Suzanne

A story crafted in homage to Leonard Cohen

You could tell that she had been pretty once. Beautiful maybe.  Even then, she seemed to have an ethereal quality – a luminescence. But of course, back in 1969 I was just a naive teenager so I didn’t possess such descriptive ability.

The first time I saw her is a lasting memory. I was skimming pebbles on the shoreline just as dusk was falling and she appeared, like an ambulant mermaid newly earthbound. I didn’t know what an aura was, but I knew that I needed to be in that hazy pink and green space around her. I was at that awkward stage, hovering between child and man, but she approached me with a warm smile and not a hint of condescension. ‘It’s all in the wrist action’ she laughed ‘and you need to bend low, just as low as you can get’. She demonstrated, and the result was impressive. ‘Wow!’ I immediately felt like an excitable buffoon but couldn’t hide my admiration. There was an instant recognition between us, a comfort borne out of familiarity from a previous life – soulmate stuff. My heart was racing and I had no idea why this unusual woman was having such an effect on me. I just knew that I wanted to spend time with her, to confirm what I already suspected, that this lady was going to be of great importance in my daily existence, in my blueprint for life.

Suzanne fascinated me and all my mates. She was the most exotic creature we had ever heard in our Cornish fishing village. She wore the type of clothes we had only seen before on T.V., like those hippies in San Francisco. Flowing gypsy skirts and cheesecloth tops, with her bra-less breasts clearly showing through the flimsy material. She lived in a shed behind the sailor’s church, just by the waterfront. Generations ago, families of fishermen would gather there when a boat failed to return from a trip out into the Atlantic so history always hung heavy in the surrounding atmosphere. I felt that if the wooden statue of Our Lady at the entrance to the harbour could speak, she would have many a tale to tell.

Perhaps Suzanne had many a tale too. She must have been in her mid forties – which seems positively ancient when you’re sixteen - yet still had a perfect body. She was very slim and her long blonde hair, tumbling with abandon half way down her back, gave her a child like appearance. Possibly her apparent fragility was due to years of drug abuse - her arms showed the tell tale scars. Or maybe the pain went deeper. But it was her face that was etched by time - and life.  There was no bitterness in those bambi-like eyes, or anger in the full lips that held such promise. But the creases across her forehead and the deep lines framing her mouth were testament to tough times, too much sun and maybe a general disregard for her physical wellbeing. There was often a distance in her manner, too, just like a part of her was always somewhere else.

Suzanne was viewed with suspicion by most people in the harbour community. Except us lads. She was kind to us, very kind.

There was a story going round that anyone who came under her spell would be cursed. This was more likely a rumour started by jealous wives, because there was no doubt that Suzanne had an unsettling effect on the male of the species. She was credited with many affairs that were mostly fiction and they used to say that only lost men would want her. I never really knew what that meant.

To me – she was the most wonderful, unusual creature I had ever known. I used to imagine, lying on my bed looking at my pop art posters, what it would be like to be her lover, to travel with her to those special places in her mind, and those special places in her body.

Our mothers told us to stay away, but of course we didn’t. Ruled by surging testosterone levels, we were eager pupils and she was a willing teacher. I suspect that many a young lad became a man, a gift given with great care and generosity by the lady in the shed. Actually, it wasn’t really a shed, more of a wooden bungalow. We would be fishing from the harbour wall, smoking cigarettes and hoping that we looked really cool, and she would walk up to us and say ‘hello boys’ with her shy smile and occasionally invite one to join her.

Except for me. I had a very different view of Suzanne, with her incredible body and her complex mind.

She taught me so much, but not like the others. I used to go to her home and we would sit on purple cushions, smoking dope and drinking elderflower wine. Her bungalow was like an enormous bedsit – one large open space draped with rich coloured fabrics which gave the place the air of a Bedouin tent. No table or chairs, but sumptuous cushions of all shapes and sizes, and a massive circular bed, which was clearly her main living space. In the corner, behind a crimson velvet curtain, were an old fashioned claw foot bath, and a basin with gold taps. I could imagine her naked in that bath, and fantasise how I could soap every inch of that fabulous body. For a sixteen year old boy from nowhere, this was just about as erotic as it could get. Our conversations on those days took on flights of fancy, where we let our fantasies run riot. She told me that the only limit to my life should be my imagination – everything was possible. At other times, we talked about so much, about Vietnam, the pill, The Beatles, Woodstock. She taught me how to meditate, to listen before speaking and to think for myself. She taught me that love could mean exquisite pain or boundless joy. She had experienced both I reckon. And I think that the exquisite pain had turned her slightly mad. Or was she the sane one, in her exclusive world, wearing rags and walking barefoot with such style? Not worrying about what the local people thought, giving without seeking reward, never judging. She used to say that it was only the sailors who never returned who were truly free.

I must confess that my thoughts of Suzanne generated many a time of solitary, self induced pleasure. We were lovers in my mind and my heart and I began to understand what they meant about only lost men seeing her. I truly believe that even though I was barely a man, I was one of the chosen few who really did see her. And to see Suzanne was to become a traveller without destination, lost in that beauty. The beauty of her heart, the beauty of her mind, the beauty of her soul. The beauty of her unconditional, unquestioning love.

And I carried that beauty with me through my life.

I was never quite clear about the nature of our relationship. I knew that it was significant, that in someway she was shaping my present and my future. I suspected that if we ever had crossed that tantalising line from spiritual to physical, the magic may have been broken irrevocably, and the risk was just too great to take. The joy of just being in her presence, for us both to share our secret thoughts more than made up for the fleeting, physical longing when I was with her.

We couldn’t see each other every day, of course. My relentless mother saw to that and I could only manage so many alibis. And no doubt for Suzanne, seeing this angst ridden innocent only now and then was probably more than enough. But in the meantime, we used to leave each other notes under a rock in the churchyard that I used to walk through on my way home. Simple quotations or thoughts, never heavy but always meaningful. What fun we would have had if email had been around then!

Suzanne gave me a totally different perspective on so many things. As a growing lad, my main focus was to get laid, but subtly she changed all that. We often lay together on her bed, just holding hands and talking in a casual way, as though we were sitting across a table in café. And I would will her to turn to me, take my face in her hands and wrap her body around me. And then she would tell me how true love wasn’t about what you expect to get in return, but about how you give. And if you are really lucky, you may be loved back.

Suzanne analysed my tarot cards and told me that I was a healer, which I thought was very weird as I was hopeless at school and certainly wasn’t into alternative therapies. She also saw success and a happy future, which I was sure was just a pathetic attempt to cheer me up. She taught me about manifestation, how you really can shape your future and more importantly, your present.

Thanks to my strange connection with this benevolent lady, I gained confidence at school and started to achieve good grades. And the kudos of my assumed liaison with a woman of substantial experience and undoubted attraction did my reputation with my peers no harm too. Soon it was time for me to leave my cosy existence for the unchartered territory of University. I was toying with the idea of turning down my place as the thought of not having my regular fix of bathing in the wonderful aura was almost too much to bear.

Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, Suzanne was gone. I went to our rock as usual, and instead of a note, there was an envelope containing a single feather. With a sinking heart and a searing emptiness in the pit of my stomach, I knew immediately that my guardian angel would no longer be a physical presence in my life.

Now some forty years later, I am standing on the harbour side, looking out to sea with the church behind me. The shed is long gone. She was right of course. About everything. I am a healer – a consultant neurologist - and I was lucky enough to find a love who loves me back in just the way that I give love.

And I am so glad, glad that I only ever touched her soul with my soul and her perfect body with my mind….