain to him, in person, why their friendship could not continue. Readers will have to judge the credibility of this rationale for themselves. To me, it has always seemed a little suspect. Surely Sheba had provided the boy with enough explanation at this point? I am hard-pressed to believe that any
woman—even one with Sheba’s highly advanced capacity for self-deception—could have set off for such a meeting truly believing that her sole mission was to deliver a refusal.
She rode to the heath on her bicycle. The country was undergoing quite a cold snap that month, but she pedalled so furiously that, by the time she reached the park entrance, she was perspiring beneath her sweater. She chained her bike to the railings and walked up the path to the pond. It was a large place for such an assignation, and she felt sure that she and Connolly would miss each other. She remembers being struck by the depth of her own disappointment. Then, without warning, Connolly appeared before her. He seemed younger and smaller than usual that evening, she says. As always, he was insufficiently dressed for the weather. He expressed surprise that she had turned up. He had been sure, he said, that she would “chicken out.” Sheba explained gravely that she was there only because she had been worried by the tone of his note. There was no hope of
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