Lovers Never Lose

So ... this should be a song really - an allegorical ditty, strummed by a troubadour (on a lute I fancy) by a roaring fireside in a castle hall ... or perhaps a tavern (now there’s a nicely evocative word: tavern – far less prosaic than our modern day “pub” or the sterile community halls in which watered-down ballads are now shared to a (mostly bearded) few).

Ah, but this is the 21st Century and we may now satisfy our lust for scandal and Schadenfreude with the likes of Jeremy Kyle or the inexhaustible supply of tawdry magazines with their lurid promise of “Life, Death and Prizes”

And yet ....

Desire being a primal urge – arguably THE primal urge, we can never escape its inevitable consequences. Allow me then to present a tale that is both of the present and timeless. Attend to me .. for I have a Song to Sing – O ....

You know, I really would feel happier singing this – shall I whip out my ukulele?

Very well I shall take “God, no!” as an indication that you would prefer prose. I am aware that rhyming lyrics are rather unfashionable in circles such as this one, but just allow me the indulgence of a refrain, to which you may turn your thoughts at any time:

“So the candle burns, and the spinning wheel turns / And what will be, will be, my Love / Oh what will be, will be”

Well, Once upon a Time a kind lady was making her way home. Were this an epic ballad you would no doubt be conjuring up an image of a Lady, clad in velvet: those ostentatiously impractical long sleeves .. a fetching hat with veil ... but then again this is a timeless tale so she could simply be your next-door neighbour: a forty-something divorcee, say, plodding along in functional jeans and anorak. Conjure her up as you see fit, but remember she is (for the moment at any rate) A Nice Person.

It was a chilly November evening and she drew her coat closer about her, hastening her steps as she neared her home (castle/cottage/council flat). Thankfully the moon was full (an embellishment to our tale which is both practical and portentous) and she was alerted to the presence of the bird which lay in a state of distress in her pathway. One wing appeared to be damaged – in all probability a consequence of a narrow escape from a cat. But let us not concern ourselves unduly with the cause, for it has no bearing on the outcome of our story – suffice to say this was a broken creature in need of assistance.

Being a Kind Lady, she stooped and gathered the bird up in her fine-knit scarf (the gift of a former lover/a bargain found in the M&S Summer sale). Ah, I sense that you are anticipating a touching denouement in which the bird is healed and transformed, by the power of a kiss, into a Handsome Prince. Indeed he may well have been, for we are, after all, in the realms of folklore, where anything is possible. Perhaps he remained, in a literal sense, a bird ... which might make for a rather weird (not to say perverse) relationship, but suspend your disbelief and let the tavern fires and the haunting chords of the lute connect your consciousness to the metaphorical world.

Anyway.

Throughout the Winter, the bird resided in the Lady’s home, receiving her devoted attention. He would lie upon her pillow (silken, obviously) through long, cold nights, rewarding her kindness with his sweet song. She fancied that she could understand his language, so let us assume that she could, for that will be a convenient device through which to further our plot.

As Spring came, our feathered friend regained his strength and would sit by the window, from which his intoxicating music travelled on the breeze, drawing echoing voices from far and near. “My sweet Lady” he chirruped “I am truly grateful for your care and provision of shelter, but would you allow me the chance to test my wings again? I feel the need to fly – to savour the beauty that lies beyond these walls. I promise you though, that I will return to you before sunset”.

Well, how could our Lady refuse such a charmingly voiced request? She had come to love this bird deeply and knew well that she would keep his love through trust. So the new pattern of their days commenced: days spent exploring their own interests, with the promise of loving reunion every evening.

Ah .. but then came Summer. Long days and enticing distractions. The gentle springtime birds gave way to creatures of brighter plumage, wafting exotic perfumes from lands and lifestyles hitherto unknown to our Lady and her Bird, who had, despite the fantastical nature of their story, led fairly unadventurous lives thus far.

Sitting at home one Summer’s night, the Lady watched the sky begin to blush, as if in shame. The sun sank, then disappeared ... and he did not return.

For how long she sat by the open window I cannot say. Time itself was suspended as she waited in hope and trust that he would return safe and with a reasonable explanation for his absence.

Eventually she drifted into a fitful sleep ... and awoke as the dawn broke to see him sitting on the windowsill ... accompanied by (as you may have guessed) a second bird.

“Forgive me” tweeted our antihero in a brief display of contrition, before launching into a lengthy discourse on the merits of Free Love as the only antidote to all the Existential Ills of our fractured world. His companion nodded and chirruped appreciation at his wisdom, whilst our poor Kind Lady listened in increasing bewilderment, pain and grief.

When at last the birds fell silent, the Lady was released from her stupor. Crossing the room at speed she pushed the female bird violently into the morning air and drew her errant lover inside, slamming and bolting the window then drawing the curtains.

And here we really must continue in song, for the tale descends into whimsy too preposterous to be conveyed in any other form:
“So I took my tears of grief and rage / And I wove them into a silver cage / And my heart was a lock with a golden key / So never more will he fly from me”

So Summer gives way to Autumn and, all too soon, to Winter, when darkening skies drain any latent hubristic tendencies and, for a vulnerable bird, the yowling of hungry grey cats and baying of black dogs instil a fear from which only a Kind Lady can save him.

Cosy in their home, the Lady attends to her bird with touching devotion whilst he, secure and comfortable in his cage, sings his gratitude for a peaceful existence.

And so they lived – not unhappily – ever after.

“So the candle burns, and the spinning wheel turns / And what will be, will be, my Love / What will be, will be.”