Train Station The Begin, Passing Through or End of a Journey by Diana Lorenz, builders' tea

Kindness goes a long way and is much appreciated. Small change buy food and a scrap of dignity.

It is early afternoon and the train station is as busy as it gets. Judging by the passengers’ clothes it must be a hot summer day, inviting them to wear shorts or skirts. The smell of sweat, sun cream, and perfume tickles my nose. Despite the heat from the train station I’m cold from the inside out. I shiver, goosebumps creeping up my spine. I close the half zipper of my jumper. I’m watching her, the old lady with white hair and a beige handbag from last century. She struggled to disembark from a train, fighting with her bags and a large pink suitcase. The suitcase is festooned with heart stickers. She must have a grandchild who loves stickers. She is the most likely candidate for my purpose. She looks a bit lost in the big train station. Does she know how fragile her situation is? One small push and her bags will be unattended.

From the old lady my eyes fall on one of the pigeons walking between hurrying feet, scratching at the grey concrete for morsels of food. I envy them. Pigeons always seem to find enough to fill their hungry bellies, unlike Peter who tries to beg for small change. The passengers buy themselves mouthwatering baked goodies or the tummy-filling burgers, which Peter can’t afford. I see him nearby, dragging his feet in shoes that were broken a year ago. His trousers should have been replaced months ago and his coat can’t camouflage his tattered shirt. When he shuffles by my bench, he nods slightly in my direction. I don’t know what happened to Peter’s foot - was he born deformed, was it an accident, an illness? I don’t ask and he has never told me. I glimpse his hollow eyes that have seen too much and his matted hair that hasn’t felt the touch of a comb for days. He is not looking where he is going and trips over the old lady’s bags. To steady himself, he puts up his hand and leans against the train. He is lucky that the train is stationary. If it moved he would risk getting caught between the moving train and the gap of the platform. The old lady looks even more frightened as Peter lurches toward her. She opens her purse and thrusts some money into his hand. Peter looks confused then his face lights up and he shuffles back toward the food stands. I’ve known Peter for years now. He has a good heart even though he fell hard through no fault of his own. Regardless, he will remain overlooked by the people hastening by to catch a train in their polished shoes, with smiles on their faces and money in their pockets.

Watching Peter reminds me of Julia. When she arrived at the train station she was too young, too cheerful, too happy. She was a runaway. Running from poverty, neglect, and violence her dreams of finding a better life stalled out in a train station.

I’ve seen a lot over the years, but to see Julia’s spirit fade away hurt the most. A year of hunger, cold and heat took its toll on her young body, the wonder and hope in her eyes buried under despair that was always visible unless her body was shaken by nightmares. Her cheerfulness changed to frustration, then hate, and finally aggression. The pitying looks from the passengers changed to disdain and even loathing. People on the go to their holiday destination, to visit family or to work don’t want to be reminded of the dark side of life and society. They liked to pretend they had nothing in common with the hollowed out young woman who demanded money and spit at them when they refused as if they could never be as unfortunate as she.

One winter night, Julia collapsed outside the train station. She had become pregnant. But how can a body grow a child if the mum struggles to find food, has no basic hygiene, and the cold, grey, snow-laden, unforgiving winter sky is the only roof over her head. Red blood leaked out of her failing, broken body soiling the red hoody of a forgetful child. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was breathing her last.

After, a newspaper ran a story about Julia’s tragic fate. The good people of the city  honoured the young homeless woman with flowers and cuddly toys. What good to her after she had left this world? But even that small interest didn’t last longer than a few weeks. How quickly they forgot her. I will never forget Julia. I keep a shrine for her in my heart.

The old lady is still next to the train. She heaves a big sigh of relief after she had checked that all her bags are still there. Slowly, I get up and make my way to her. She looks at me warily, still upset by her encounter with Peter.

I’m grateful that people tend to lose things in train stations. The men’s jumper I’m wearing is on the big side but looks newish enough, the shoes are on the small side, but they are better than Peter’s,  and my jeans don’t have holes. My clothes make it easier to mask what I am.

The train starts to move and I grab the old lady’s arm to get her away from the abyss.

‘Are you all right?’ I ask.

‘I need to catch the 5:15pm connection train to the airport.’ The old lady’s pleading eyes rest on my wrinkled face. I see the unasked questions in her face. She's wondering if I'm like Peter, assuming he was a threat when he was only needy. I don't want to explain my situation.

‘Me too,’ I lie. ‘This way. I’ll take some of your baggage.’ I muster a smile and before she can protest, take the suitcase and one of her bags. She’s still clutching her beige handbag.

‘I normally don’t trust strangers.’ She’s forced to follow me or risk her luggage disappearing.

We walk across the train station - a fair distance - and for once, the train is on time so I quicken my pace. I can hear the old lady hurrying after me, breathing heavily.

‘Here we are.’ I help her onto the train. She falls onto a seat, trying to catch her breath.

‘Are you sure this train is to the airport?’ she asks me, but looks at the man sitting across from her. He’s wearing a neat suit and has a respectable haircut. He’s probably had a shower only a few hours ago and after that probably a healthy breakfast with coffee and fresh squeezed juice.

‘No worries.’ The man takes his cue. ‘You are on the right train.’ He gives the old lady a warm smile. He has sparkly white straight teeth.

I’m quite certain that the conductor will not check tickets so I stay near my prey.

Shortly, the train ride is over. Before the old lady can stand I take her bags  and step off the train.

‘Where are you flying to?’ I ask, guiding her to the escalator. She looks towards the lift. I hate lifts and before she can protest I’m on the escalator, her suitcase in hand. I turn around and see her step tentatively on it as well.

‘Ireland,’ she says. She seems to have relaxed, trusting I won’t disappear with her luggage. ‘My daughter moved there a couple of years ago. I’m on my way to see my grandchildren again. This is the first time I’m flying alone.’ I step off the escalator and wait for her to catch up, expecting her to tell me her whole life story. But she looks tired as if she just wants to be done with her journey.

After two more questions I know which airline we need for the suitcase and larger bag drop off. We make our way there and in no time at all we have the old lady’s luggage checked in. I show her the way to the security and then it’s time to say our goodbyes.

‘Thank you so much for your help.’ She looks at me uncertainly. ‘You don’t work for the airlines, do you?’ I shake my head, trying to keep my face neutral and unthreatening.

‘Thank you,’ she says again and I start to turn away. ‘Here,’ she says. A crumpled bill and several coins in her outstretched hand. ‘Have yourself a cup of tea and maybe some pastry.’ She turns and is gone.

I look at my hand and nod. It’s not much, but it will buy me some food and a shower. The airport is not the worst place to have a snooze and maybe I can find someone here who needs help navigating the train service, carrying their bags – my next target.

Begging has never appealed to me. I learned a long time ago that offering a service to vulnerable people and some kindness buys me the food I need and my dignity. I prey on their fragility and sometimes they pay me not only with their small change but with kind words and a smile that warms my belly and my heart. 

About the author

Diana Lorenz, grew up loving stories. Her inspiration comes from controversial societal topics. She loves writing short stories and works on a children's novel. 

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Saturday Sample: Days Pass Like a Shadow by Paula R C Readman, builders' tea

 

The Meetings

 

As I sit on a park bench I trace the words engraved on the small metal plaque with my fingertips. By doing this simple act I recall the happiness I witnessed so long ago. 

Every day I come here to watch others enjoying the park. As I sit, I reflect on an unknown person who was once so strong and so full of life, all those years ago. Maybe the plaque could be a marker for my life too. As crazy as it may seem, I used to watch him and her, while I was busy working among the flowerbeds and borders.

Most mornings the young woman would arrive via the side road into the park.  Bohemian in her dress she walked briskly, her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her, like a veil of sunshine even on the dullest of days.  Her footfall on the gravel was so light it barely made a sound. If I happened to be busy either weeding, hoeing or planting I would miss her arrival.

Sometimes while I straightened my back I would catch sight of her waiting patiently at this bench. On seeing the unknown man’s arrival, her face would brighten and with a laugh she would rush to his open arms. The man, tall and elegant in his posture, dressed quite casually in chino trousers and a light jacket.  Some mornings he would arrive so early that the mist hadn’t time to clear to wait for her. He always came via the main entrance, with its large ornate gates of black and gold. A couple of hours later she would arrive with her beautiful smile. 

I never quite knew what time of day they would arrive. Sometimes if the weather was awful in the morning they came in the afternoon, but I never saw them arrive together.

At first, I wasn’t sure about their relationship, whether they were lovers, or not?  Not that it was any of my business.  I just saw them as two happy people enjoying each other’s company. 

Happiness is a rare thing these days. I considered myself lucky a silent witness to the pleasure they shared as I worked among the flowerbeds and borders. Not being a good judge of age I did think the man looked slightly older than the woman. The sun highlighted the passing of his years in the changing colour of his hair. However, in all honesty, I couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age, as I hadn’t seen her close up, well, not at first.

I used to see them strolling, arm in arm around the park. The woman gazed into the man’s face as though she’d never tire of it. Occasionally, I would stumble across them standing close together down by the fountain, or up on the rise overlooking the town. 

He stood with his arm around her narrow waist, talking in his easy, gentle way while pointing out something of interest to her.  Like the multitude of colourful butterflies that fed restlessly on the globe buddleia bush. Sometimes, as if by magic, the man would produce a bag of bread. The young woman’s laughter carried on the air across to where I was working among the perennials. Together like children they would race along the path to the pond.  Her gentle, laughing voice was conveyed on the light summer breeze as she called back to him.

“I win again!”

At the pond, the swans were the first to know there was food on offer. They would haughtily swim over as the woman attempted to throw the bread to them, but the smaller, more agile, comical ducks would get in first.  Together the couple would laugh at the antics of the swans and ducks until all the bread had gone. 

Some days while I trundled about with my wheelbarrow I would come across them, sitting with their heads intimately close. They were especially fond of the bench under the spreading oak tree on a rise overlooking the town.

On one occasion while I dug out a flowerbed ready for the seasons planting I watched as the man produced a bag of nuts.  Within minutes as though by some sixth sense, from nowhere, squirrels appeared and came down from the branches above to feed on the nuts the woman held out.

The unexpected look of pure pleasure that crossed her face was a remarkable sight. It seemed to me the man brought a sort of enchantment into her life. I know he did mine, and I began to look forward to their visits, to share in the magic of their happiness. 

It makes me smile even now.  I remember sharing her birthdays and Christmas celebrations on this bench. The gentleman was like a magician conjured brightly coloured balloons and ribbons out of nowhere to decorate the bench before she arrived. 

As she came up the rise towards him, he produced a cake with lighted candles. Once she was seated, he’d arrange her flowing bohemian skirt around her sandaled feet and then set up his camera to take a photograph of them together while she blew out the candles.

 

The autumn seemed to arrive quite quickly that year. You could smell the changing of the seasons in the air.  I had only just unlocked the park gates when he appeared out of the early morning mist.

He walked much slower, unsteady on his feet and with the aid of a stick. He seemed embarrassed to see me and nodded his acknowledgement before making a slow progress up the slight rise to wait as he always did on their bench under the oak tree.  Shocked at the sudden change in his appearance I quickly turned my attention back to raking the first of the falling leaves. Their absence from the park went unnoticed by me, I’m sorry to say, with too many jobs needing my attention.

***

As the flowering season ended I began cutting back shrubs, digging out the annuals, dead heading the roses and splitting some of the large plants to make new ones. As I worked my way through the list of jobs my mind was already planning next season’s planting. The weeks flew by as I continued working my way around the park, tidying the edge of the pond and pulling out the invasive weeds. Soon I was clearing the flowerbeds, borders and urns ready to plant up with the winter flowering plants and bulbs.

Early one morning I woke to find the first snowfall of the season had fallen overnight.  After I had bought a pint of milk I hurried to the park as the snow began to fall again. As I turned the corner, on reaching the shelter of the park keeper’s hut, I found the young woman sitting huddled in her coat outside the hut door.  

On seeing me she rose. Tears stained her face. With a weak smile she greeted me like an old friend and held out a small, brightly wrapped parcel. Words tumbled from her lips in-between uncontrollable sobs. All I could understand was that she was trying to explain something.

“Please, come in and have a cup of tea. While you’re warm up you can explain.”

On unlocking the door the warmth of the hut hit us, adding colour to her cheeks and hands. I gestured for her to sit on an old park bench I had just finished repairing. While we waited for the kettle to boil she repeated what she had said outside.  As I passed her a mug of tea I noticed the fine lines around her eyes.

After taking a sip, she said, “I’ve been unable to face coming here, to our special place, since the funeral two months ago.” Tears bubbled up in her brown eyes as she picked up the parcel and handed it to me. 

On opening it I was unable to speak after reading what was written on the plaque in my hands.  I met her eyes and she smiled at the shock that must have registered on my face. 

“Yes,” she said with a rueful laugh. “He was my father. I was only able to search for him after my mother passed away.  On our first meeting my father promised me we would do all the things we had missed doing when I was a child.  So we flew kites, visited the zoo and built sandcastles on the beach, but mostly we enjoyed spending our time here in the park. I recalled coming here with him as a small child before my parents divorced and my mother took me away.  My father had remarried, but unfortunately, they were unable to have children. He kept me a secret from his new wife only wishing to protect her from any upset that might have arisen from our meetings.” She took another sip before continuing.

“Three months ago I received a call from Dad’s wife to say he’d been rushed into hospital. As his health was deteriorating fast he’d told her all about me. She phoned to ask me to keep her company at his bedside, wanting to share his last moments together. We’ve since become good friends and I spend my time visiting her now. I would like to have a reminder in the park of the wonderful times I’ve spent with my lost father and to remind other people of their fathers too. If it’s possible could we fit the plaque to the bench under the tree?”

I nodded picking up my screwdriver. Together we stepped out in the snow making our way to the rise. As the young woman held the plaque I fastened the last screw in place before she read the words aloud:

‘In memory of all the lost fathers everywhere: One day may your children come back into your lives so you can relive their childhood years together again.’

As I watched her leave by the main gates I recall the happy times I spent with my father playing on my sledge on sunny wintry days so long ago. As I made my way back to my hut I saw our footprints were the only ones in the freshly fallen snow and wondered whether I would see her again. 

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About the author  

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up.

 

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Bowled Over by Janet Howson, builders' tea,

 

Thomas Tucker, Robert Brocklehurst, Clive Woolescroft and Nathaniel Potter had known each other for eighty two years. Their mothers had met at a baby clinic during their weigh ins and exchanged information on their own babies development, their husbands and the state of the world in general, which wasn’t very complimentary as it was 1940 and England was at war with Germany.

‘We are all war babies you know’, one of them would say at any given opportunity, ‘rationing, gas masks and bomb shelters for us.’

‘We were six before we got to know our fathers as they were in the forces, all four of ‘em’, another would chip in.

‘You don’t know you’re born,’ a third would add, ‘I was the man of the house as an infant. I had responsibilities from very young.’

‘My mum was working in an ammunition factory and my sister and I were on our own most of the time.’ The fourth would comment, ‘We’d make our mum her tea for when she got home but there was never enough food. She would go without so we could eat.’

Not that anybody asked them about their history but they would tell anyone willing to listen.

Today the four of them were sitting round a table at the bowls club. They all had a pint of bottled ale each and a pile of newspapers lay in the centre of the table. At one time they would have had an open packet of cigarettes in front of them and several packets of crisps, either ready to be eaten or already consumed.

‘I’ve got to give up the fags,’ Nathaniel announced one day. ‘Doctor says they’re killing me. I don’t like them pictures they put on the packet either, blackened lungs don’t exactly encourage you to light up.”

‘Can’t do the cheese and onion crisps anymore,’ Thomas said mournfully one afternoon. ‘My doctor said I’m diabetic, type two, whatever that means. He said I had to take more exercise and eat a healthier diet. I told him I get plenty of exercise walking from the car park to the club house and lifting a heavy pint glass.’

They all obligingly laughed.

Then there was the hearing. ‘What?’  ‘Sorry can’t hear you.’ ‘Speak up.’ ‘Did you say something?’ would take up a great deal of their conversation.  Clive in particular found it difficult to keep up. He now sported hearing aids in both ears and hated it when they whistled or the batteries ran out. ‘They make them short lived so you’ll spend more.’

‘At least you can see further than the end of your nose,’ said Robert, ‘my eyes are getting worse. I can’t get on with my bifocals. Marion says I’ve got to persevere and I’ll get used to them.’

The other three had hummed and nodded at this. They had known Marion since they were teenagers together and she wasn’t  to be ignored. She had been Ladies Bowls Captain for years and only gave up when she had suffered a minor stroke which left her unable to bowl. She had now joined the U 3A and was out every day doing, book clubs, a History Group, Scrabble, a film club and so it went on. ‘She’s never in. I end up getting my own dinner sometimes.’ They had all shaken their heads at that in sympathy.

So here they were, without  their crisps or fags, with dodgy hearing and poor eyesight, but here never the less, enjoying  their  one pleasure in life, a pint and a catch up with friends.

The topic of conversation had drifted on to the club’s new logo. They had amalgamated with another club as their numbers had been dwindling, owing to members being too old to put a bowl up convincingly or had inconveniently died.  Clive was selected for the odd game if the captain couldn’t find anyone else and they all turned up for the roll ups or internal club competitions.

‘What’s wrong with the logo we’ve got now? It’s on all the club shirts, jackets, waterproofs, stationery and the rest.’ 

‘Because, Tommy, the committee have made their decision. I for one voted against the amalgamation at the start. We have been Burntwood Bowling Club for decades. When we joined it was an all men’s club.  It should have stayed like that as well. Something else I voted against.’

‘Don’t let my Marion hear you say that, Nat, she’d have your guts for garters.’

‘It’s true though, Robert. They’re always falling out with each other. Anyway, I think it’s good for a marriage to have separate hobbies.’

‘Yes, where Pauline can’t see how much ale you pour down your neck.’

‘Here speaks the man who refuses to bowl with his wife because they always end up arguing’ Clive added.

The others laugh.

‘Talking of ale, isn’t it your round Nat?’

Nat got up rather tentatively as the arthritis in his hips was playing up. He made his way to the bar where Basil, in a weak moment had agreed to be barman every Tuesday and Wednesday . He was trying to read an old Film Quiz Book but couldn’t concentrate as the four friends spoke so loudly on account of Clive’s deafness.

Nat looked at what Percy was reading. ‘Here’s one for you, Percy, what was Mae West’s first film?’

There was a chorus from the friend’s table ‘Night After Night’.

‘1942’ added Thomas. Clive said nothing as he hadn’t heard the question.

‘I was just about to say that’, said Percy, looking miffed.

‘Four of the same, Percy, and one for yourself.’

Robert got up to help carry the drinks but managed to bump into the edge of a table as his eyes were not what they used to be. Retuning with one of the drinks he managed to do it again so the rest of them said that would have to be his as he had spilt half of it on the floor. Which Robert had to agree was fair.

‘I hear the new club shirts are going to be pricey,’ Clive said.

‘You can’t take it with you, Clive, much as you’d like to, so spend your kids inheritance while you can.’

‘It’s all right for you to say that, Thomas, you’re not playing anymore, I’m the only one able to put a jack up. Social members don’t need a new shirt.’

‘They’re not going to select an 82 year old if they’ve got younger members to choose from.’

‘Not to mention one who can’t hear the skip’s instructions. Remember last season when your skip shouted down put one behind and you thought he said he didn’t mind and you put a blocker in and you lost the end. He never forgave you,’ Robert added, unable to see that Clive was hurt. Nat chose the moment to have a bought of coughing so the subject changed to long waiting queues for hospital appointments and how the country was going down the drain.

Basil joined in as he was getting bored with his quiz book and anyway it was about time the four friends drank up so he could lock up and go home. Beryl had promised him a Shepherd’s Pie with baked beans, his favourite.

‘I’ve been waiting for months for an appointment about my knees. The last thing my doctor told me was he thought I was going to have a replacement knee cap. I reckon I’ll be dead by the time I get an appointment.’

‘Go private, Bas. As I said to Clive, you can’t take it with you.’

The other four all turned to Thomas who was happily draining the last dregs of his ale.

‘You keep telling us that Tommy, but we haven’t forgotten the fact you still have free private insurance from the company you worked with,’ said Nat who was getting his two pence worth in before the coughing restarted. as his hearing aids were whistling.

‘Drink up, gentlemen,  I’ll be locking up in ten minutes.’

‘I never know what the time is. It’s a shame they got rid of that clock on the wall.’

‘Robert, put your glasses on, it’s still where it always was.’

‘What was that?’ This was from Clive who hadn’t heard much of the conversation.

‘A bit like us really. Permanent fixtures’

Basil rang a bell his daughter had found in a charity shop. ‘Time gentlemen please.’

The four friends got up, picked up their coats, car keys and in Nat’s case a Sainsbury’s carrier bag as Pauline had asked him to pick up a carton of milk as she needed it for custard.

‘Same time next week?’ Clive asked.

‘If I live that long,’ Robert said.

‘And there are no earthquakes, volcano eruptions or…’

‘Pandemics.’

The others laugh, except for Clive whose hearing aids were whistling.

About the auhtor 

 Janet Howson taught English and Drama for thirty five years and didn't take up writing until she retired. She has had two novellas published, Charitable Thoughts and 'Dramatic Episodes' as well as having short stories published in anthologies, including Best of CafeLit 8,9 and 10, Nativity and Mulling it Over. 

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Looking for Our House

by Rosemary Johnson

builders' tea

“There it is.”  Nicky jabbed her finger at the windscreen.  “Ooh look, Richard, look.  Just like the photo in the brochure.”

Grabbing the estate agents’ particulars, Nicky leapt out the car and strode across the road. Three terraced cottages nestled together like old friends, gnarled stems of ancient ivy clinging to their walls, with the evening sun lighting up their slate roof tiles.  In the garden of the middle property stood a ‘for sale’ board.

The latch on the wrought-iron gate opened with a satisfying click.  Bees hummed around lavender bushes along the path leading to the front door.  “Ah.”  Nicky stopped to draw the heavy scent into her nostrils.  Then again.  “Ah.”  She grabbed Richard's arm.  “Come on.  I have a good feeling about this one.  This is going to be our house.”

“Hang on.  We haven’t seen inside yet.”  He rang the doorbell.  “Funny name, isn’t it?  ‘Croit Chatreeney’.” 

“I read in the brochure this afternoon,” said Nicky, “that it’s Manx and means ‘Kate’s Cottage’.”

“Manx?  This isn’t the Isle of Man.”

Nicky fell in love with the cottage all over again while they were viewing the interior.  “It’s beautiful,” she said to Josh, the estate agent.  She wanted to add, “We’re going straight back to the office.  Now.   To make an offer.” 

“Er… yes… thank you,” said Richard. 

“Well?” asked Nicky the instant they were through the gate.

He didn't reply. 

“Well?” she said again, as they climbed back into the car.

“It was lovely.”  He put his key into the steering column.

“Not was.  Is.” 

“More than we can afford, love.”  He smiled that slow smile of his, with dimples on either side, filling his square jaw.

“Only just above our price range.  We could make an offer.”  But the energy in her words seemed to bounce off that smile.

“Not one they’d accept.” 

“But-”

“No, Nicky, no.”  As he eased into the road, he tilted his chin upwards and slightly to the right, a gesture she knew all too well. 

****************************************

When Josh rang Nicky at work next morning to ask how they liked the house, she said they were still thinking.  He warned her not to wait too long, as he had other clients scheduled to view that evening.  “No, no,” she wanted to cry down the phone, “don't let them.” 

Aargh, Richard.  She would talk to him again.  As soon as possible.  She knew she was right about this.  The trouble with Richard was he dug his heels in, always had done.  Even at primary school, there had been things Richard wouldn’t do: country dancing, for instance.  She would never forget that incident.

“Come along, Richard," Miss Wilson had said.  "You can be Nicky’s partner.”

Nicky’d tapped her Start-Rite shoe on the tiled floor of the school hall.  She and the other children were lined up, ready to start the 'Gay Gordons', and they had been waiting for several minutes.  "Richard's a big wally," she'd said to the girl standing next to her.

He, however, had remained rooted to the spot, tilting his chin slightly to the right.  At ten years old, he had been a miniature version of his adult self, thick-set with a square jaw and rectangular face.

“Do come along, Richard,” their teacher had said.  “We haven’t got all day.  Don’t you want to be in the dancing display at the fete?”

By now the class had fallen silent, making not a murmur, not a movement, for fear of missing something.

“Not really,” he'd answered in a calm, quiet tone. 

*************************************

The instant she replaced the receiver after speaking to Josh, the phone rang again.  “Can we meet up for lunch?”  Richard’s voice was just about audible.  “It’s important.” 

She knew that already.  Richard didn’t waste his almost silent tone on trivial matters.

She joined him at the pub down the road from the factory where he worked.  She was just opening her mouth to tell him about her conversation with Josh, and how they needed to make an offer on Croit Chatreeney right away, when he said, “Nicky, Woolton’s are making people redundant.”

"Oh."  She laid her hands over his clenched knuckles.  "You?”

“I won't know for definite until next month, but...” He looked at her from under his hooded eyes.  “I heard this morning about a company advertising for skilled electricians.  In Saudi Arabia.”  His words hung in the air. 

“Saudi?”  The bar, the barman and the rainbow colours of the drink bottles danced a gig in front of her eyes.  Richard had come back into her life about a year ago, when he had walked into the doctors’ surgery where she worked as a receptionist.  Watching him at the counter, filling in forms to register as a patient, she’d known his face but hadn’t been able to place him.  He’d recognised her straightaway.  When he’d told her he’d been in the army, she’d pictured soldiers on parade being called to ‘atten-shun’ and one asking, in a mild voice, “Why?”  No longer children, they had hit it off immediately. 

“Two year contract, Nicky,” he said.  “That’s all.”

She forced herself to smile.  “Is it what you want to do?”

“Looks like I don't have much choice.”  He shrugged.  “I'd be all right.  I can do heat.  And desert.  I've been to Afghan, haven’t I?” 

She struggled to keep smiling.  “When would you have to go?”

“Not sure.  Quite soon.”

He stared at beer mat in front of him, tracing its tight scalloped edge with his thick, stubby finger  In the background, the jukebox played 'Waterloo' by Abba, a song Nicky used to like.  “Would you… would you… come to Saudi?” 

“Of course I will.”  Her words spluttered from her like an explosion, the sweetness of her orange juice catching the back of her throat.

“We wouldn't be able to have the sort of wedding we've been thinking of.  We'd have to get married quickly.  Within the next couple of months."  He leant forward.  "We'd be living on a compound, with the other Western workers.  From what I've heard, we’d have a one-bedroomed flat.  Nothing like Croit Chatreeney, I'm afraid.”

“We’d be together.  That’s the important thing.”

The two years in the Middle East passed quickly.  When they returned, Woolton’s were doing much better and Richard was offered a job as a foreman.  With baby Jessica, they went to stay temporarily with Nicky’s mother, but conditions were cramped, especially as one family member was taking up all the space in their room with her huge boxes of nappies, changing mat, Moses basket, car-seat and other paraphernalia.  The heavy rain, which started on the Saturday morning of their first weekend in England, was a novelty – to start with.

Richard spent a large part of Sunday afternoon watching from the window, with Jessica asleep on his shoulder.  He was not a man for sitting around.  “We do need a place of our own,” he kept saying.

“Let's start looking now,” Nicky replied, picking up her laptop and typing into Google the name of the first estate agent she remembered.  For several moments she watched the hour glass until, at last, a list of properties with photos appeared on screen, just one dull, boxy house after another.  Suddenly, she found herself looking at a slate-tiled roof glowing in the sunlight and a wrought-iron gate, with yellow hollyhocks framing the front door.

“Oh,” Nicky gasped.  “Oh.” 

“What?”  He peered at the screen from over the baby's head.

“The hollyhocks weren’t there when we went before,” said Nicky.

“N-no,” he said at last. 

She frowned.  No what?  No hollyhocks?  Or no, he wasn't interested.  She clambered to her feet.  “Fancy a cup of tea?”  She had to think this through. 

She took her time in the kitchen, taking a mug to Mum and stopping to chat with her.  When she re-joined Richard, he was still looking at the tiny photo of Croit Chatreeney on the screen.  “You really loved that place, didn’t you?” he said, lifting his head to meet her eyes.

“But you didn't.”

“No.  No.  I never said that,” he said, furrows forming on his brow.  “Too expensive back then.  We’ve got more money now, after Saudi.  Do you want to see it again?”

“Of course.”

Next day, when she rang the estate agent’s office, she was delighted to discover that Josh was still working there.  He told her that the person who had bought Croit Chatreeney two years ago had been forced to move after only a year because of his job.  How disappointing to have to give up something so beautiful, thought Nicky.  All day long, as she fed and changed her baby daughter, she couldn’t help smiling.  “The little house is absolutely lovely, Mum” she said.  “So much character.”

Throughout the afternoon grey lines of rain smashed against the window pane and by five o'clock dusk had fallen.  “What do you expect in November?” said Richard when they set off to view after his return from work.  The musty smell of their soggy coats inside the car reminded Nicky of primary school cloakrooms on a wet morning.  But they were going back to Croit Chatreeney.

Finding the property in the rain and the dark was well-nigh impossible.  They drove past the row of brick-built terraced houses several times, until he spotted the hollyhocks, now broken-stemmed and blackened by frost.  Nicky’s foot squelched on the sodden grass verge as she stepped outside, and the fierce wind flung icy droplets of rain into her face.  It’s quite exposed, she thought. 

The instant Josh opened the door, they tumbled inside to escape the elements.  Suddenly… now…they were in Croit Chatreeney again.

Nicky feasted her eyes on every half-remembered detail. Of course, the hallway wasn't the best bit, and was actually quite poky, with three painted off-white doors glaring back at her.  Hungry to see the real thing, she opened every door in turn.  The living room, with its big bay window, ceramic fireplace and inglenooks either side, was exquisite, although smaller than Nicky remembered, but she’d forgotten about the pea-green melamine units in the kitchen.  Could they paint them, or replace the cupboard doors?  With growing impatience, she flitted from room to room, hungry for the magic of two years ago.

“Thank you,” said Nicky to Josh as their heavy winter shoes clattered down the rustic wooden stairs.  “Sorry to drag you out on a night like this.”

“No problem.”  He forced a smile.  “What did you think?”

Richard raised his eyebrows at Nicky.

She took several paces towards the front door, opened it, and set one foot on the doormat outside, before pausing to turn and take one final look.  “Thank you,” she said again, before heading back down the path.  The lavender had gone and she couldn't hear the click of the catch above the roaring wind.

She shivered as they climbed back into the car.  “Come on. Let's get home.”

“Well?”

“No.” 

“What?”

“No.”  She fastened her seat belt with a clunk.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”  She’d lost something that evening, a golden memory broken apart in the November wind. 

“I'm so glad," he said, smiling his square smile.  "It was nice, very nice, and…  Okay, if you’d insisted, I would’ve gone along with it, but the thing is, Nicky, Croit Chatreeney is… well… Kate’s Cottage.  Someone else’s house.” 

She nodded slowly.

"What I'd like is somewhere that needs doing up, which we can make our own.  Nicky and Richard’s cottage.”

"You mean... Our house?"

"Our house.  That's exactly what I mean."