The elderly woman over the road was painting her front door green. I thought it a bit stupid as it was trying to rain. But I admired her determination and obvious optimism that the rain wouldn’t come to much. She had carefully placed an old sheet on the pavement to protect it and had precariously perched a mug with a hot drink in it on the windowsill. She was known to the neighbours as a bit of a firebrand. ‘Never cross Mrs Watts!’ I was kindly warned when I first moved in. She seemed to have a doggedness in her manner as she went about her business.

I thought of you as I watched her struggle with her paintbrush. It was so long since I had heard from you. I struggled to remember how long. I sat at the Kitchen table, whilst the Kettle boiled. I started slowly picking at the label on the coffee jar. I made some coffee and then sat and looked at the letter again. Your hand-writing hadn’t changed in all those years. But just how many years though?

I caressed the French postmark on the envelope. My love for France had never died, and I had managed to return to Nice once since I last saw you. It was some five years ago. By remembering that fact, I surmised that it had obviously been five years and more since I saw you last. I stayed in the old Town near the Rue Alexandre Mari. I always loved Nice. I always loved the view from the Plane as it descended into ‘Aeroport Nice Cote D’Azur’. The blue, blue sea lapping at the golden strip of sand, the bohemian beauty of the city, wedged between the sea and the backdrop of the mountains, capped with a layer of snow at their peaks. It was strange how I never tried to find you whilst I was there. Was I scared of facing you again? Was I scared of admitting the way I had let you down? Was I ashamed of the manner in which I discarded you so contemptuously? I didn’t know. There was one thing I did know though. I knew I had to come back to Nice one more time. It was winter when I arrived, yet the days were still balmy, with a slight chill cooling the streets at night.

My memory suddenly shut down and I returned to the letter. I sipped at my coffee and looked at it once again. Your English had improved none, but that made me chuckle to myself. The words in the letter seemed strange to me. It was as if you were in the Kitchen with me there and then, talking with that soft, soft voice. Your words spoke of life and how funny it could be. You spoke of your new found path as a Street Artist, creating and selling your paintings on the Promenade Des Anglais. You sounded happy in your descriptions. I remembered how you always loved Art. And now here you were, living your dream. I pictured you painting at the waterside in Villefranche, the sea occupying the shallow harbour with such serenity. At the end of each day, I envisioned you gently sipping a small glass of Pastis outside La Mere Germaine Restaurant. And I imagined the Waiter bringing you a warm Lobster salad, which you then slowly picked at.

As I sat in my Kitchen I looked at the raindrops on the windows. Again, I tried to work out how many years it had been since I saw you last. I could see the elderly woman across the road stubbornly painting her door green. She now wore a yellow PVC sou’wester on her head to protect her. I guessed she had probably had a word with the rain clouds, warning them off with great ferocity. She had probably also given the weather man on TV a stern dressing down. I couldn’t help but think she might regret not sanding the door down and priming it first. Preparation was everything. At least that’s what my Mum had always said. And then I sighed loudly to myself. I still missed you. Why didn’t I try to find you that time?

I read your words again, reading even harder between the lines, looking for any hint that you may want to see me again. But then, after the way I had treated you, how dare I expect that of you? My visit to Nice wasn’t easy, but I had managed to walk the side-streets. Through Rue Massena, past the little Cafe's and Boutiques, the Ice Cream Parlours and Designer shops, down the Rue De France. The air was filled with the coagulated aroma of Coffee, the sweet smell of Crepes, and gentle cigarette smoke. I passed a drunk man, dancing to some imaginary music. He was clearly seeking the price of another drink, and hoped his dancing would encourage passers-by to part with their hard earned Euros. I recall tossing a few coins into the Fedora hat, which lay at his feet, and I then walked back through the old Town and down onto the Harbour.

My head was filled with the salubrious air of Quai Cassini, lined with the sea vessels of the rich, the famous, the notorious, and the dubious. I recall I seemed to walk with my head slightly lowered, not attempting to look around properly. Maybe I was scared of seeing you again. I knew deep down that I wanted to. But fear ran through me like a Lion through a jungle. How funny to think that the Lion ran out of breath, when I finally departed the Jewel of the Riviera on a night flight two days later. And now here you are, wrapped up in a blue envelope, stamped with the red ‘Par Avion’ on the front, putting the events of your happy life into a couple of pages of paper. All I had left to hold. That, and my memories. Thankfully for me, your words didn’t talk of any new love, of any new life-force that had managed to tame my Wild China. I felt both glad and sorry. I never wanted anyone to have you if I couldn’t. But then I was selfless enough to hope you found happiness. And yet, as hard as I read between the lines, I couldn’t tell if you had found a new love, a new passion, or not. In all honesty I fervently hoped not. But then your only real love was Art. And I knew you had found yourself in that.

The rain outside got harder, almost in parallel with my thoughts for you. The elderly woman across the road was determined to finish painting her door green. She now wore a complete set of yellow PVC waterproofs as she continued the up and down strokes with her paint-brush. She slapped the paint onto the door with all the panache of a clumsy mule. I would never dream of telling her that of course! If reputations were to be taken seriously, then I would have had much to fear should I have criticised her artistic bent.

My mind drifted back to the letter again. I wondered what ever happened to us? How did we come to such a fractious end? And still I wondered how many years it had been since we were together. Deep down I think I knew. But it was as if the pain of losing you wouldn’t let me openly acknowledge exactly how long. I poured some more coffee. My mobile rang. It was a text message. I couldn’t bring myself to answer it. I gently stroked the envelope again. I looked at your name written elegantly in black ink at the bottom of the letter. Sweet Wild China. And I remembered.

Holding your letter reminded me that I had never actually had such a letter before. But then, I had never met anyone like you before. Crazy, spirited, bohemian in the extreme, full of zest, and a Bon Viveur too. Your love of Jazz, and Blues music, mixed with your equal appreciation of good books. James Joyce, mixed with Jack Kerouac, and the poetry of Alan Ginsberg. I always laughed at your insistence that Kerouac based his ‘On The Road’ character ‘Sal Paradise’ on you.

I asked myself how I first met you. My constant self questioning was now beginning to exhaust me. How could one letter totally drain me emotionally? Two pages of words probably written in a short time. But how long? Twenty minutes?

Thirty minutes? An hour? A day? A week? It would certainly have taken me a month to even consider writing such a letter. And then another six to actually write it! But then that was the difference between my Wild China and I. I never could write 'sans souci'.

My mobile phone rang again. Obviously somebody was keen to get hold of me. I chose to ignore it again and went to the bathroom to wash. I walked the stairs, onto the landing. I went to the bathroom and turned the taps. I could hear my phone ringing downstairs above the noise of the running water. I washed, and I washed, and I washed. It was as if I was rinsing myself through some cathartic process. As I dried myself off I thought of the letter yet again. A voice was screaming at the back of my head. I couldn’t make out the words though. Despite this, there was clearly some urgency in the voice. I became a little scared and decided to return to the Kitchen. I checked my phone again. There were now three messages and one missed call. Something inside me suggested that I didn’t check the messages. I thought of you Wild China. How you always answered my messages, and I always returned yours.

But since that letter dropped through the door this morning something has changed. I became a little agitated and began to wander from room to room. I then decided to return upstairs. I wandered between the bedrooms. And then I felt myself drawn to something. I looked at the loft door from my stair-landing. I hadn’t been in there for some years. And I don’t know why, but here and now I was going to climb the loft ladder and have a look around it. I opened the loft door and pulled the loft ladders down towards me. I climbed them slowly, as if there was something terrifying, or maybe exciting, waiting for me. My thoughts of you were getting stronger my Wild China. As I entered the loft I could hear my phone ringing from downstairs, again, and again. I turned the light on. There in the corner stood a wooden chest covered in dust and cobwebs. I crawled across the loft flooring towards it. I tell you China, my heart was beating with the rhythm of a jumping Jazz band. I surreptitiously lifted the lid of the chest, as if scared that someone would catch me. I thought of the myth of Pandora’s Box, how the Greek myth stated it carried all the evils known to mankind like greed, vanity, slander, lying, envy and pining. Yet it also carried hope. Did this wooden chest carry hope? Or did it carry something quite the opposite? I peered inside the chest. It appeared empty except for some ripped up paper. I knew what it was immediately. As my phone continued to ring downstairs, I lifted the torn paper out and looked at it. It formed the jigsaw of my Passport, and the jigsaw of a return flight ticket to London Heathrow from Nice. I felt the tears well up. I started to shake as I wiped the first tear away. My throat had become so dry, drier than a Desert in its prime. I got up and turned to look at the opposite corner of the loft. There stood an easel, my easel in fact. Next to it a paint-box and brushes lay against the wall. Sat on the easel was a painting. I shook more as I walked over to it. Where were you now Wild China? Did you ever exist? The painting was of a man sat outside a restaurant. A dog lay faithfully at his feet. There was a coffee cup and a brandy glass on the table. The man appeared weary, defeated almost. He sat there staring out of the canvas at anyone who was willing to look at him. It was as if he was almost reaching out. But for what? I noticed a sign on the wall next to him. It said ‘ La Mere Germaine Restaurant’. My trembling had subsided a little. My phone continued to ring. Ignoring it, I bent down and picked up the Paint-brushes. As I rose the ringing ceased. I lowered the easel and its accoutrements down through the loft. I then carried everything downstairs. I walked back to the kitchen, and began to set the easel up in a convenient spot. I opened my paintbox and made sure I had some clean brushes. Preparation was everything. At least that’s what my Mum had always said. I picked up the milk bottle from the worktop, and placed it back in the fridge. I looked to the other side of the kitchen where I kept a moderate Wine rack. I carefully selected a bottle. It carried the unmistakeable Chateau-Neuf-du-Pape label. I was still trembling a little as I slowly uncorked it. I couldn’t explain to myself why my hands shook gently so. I poured myself a glass and looked through the window again. The rain had stopped and the sun was out. The elderly woman across the road had finished painting her door the colour green. Funnily enough, she had done a grand job despite the inclemency of the weather. The sun shone brightly onto the new paintwork. I then looked for the letter. It wasn’t where I left it. I hunted high and low but the letter had disappeared. I was momentarily filled with questioning and wonderment. I looked at the glass of wine. I slowly picked it up and took a sip. As my taste-buds savoured such discreet libation, I turned to look at the easel, and I began to paint