My first reaction was anger. I had given the man a glimpse of my personal life and he had shared it with these strangers. I glanced back along the path the story had followed, from the woman who had spoken, to her son and on to the teacher. Each had a beatific Cheshire grin that was reflected in the teacher’s eyes and the blush creeping onto the son’s cheek.
They were proud of themselves. They wanted to be caught in their conspiracy. Why? Did they want to tell me of the bond thaat held them together or were they offering me a chance to share in that unity?For a moment I was at one with them , then remembering myself I stepped back eying each member of the group in silence. The smiles continued.
The conversation started up again and although I took part much of what was said passed by me; I was trying to put a name to the feeling. Was it a possessive pride of the ‘I knew this woman’ type, or was it something else? I decided on the latter and kept searching. My list of words appropriate for strange situations ran out before I had even come close to an explanation and the feeling bothered me over the ensuing weeks.
There was something there that I could not put my finger on. What was the bond between the group? And what was it that made the man pass the story on? I examined my own feelings for an answer. No I did not feel betrayed.I had been surprised and therefore did not have a patterned reaction to the situation, but the story had been published and could not be classified as restricted copy.
So what was it? The initial anger had been instantly allayed by the warmth of their smiles but the mysterious something still nagged at me. I needed to know the answer to the riddle. I could have asked questions, but what questions and to whom? And what explanation could I give? I knew I would not get the answers from anyone else’s lips. the answer was in my own powers of observation but the opportunity to observe and therefore come up with an answer was now past.
Perhaps I could lay the query to rest if I could formulate the REAL question and therein find the answer. What was the bond? Why did he pass the story o n? Why did they let the secret out? Did they mean to? It was all that and more. To h ave the answer to one question would open up Pandora’s box. I could see a million questions looming ready to pounce and I wasn’t sure I could handle it. I hesitated in my quest.
I thought about a young boy who, in trying to surprise his mother with an early morning cuppa had accidentally broken her favourite cup. How can one be angry with one whose intentions at least were to please. After all it was only a cup, albeint a favourite one. And it was only my right to privacy that was violated even though it was in a protected zone.
But at the end of the day, how can one maintain a raage when a contrite little boy or an enigmatic young man holds out an offering with a look of pride that says ‘Look what I did for you’. I finally acknowledged what I had seen. I did not know the question but I had my answer.
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