Mr Rochester Comes To Lunch

As a boy, I liked meeting strangers, especially adults. Friends of my parents, people from church, anyone new at the table. One afternoon, a man I didn’t know came to lunch and we went for a walk.

I am not sure how they knew him. They often took in strays—loners from church usually or one of my father’s students. Invite them for a meal. Someone they felt sorry for. Or lord it over more like. He was older than me. Early twenties. Did not seem the churchy type. He had freckles and sandy blonde hair. On his forearms too, I noticed, when he took off his jacket. It was the usual boring Sunday meal. My parents droning on. He had a stammer. So though he smiled, he was quite taciturn. I learned that word recently. From Jane Eyre. Mr Rochester was moody and taciturn. There was a picture of him on the cover of the book. He was on a horse wearing a top hat. I imagined him lifting me up onto his saddle. Jane Eyre said he was like a fettered beast.

I, however, was not taciturn. Whenever there was a new person, I wanted to talk to them. In case they might like me. It was easier with people who were older. Though it was always a risk if my mother was there. “Who asked you to pipe up?” That’s what she would say. “No-one is interested in what you have to say. The grown-ups are talking. Don’t interrupt. And stop drawing attention to yourself. Blah blah blah.” Diminishing me was one of her favourite things. Especially in front of someone else, someone new. Do her best to make me look stupid. I would go bright red of course. Absolutely cringing inside. Hot tears ready to pour out. But I never let that happen. I tried never to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me actually cry. Like school, with the other boys. Anyway, I was used to it. Ridicule.

He looked kind. And handsome. I felt bad for his stammer. I knew that she would find the conversational messiness of this deeply inconvenient. She judged disability a person’s own responsibility. I took my chance and asked him if he enjoyed reading. He smiled, chewing slowly, waiting to finish his mouthful. But before he could answer, she laughed. “Oh Philip, for goodness sake, do stop interrupting and clear the plates for pudding.” She gave me that sort of haughty look, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She turned to him for approval, hoping to coerce him. That was what she did. Forced other people to be complicit in making me small. I was fair game. It was to keep me in my place. But he did not assent and glanced away.

Meanwhile my father was on his usual loop, ignoring everyone else, talking about anything from his time in the second world war to some random philosophical treatise he was reading, which none of us understood. Except I suppose this guy, his student. He could probably understand. Which means he was impossibly trying to field three people talking at him at the same time. And with a speech impediment. Anyway, eventually he made up his mind. By which time my mother was pulling an apple crumble out of the oven and not paying attention. As I was clearing his plate he turned away from my father. I felt his chest lean in against my arm. He looked right into my eyes and said quickly without hesitation.

“D.H. Lawrence.” Like he’d been saving it up for ages.

“Oh!” I said, surprised. Delighted that he had persevered with me. But I know he has chosen the wrong person. This means he won’t be invited back. Though I doubt he would come anyway. Most people didn’t. Come back, that is. “There is a whole row of his books upstairs. Which one are you reading?” I could picture the musty orange paperbacks with broken spines. I had flicked through them but they seemed dense for a fourteen year old. As he was busy trying to get the next words out, my mother interrupted him. He was too slow for her.

“Oh, those are mine. I read all of his work when I was young. The novels can be over-written and tedious I find and his poetry rather overrated.” That was it. She couldn’t bear the idea of me winning a conversational victory, however small. So she just killed it. No chance of just waiting for him to finish, while she spooned out steaming pudding on to the plates. For the rest of the meal, she just filled in for him. Which was comical because she really had no idea what he was going to say. He stole the odd glance at me. Almost a smile. So I liked him. I could tell there was something the same about us. I felt a bit safer with him there.

After lunch, she was done with their guest. He had not shown enough deference. And so after he and my father had discussed an academic project, it was suggested that I take him for a walk. Later they would drive him to catch a bus back to the city. Fine by me. I was used to passing the afternoons on my own. I would enjoy a companion. And I could find my way up the hill with my eyes closed. There was no danger of getting lost. I might even show him my secret place. He had a faint limp and so trudged quite slowly while I dawdled alongside him chattering incessantly, pointing to things in the hedgerows or cupping my ear to familiar birdsong. There was something a little wounded about him. I was sad that I couldn’t talk about D.H Lawrence. I told him all about Jane Eyre and how she had been betrayed by Mr Rochester but that even when she was miles away something called her back to him. And that by then he was blind and had lost everything. He seemed to listen intently and then said. “Y-y-y-ou l-l-l-love b-b-b-ooks then?”

‘Yes I do. They are like my friends.” I replied quickly. “I will read some D.H. Lawrence too.” Giving the D and the H serious emphasis. “I promise.” I liked the sound of a writer with two initials.

By the time we got up the hill, I could see he was tired. “I have a special place just up here. Somewhere that I go. It’s a secret.” I said, hoping he would not dismiss my enthusiasm as too childish. His face lit up cheerfully. “We have to climb a bit. Up there.” I pointed to where a Rowan tree clung to a cleft in the rocks. “We climb past the tree trunk and onto a ledge where the stream runs down over the rocks and makes a small pool. Sometimes I jump in when the weather is warm. I can go first. It’s easy. You follow me.” It didn’t take us long. I put my hand out to him at the last bit. He took it, though it must have seemed a bit stupid. Me offering to lift him. There was a branch. I was used to it taking my weight. He reached for it. I heard it snap. He fell. Not very far but there was a thud. And some scraping. I peered over the ledge. He was fine. I scrambled back down. A tear in his corduroy trousers. His hand was cut a bit. It was my fault. I could feel my eyes filling. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

“I-I-I-I’m f-f-f-fine,” he said, brushing the mud from his trousers. That smile. He could see I was upset. “D-d-d-don’t worry. We-we-we w-w-w-on’t tell your mother. Alright.” Something about that. He knew. I could not hold back and the tears came. He put his hand out and drew me to him. We sat there together under the Rowan tree, saying nothing. He smelled of coal tar soap. Me in his arms. Until it was time to go.

He never did come back.

And I didn’t remember his name.