On a Sunday

***

AND SUPPORT

If I was the sort of person who had time to keep a diary, my entry for today would be marked with a gold star and a large tick in red ink. Because today Robert Redford smiled at me! Not the real Robert Redford, I’m sorry to tell you. The real Robert Redford seems to be a very nice man, as well as a very handsome and talented one. But I doubt whether he would ever notice me - never mind smile at me! I doubt whether the real Robert Redford has even heard of my local park, and certainly has never visited it. More’s the pity. Because it’s my favourite place.

My Robert Redford - the man I think of as Robert Redford, because I don’t know his real name - has more than a passing resemblance to the Hollywood film star. Which is why I’ve given him that nickname, of course. He, too, is tall, broad shouldered, blond haired and with the sort of piercing blue eyes that make young women (and not so young women) melt. He doesn’t make me melt. I’m not the melting type. But he does make my heart flip over. Which is quite something to admit - for me!

You see, I’m not the romantic type. I’m a sensible, level headed brunette - everyone who knows me says so. And I’m a nurse. Which makes me practical efficient and always calm. So you’ll understand how dishy blue eyed blond men aren’t my style. I prefer my blokes slim, dark and elegant. Cary Grant, the young Sinatra, or even the latest Doctor Who, for example. But there’s something about this Robert Redford look-alike that gets under my skin. I’m not sure what it is about him that fascinates me. Perhaps it’s his rangy walk, or the set of his shoulders, or just habit. Because I see him every single day. You see, I walk through the park to work and back every day. And every day I see him there. And that’s a mystery in itself.

It’s normal to see the same people, keeping the same routine, every day. We all do it, don’t we? Catching the same bus, wearing the same coat, carrying the same bag. Regular as clockwork. But Robert Redford is different. Like all nurses, I work shifts. Yet I still see him every day, at all odd times. Morning, afternoon or evening. Sometimes in a dark modern suit. Sometimes in jeans and sweatshirt. Sometimes in slacks and casual jacket. He might be hurrying across the grass, as if late for an appointment. Relaxing on a park bench, smiling at the antics of the squirrels as if he has all the time in the world. Or under a tree reading a book, ambling about the serpentine pathways, or gazing absentmindedly across the river into some far distance. I always notice him as I cross the park.

But he never notices me.

This isn’t surprising, of course. I’m an average sort of girl, ordinarily pretty, you might say. Long hair, slim build, freckles, my best feature big hazel eyes. But I suppose I look quite good after a session in the bathroom with a face pack and hair straighteners.

Of course I never look like that when I see my own Robert Redford. I’m usually scurrying between the hospital, where I’m a staff nurse, and my little flat. No glamour then. It’s sensible black shoes for sensible Lucy Andrews - that’s me. Blue uniform, hair scraped back into a no-nonsense plait, glasses on, make-up off, mackintosh or jacket flying open because I’m always in a rush. Not the best way to make a good impression on a dishy bloke - or any sort of impression at all! I know this perfectly well. And yet Robert Redford still fascinates me.

He even fascinated me throughout the six months I went out with Craig Howson from work. And Craig was my type - tall, dark and handsome with a sardonic sense of humour and eyes like dark limpid pools. (I read that description in a magazine once, and have never forgotten it) “If he’s so gorgeous, wangle a chat, get him to ask you out,” advised my friend Sally Benton during a tea break one day when we chatting about life in general and men in particular. How do I do that? I only ever see him when I’m being ordinary old Staff Nurse Andrews.” “You’ll think of something!” Sally declared confidently.

Well - I tried to think of something, I really did. But I was aware that my working self made me invisible, kept me looking more ugly duckling than swan. That Robert Redford may be my Prince Charming, but I was always hard working Cinders, never Cinderella in her ball gown! On the other hand, I love my job, wouldn’t change it for the world, and know perfectly well that if Robert Redford was the man I’d like him to be he would - should - love me for me, regardless of my plain workaday self and my clumpy comfortable shoes! But I was always too busy to allow thoughts of this unattainable man of my dreams turn into an obsession or a dilemma.

But nevertheless - Robert Redford smiled at me today! Friday evening, tearing home from work, as usual, having done my weekend shop on the way. Laden with carrier bags I was almost running through the park to get home before leaden skies turned to a downpour. So I ran round a corner - straight into Robert Redford!“

Uff!” he said, or some similar noise, as I collided with his chest - my shopping flying everywhere. He caught my elbows to stop me falling too, grinned, then bent to gather up spaghetti, tomatoes and onions.“Pasta for tea?” he asked. “Er……yes,” I squeaked, bright pink with embarrassment, hoping the path wouldopen up and swallow me. Even though I had now discovered he had a lovely voice and, close up, real Robert Redford eyes; limpid blue pools of cornflowers and sapphires………”Sorry!”I tried to grab apples, mince and malted milk biscuits, avoid his laughing eyes and disappear as quickly as possible. “That’s all right,” he soothed, still scooping up my shopping. “These things happen.” And just as I’m thinking - here’s my chance - just like Sally had predicted, he said: “There! All back in their bags. Even your boyfriend’s birthday card! I hope you both enjoy your meal!” And he was gone. Before I could explain the card with the racing yachts was for my brother Mitch. Not a boyfriend at all!

“Thank you!” I called after him instead, and he half turned, waved a hand - but kept walking. I was far too sensible too run after him, or jump up and down on my shopping in frustration. After all - I had spoken to him now, and he had smiled at me! Which was progress of a sort.

So I went home, cooked a huge batch of comfort food (Spaghetti Bolognese) wrote Mitch’s birthday card and tried to concentrate on an old Steve McQueen film. But bumping into Robert Redford had unsettled me more than it ought. This silly infatuation would have to stop!

I cleaned the flat from top to bottom on Saturday - a long delayed spring clean as the result of a rare weekend off.

But it was a beautiful day on Sunday, and I thought I’d earned a break! I put on a summery dress, let my hair loose into it’s natural curls, grabbed my floppy straw sunhat, and took a book into the park.

It was quiet and relaxing there. People strolled, or lay on the grass, played lazy games of cricket, walked by the water. It was soothing, familiar, very peaceful. The river bank was my favourite place, where willows dipped down to sweep the silvery surface of the water, dappled by sunlight through the branches. Ducks and moorhens dabbled at the edge alongside stately swans, unworried by the punts and rowing boats that shared their river.

A swan, preening itself on the bank near my favourite spot, (fourth bench along from the ornate stone bridge across the water) had left a soft white feather within reach, and I idly picked it up. My Gran always said a single feather like that came from the wings of a guardian angel, hovering around, looking after you. It was a romantic notion, but I was too sensible to repeat it. I knew a swan’s feather when I saw one!

But as I looked up, smiling at the memory of my Gran, my eyes met those of my Robert Redford lookalike. I jumped in surprise - who wouldn’t? - and just as I did, a gust of wind swirled around the riverbank, turned all the pages of my book. And snatched my sunhat from my head. Before I could catch it the hat landed on the grass, bowled down the riverbank - and straight into the water. Where it floated.

“My hat!” I exclaimed. I ran after it - and so did my Robert Redford! But we were both too slow, and could only watch it drift away, pushed into midstream by the breeze. “Oh dear! Was it valuable?” he asked.“Oh, yes!” I gasped. Now, that reply was meant to be ironic (it had cost something like ninety pence from a Benidorm beach stall years ago) but he took me seriously. And before I could stop him, my Robert Redford had run onto the jetty where rowing boats could be hired, organised a boat, and was coming back downriver towards me.“Hop in!” he said. So I hopped. And we chased my hat.

I sat back in the stern of the boat and laughed. There could be nothing more absurd than spending a Sunday afternoon with the man of your dreams chasing an escaping hat. And nothing more romantic than being on a boat, in Sunday afternoon sunshine, all alone with the man of your dreams……“I know you! Although you look very different off duty….” my Robert Redford said suddenly as he leant on the oars and guided our little vessel towards my hat, now caught in an eddy by the bridge cutwaters.

“You’re my nurse with the shopping bags!” “And you….” I said, delighted to have been recognized, “Are my knight in shining armour, coming to my rescue!” I heard this romantic banter coming out of my mouth, quite unlike me, but could do nothing to stop it. “I’m no knight in shining armour,” he contradicted. “I’m just Mark Russell.”So now I knew his real name - Mark Russell! “Not even Robert Redford, then?” I heard myself joke. “Oh, not you, too! My sisters always tease me, saying I look like Robert Redford!” he groaned. Sensible, and amused. Not flattered or vain, like Craig would have been. This Robert Redford, I was delighted to see, was a young man who had his feet on the ground. Despite being in a rowing boat on the river - and with me!

“I’m Lucy Andrews,” I said. “Hello, Lucy Andrews. Delighted to meet you properly, at last. I’ve often seen you rushing through the park” “And I’ve often see you,” I admitted. “So often I’m sure you must live there.” “Not really……” he turned away, reaching awkwardly for my hat, one hand off an oar and over the water. “…..but I live on one side, work at the design studio on the other….and often come into the park for peace and quiet and inspiration….”So now I knew the answer to that mystery! But I had no time to think about that just now!

For at that moment the boat rocked violently as the current caught it, slapping us into the bridge. Mark, already off balance, tipped slowly and inevitably into the water, all balance gone. I reached out to grab him and missed. I had visions of him disappearing under the water, struggling to the surface……drowning, even. And it was all my fault! There was a huge splash as he went into the river, and my heart sank with him. But suddenly I heard him laughing. He was clutching my hat in one hand. And he was….standing up. Not drowning at all!

Seeing my horrified expression, he pointed to a sign on the bridge: ‘In the event of capsizing a boat on this river - stand up!’ So he stood up. The water was only about two feet deep. It did not even reach his knees. Laughing still, he towed the little boat to the bank, helped me safely back onto dry land, presented me with my sodden hat and a chivalrous bow. And after taking the boat back to where it belonged, he joined me on my park bench.

“I’m so sorry……” I began. “Don’t worry,” he said imperturbably, taking off his shoes, wringing out his socks. “I’ll soon dry in this sunshine.” He paused, looked at me searchingly, then smiled. “And it was worth it all to get to meet you properly at last, Lucy Andrews, because I’ve been wondering for some time how I was going to manage that.” “Really?” I answered. “Oh, yes. But you always looked in too much of a hurry to stop and talk. Then I recognised your uniform, which explained it. Nurses are always in a hurry, aren’t they?” “Not always,” I responded thoughtfully. “I’m having a weekend off.” “For an adventure in the park,” Mark Russell nodded sagely, eyes twinkling.

My sodden sunhat dripped on the bench between us. Next to my book, which I’d left on the bench all this time. And the swan’s feather, which I had absentmindedly used as a bookmark. Did you pick this up off the riverbank just now?” he asked, tweaking the feather.“Yes. It was a swan’s,” I answered.“My mum always reckons lone white feathers like that have been left behind by a guardian angel. To show he’s about.”“My Gran says that, too,” I nodded. I decided I would like Mark Russell‘s family, with his whimsical mum, and his teasing, down-to-earth sisters. “But I think that’s just romantic nonsense. After all, I think I know a swan’s feather when I see one.” “So do I. But I think there are times when you have to stop being sensible and believe in romantic nonsense instead. Then who knows what might happen?

And he reached across and took my hand. Instead of being my usual sensible and practical self, I closed my hand around his. It seemed, all at once, not just a beautiful summer Sunday afternoon but a wonderful romantic moment. The beginning of something that might last forever. My breath caught in my throat, and my heart flipped over. And I looked into those sapphire blue, Robert Redford eyes, and saw exactly the same expression there. Mark Russell might have a fleeting resemblance to a famous film star, but that was all. Fame and glamour were not for him. Something much more down to earth. Me! And he was someone special in his own right - funny, warm hearted, chivalrous, even. Someone my instinct had always insisted was the man for me from the first day I saw him!

I took a deep breath. Ready to dive in. Not into water - Mark had already done that, after all - but into a new relationship, a new life. “As a good nurse, I prescribe dry socks for wet feet. And comfort food as the perfect treatment for romantic nonsense,” I said. “I’ve home made Spaghetti Bolognese at my place.” “And dry socks at mine.” For a long, silent moment we just looked at each other. And seemed to be saying so much without words.

We stood, turned away from the river, the boats and the park bench. Mark carried my sodden hat and his dripping socks, his feet in squelching trainers. I carried my book, the white feather tucked carefully inside it. I don’t believe in guardian angels, and I’m not the romantic type. Not usually.

But after this weekend, I’m not so sure. I suspect I might spend the rest of my life being proved wrong, being convinced that love and romance and this handsome man are the perfect complement to my usual sensible and practical self. So I must remember to post my brother’s birthday card on the way home.

But I’ll keep this feather forever. It might seem (especially for me) a silly and sentimental thing to do. But it will always remind me of this day. Of how life can suddenly change - even in the most familiar surroundings - if you let it. And just how special love, and life itself, can become, during an ordinary Sunday afternoon.

Just like it has for me!