Message from Helen

As Jim and Helen had some enthusiastic admirers last time in the DARE post, I thought this prompt might bring them back just once!



Jim went to look out of the window. He loved Paris. There was something about the city that satisfied all his senses. The sights, the smells, the language, he felt that in this city he could really live.

He drew up a chair and reversed it, sat down with his elbows on the back, his hands supporting his chin. The full length window was open and the curtains moved quietly in the late afternoon breeze. He gazed with admiration at the view.
In front and above him were the buildings opposite, with windows like his own, slated roofs, dormers, chimneys and in the distance the suburbs of Paris stretching out, with apartment blocks, church domes and patches of green breaking up the landscape.

Below him, activity. The noise of the street welled up, wooing him; the insistent call of the traffic: car horns: the bustle and shout of shoppers; the drone of lifts and clang of gates from the entrance to the Metro; and wafting up the seductive smells of the patisseries, coffee machines and the scent of French cigarettes. Jim was entranced; he was glad Helen was there to share it with him.

He watched the commuters enter and leave the Metro. There were those that hurried with furious intent to catch the next train at all costs, there were those that dawdled and yet others again that stopped as they emerged as though shocked to find a different world outside. A man in a raincoat stood still for several seconds, looking around him before daring to enter that underworld.

Over everything was laid a blanket of Gallic babble, conversations, arguments, pleas and pardons that made the whole scene make sense. Paul leaned out to enter that world.

He noticed one couple, young, eager, loving, sad, walk up with reluctant steps towards the entrance staircase. They clung to each other, let go and touched again, fingers entwined, then the man, tall, fair and curly haired, reached out and held her by the back of her neck. She leaned back into his touch, turned, smiled, her auburn locks shook and covered his hand. Petite, pert, shirt tied at the waist, jeans, she looked deep into his face, they stopped, he drew her to him and there with the crowded street milling round them, kissed, fondled and held tight.

Lovers. They had to part, but clearly it hurt, she drew away, yet he held her by both hands, not daring to let her go. Again he pulled her back to him. His hands stroked her back, curled around her bottom. Her hands reached for his face, traced his eyes, his nose, his lips. She tucked her fingers into his shirt and caressed his chest.

A woman selling flowers not two steps away, ignored them but tried to interest others with her roses and carnations. A gush of air from the Metro caught a scrap of paper. Up, up and around them it went, then whoosh it was gone.

Jim had received a message a message from Helen that she was travelling to Paris on business. Did he want to meet her there? After the abrupt parting in the London restaurant a week ago he leapt at the chance. Two days alone with Helen after all those years!

Jim looked out the window again. The lovers had parted, the young man had gone half way down the steps to the Metro, stopped, looked up at his lover, then came rushing back again to gain one last kiss. She was upset, crying now, her fingers went to each eye in turn to wipe away the tears. He fondled her again. Now she touched him, overtly, arousing him. He wrapped her up in his arms, kissed her neck, her eyes, her nose, finally a most gentle kiss to the lips. They broke, he rushed down the cavernous mouth of the Metro and was gone. She waited until he had disappeared, then she too, turned, walked back the way they had come and was lost in the crowd.

"Jim, what are you staring at?"
"One last look at the street," he turned toward her, she had just finished her packing. Bent over her case her hair had fallen down across her face and all he could see was the tip of her nose and her lips.

"I love you."
"I know," she replied.
"Do you like Paris?"
"Mm," came the affirmative reply. "Help me with this, we haven't got long before the taxi."
"Shall we come back?"

She glanced up at him again. She looked perplexed with her head tilted to one side as though the question was not easy to answer. He knew she came over regularly on business.

Jim went across to her. Put his arms around her waist and squeezed possessively. Helen released herself, kissed Jim on the cheek with affection but without passion, and laid her head on his shoulder for a few seconds.

"We have put right something that needed to be put right. Now I have you in my heart forever. Hold onto that Jim." She whispered.

The phone rang; their taxi was waiting.

They held hands on the plane, spoke little, made no plans. The silence was not confident, warm, comforting; it was uncertain, cheerless, and strange. They collected their cases at the carousel. Lined up quietly at immigration and then free to enter the arrival's hall turned at last to each other.

"Will Graham be here to meet you?"
It was with a very small voice that Helen said, "Yes."
There was a pause, then in her turn she said, "And Brenda?"
Paul shook his head, "I'm getting the bus to Woking, then the train from there."
They nodded at each other, awkwardly, not smiling.

Finally putting their cases down they touched each other's hands for the last time and as if only acquaintances, kissed each other on the cheek.
"Goodbye, Jim."
Helen, turned purposefully, strode through the doors without looking back and was gone.

Jim sighed, waited some time before lifting his own case. Some minutes later he sat looking at the drizzly rain, grey and cheerless waiting for his transfer bus. He knew there wouldn't be another message.

Photo of rooftops from the Hotel Roma, a short walk from Montmartre, Paris, by the author

Milestones

When I think of the word milestone I recall so many years ago when they really were just that. They were permanent markers made of stone suitably engraved with an inscription of the distance in miles to a major city, usually London in my case and of the closest settlements either side of the marker. They were so permanent, so trustworthy, so important that the name milestone took on a completely new meaning; that of an very important event. It is used by business now to measure their trite happenings and by families to mark major events in their lives.

So it was too with Jack Wilson. In his nineties, all he had time to do now was to remember back over his life and to recall the milestones in his life. One afternoon in the retirement home whilst all the other residents, played their games, snoozed or prattled inconsequentially to their friends, Jack made the effort to remember the milestones in his own life. He wondered whether like Shakespeare he could place the seven ages of the man that he once was and the events that marked them.

So Jack thought about his seven ages. Mewling and puking he certainly did but gladly didn't recall them much, or did he? He cried a lot because his older brother bullied him and even broke an arm once, a fact hidden until his mother noticed he only used his left hand.

Perhaps that counts as the whining schoolboy he thought. No, that's not right he enjoyed school, he certainly was not unwilling to go. He had a lot of friends and loved sport and later was entranced by the girls that a few years previous had seemed so silly. How strange it seems now to recall that thrill of just touching hands with that cute girl when they were both fourteen. What was her name, Glenda, Glenys, Gladys? Perhaps none of those.

Now to Shakespeare's lover. Did he sigh like a furnace? No, his romances were fun, disastrous, sad, and ultimately fulfilling and joyful. No, the bard must have got that wrong. Hang on though, he did remember sighing once when given the heave ho by... by... what was her name? Oh yes, it was Leone. She wasn't a lion she was a tigress!

Now what about the Soldier that was quick to quarrel? Luckily with no conflict at the time of his National Service that period passed as a minor irritant prior to forging his career and starting a family with his beautiful wife. It was great for mateship and putting your trust in others but was he glad when it was all over and be a normal civilian again. Later he found a good job that he enjoyed, how they built their first house, and seemed to achieve so much.

What was this Justice with the round belly as the fifth age that Shakespeare was on about? Jack reckoned his fifth age was the best but without the round belly! With his wife Susan and his children growing up, getting some of their freedom back. Perhaps W.S. was right after all the way the two of them gave advice to the kids, embraced their children's spouses into the family, helped them in their careers, babysat and did things as a little clan of their own. Oh what joy life was then.

I've always been lean thought Jack as he recalled the sixth age of man. He laughed at the slippers and spectacles and the 'shank shrunk.' But then he bit his lip. Yes "his manly voice turning again to a childish treble" certainly did that when Susan passed away and he was lost with little to console him and he bawled like a baby.

Snap out of it you old fool he said to himself you are reverting to childishness, it happens to us all. You lived a wonderful life. A wonderful life. Jack slowly nodded off in his chair.

Some time later one of the helpers came around and found Jack asleep.
"Come on, Mr. Wilson. Oh, look you are drooling and your teeth are coming out. It's cup of tea time. I've got a chocolate Granita biscuit for you"
She touched him gently on the hand, but it fell abruptly off the armrest. She felt for his pulse then quickly returned to the office to report that there was a problem with Mr. Wilson.

On the Scent (or the day I said Yes)

I never met Rodney Bowles. No, that is not true, but when I did meet him we couldn't resolve our differences. For years our Writer's group had met at the Community Centre, it was cheapest place we could find. It cost us a dollar a head when we used the tatty room where we read our pieces and imagined we were Adelaide's Bloomsbury Set!
Rodney was the new Centre Administrator and I suppose when he looked through the books, the first thing he did was to increase all fees at the Centre in an attempt to get it to break even. We all thought that when he was appointed an efficient young manager would be an improvement. Several weeks later we all wished he was dead. Unfortunately I was the one that said it.
"Three dollars," I screamed at the November meeting. "That is utter extortion."
"Well I won't be able to come in future," said Maisie Wivel.
I nodded grimly, holding back a smile. 'No more drivel from Wivel,' I imagined the others saying. I deliberately averted my face so that I wouldn't catch their eyes and burst out laughing.
There was mumbling all round. Many of our group were on a pension and would find it hard. Meals of bread and scrape and starving cats and dogs were forecast. The pleaded with me to do something. So I said "Yes"
"The stupid man would be better off dead. I'll have to go to see him, and see if we can't get some sort of concession."
They all nodded in agreement.
In turn they echoed my sentiments, in a modified form.
"Best if he'd never come."
"Why didn't he stay where he was."
And the pathetic Winnie, who I am sure was slightly simple said, " I hate change. It unsettles me."
So it was that I decided to grab a meeting with him one evening after I had finished work. The evenings were drawing in and that night storm clouds scudded across a darkening sky. Rain was promised and that wonderful scent of dampened dust was already in the air.
"Keep calm, don't lose your cool," I instructed myself. Despite this my own vivid imagination had me thumping his desk, punching his nose and wrestling with him on the floor. As I had never met him, he was weak and ineffectual in my mind and easily succumbed to my superior strength and intellectual prowess.
The car safely parked, I strode towards the Community Centre. Rain was spitting down. The wind was blowing the tall pine trees and making them howl in protest. As I went in through the door a woman was leaving.
"Is Rodney Bowles in there?"
She had a folded newspaper over her bowed head ready for the rain. It shielded her face but in answer she mumbled something about a passage. I leaned toward her.
"Beg yours?"
"He's down the passage."
A waft of her scent engulfed me. I reeled back stifled. When I looked up again. She had hurried away, her high heeled shoes clip clopping on the concrete drive.
I went in through the open door. The passage was long and dark and lit only by the last rays of light from that stormy evening. The windows to the west glowed feebly while those to the east were already black. The offices were in darkness, so I made my way along the passage, one hand feeling in front of me. The passage turned then turned again. Already I had lost all sense of direction.
The wind whistled outside, a shutter banged and with eerie regularity a chain rattled. I stopped, straining to hear. I thought I could hear footsteps but it was only the wind.
Bang! A door slammed and I jumped.
"Excuse me," I shouted.
My call was echoed by the empty passages. There was no reply. On I went.
The passage way ended at a door. The door led into a large playroom. Huge mobiles in the shapes of animals hung from the ceiling. In the half light their grotesque shapes swung in the wind. Every now and then an animal face would leer at me then flick around again. The wind was coming from an open door leading into a garden. There outside the sound of the chains again could again be heard as a child's swing kept hitting it's supporting posts. The rain was heavier now. It splashed into the room and already the down pipes gushed their incy wincy spiders and water on to the garden area.
I strained my eyes in the dark. Was there somebody out there?
"Mr. Bowles, are your there?"
Nothing.
I peered out. Yes there was someone there. In the rain, slumped forward in a wheelchair, well that was a surprise, he was disabled. He didn't say a word.
"Is that you, Mr. Bowles? Can I help you in?"
Silence.
"Are you all right?"
Damn the man, I didn't want to get wet as well. I would have to go and help him after all.
Rodney Bowles was quite wet. He was quite dead too. A kitchen knife was stuck in his back.
Now tell me this. Why did I move him? He wasn't complaining about the rain, was he? But for some unexplained reason I thought it would be best to bring him inside. More comfy for him I suppose. So my fingerprints were on his wheel chair. Behind him as well!
So why did I touch the knife? Just don't ask me. Perhaps I thought he would get better without a boning knife between his ribs. He didn't.
Well one thing in my favour was that I called the police.
Wrong. It never entered my mind. I got the hell out of there as fast as my feet would take me. Pity I didn't think of all the clues I was leaving behind.
I was amazed at how quickly they wanted me to help with their questioning. They were up earlier than me the next morning, banging on the door at five thirty. Betty just turned over and went back to sleep, while I accompanied them to the station.
I'd like to say how helpful all my fellow writers were. They were able to quote my exact words of the previous Monday evening by rote. Every one of them.
"I believe sir, that your said of Mr. Bowles; 'Stupid man would be better off dead.' Is that correct?" The detective questioned me with grim determination.
Now, to be fair, they did listen to my explanation. They had my statement typed up, neatly double spaced. This I duly signed and they witnessed it. Forensic had a ball, my finger nails have never been so clean.
But you ask, what of the mystery woman? Sadly my description of her was incredibly vague. All I could give them was a folded newspaper, clip clopping shoes and an unidentified perfume. That's the trouble with men, they are not very observant. I could never remember what Betty was wearing, so why should I remember what a complete stranger had on in the dark, when I had gone to see Rodney Bowles, not her. So I agree that things don't look good for me. What makes it worse though, by saying yes, is that I didn't even get the fees reduced.

Travelling in the good old days

We never went on holidays when we were children, because of the war. Of course we had holidays from school but we didn't seem to do much except muck around up at the sandpit or play down in the copse, close to where Tommy Foster lived.

I don't ever remember Mum or Dad ever having holidays then from their work but I suppose they did. Mind you holidays were very much shorter then, and in any case Dad would have spent all his time in the allotment and only come home at tea time. Mum on the other hand worked in a grocery shop, so we should have noticed that she was at home with us but we didn't! We must have been pretty busy ourselves. We were like wild animals let loose from captivity in the morning, straining at the back door while our hair was combed and our faced examined lest the spinster sisters, Olive and Myrtle Green, who lived up the road should see us less than perfect and make some terrible pronouncement to the other neighbours.

Real holidays didn't start until after the war and unbeknown to Jill and myself arrangements had been made to stay in a Bed and Breakfast in Hastings early in September 1945. We were pretty excited when we realised that we were going on our first real holiday. Dad on the other hand was worried because we didn't have a suitcase to put our things in. So he went round to Granddad to see if he could borrow one. He came back later with a medium size shiny leather suitcase of some age. It's corners were reinforced and it had solid chunky brass clasps and locks. Mum was delighted. Dad merely delved into his pocket for a packet of Weights and lit one up with his home made lighter.

"I never knew he had that", she exclaimed, as she placed it on the floor, got down on her knees and reverently opened the clasps. Apart from a brown paper bag and some tissue paper it was empty, but it was lined with a blue and grey striped silky material which Jill immediately smoothed down with her fingers. She murmured "Ohhhh", and Dad beamed down at us through a haze of smoke. He alone remained standing. Meanwhile I was examining the outside. Faded labels told of other peoples excursions to distant parts. There was a remnant of a Cunard sticker showing part of a liner, a hotel label with the word Metropole on it, a long sticker saying 'CABIN LUGGAGE', and most intriguing of all to me, a tiny notice saying 'EXAMINED BY CUSTOMS'. My nine year old mind conjured up exotic ports, intrigues and daring deeds. Jill on the other hand had found the previous owners name, a Mr. A. Weston, written on the inside of the case. Dad explained that Granddad had bought the case in a jumble sale before the war but he had never used it.

How we managed to get all our clothes in the case I don't know. We wore less then, of course, and for longer. Jill and I only had one pair of shoes each, so they didn't have to be packed. Still, the case was stuffed full and Mum, Jill and me, each had to carry a brown paper carrier bag with extras in. Mum also carried her enormous handbag which stored every conceivable necessity for the journey, as well there was an umbrella, which she took with her regardless of the weather. Dad carried the case, today's newspaper and a box brownie camera slung around his neck.

We started early in the morning and walked to the station where we caught a train to Waterloo Station. I bagged a window seat, but had to promise Jill she could sit next to the window on the next train. We then had to cross over to Victoria Station by the Underground to get another train to Hastings. Naturally Jill and I had an argument over the seats because I counted the tube train as the next train which set her off, crying as usual, because she couldn't see anything in the dark tunnels of the tube. Dad lugged the case up and down the stairs, on the escalators, in through the sliding doors, and past the ticket collectors, while we followed on with our carrier bags. When we got to Victoria, the station was packed. I had never seen so many people in my life. They were hurrying in every direction and the sound was deafening as the shouting, the platform announcements and the noise of the trains filled the building. We found some seats in a crowded carriage and I smirked at Jill as no place by the window was available. She looked pretty glum but instead of crying this time, she cuddled up to Mum and was asleep soon after the train left the platform.

There was not a spare seat in the carriage, and between glancing at the suburbs and countryside speeding by, I examined the other occupants. There was a man in a trilby hat that smoked his pipe incessantly. His wife a shrivelled up woman returned my stare then finally with some distaste took the Daily Express from her husband and hid from me by reading it. Her husband meanwhile puffed on happily, admiring the scenery. Next to me in the corridor seats sat two ladies of about Mum's age who engaged in a conversation that necessitated their bending over toward each other that made it very difficult for me to go into the corridor. Out there were interesting people like soldiers sitting on kit bags and other boys my own age, train spotting. Eventually I escaped, and joined them. The journey then went quickly for me and when I returned to the compartment later, the man with the pipe and his wife were gone and Jill was seated at the window.

"We'll soon be there" said Mum as she dabbed her nose with powder. Dad started to get the case down and all the bags were counted and reallocated. As the train drew into the station, Mum and Dad started to discuss the options of walking to our lodging or getting a taxi. Only well off people had cars then and even a ride in a taxi for many years seemed to me like an extravagant luxury. When we did indulge we all sat awkwardly in the car and said not a word, lest the driver think that we were talking to him, or somehow he would realise how poor and ignorant we were.

So we walked. The address; 62 Hillingdon Road, should have been a clue that the accommodation was no where near the sea and up a steep climb. Better establishments had names like Sea View or Seagulls or other such coastal connotations, on streets called The Esplanade or Beach Road. Neither Jill or I complained because every step was a new adventure on our very first holiday.

Now it is very strange but I don't remember much else about that holiday. There was the beach of course and ice cream, but what stood out was that leather suitcase, and how proud of it we all were. We returned it Granddad after, and much later when he died, Dad got it back again. In later years we bought our own suitcases when we could afford them, and the leather case was used by Jill for all her dress up clothes.

When I was called up for National Service I needed a case of my own, so I went up to the attic to see if it was still there. It was, a little older and sadder looking. It was scuffed and dull and one of the locks was broken. I still used it though, tying up its middle with a bit of sash cord. It travelled with me for several years, and stood up to terrible punishment, including being thrown out onto a station platform from a moving train.

Today, as I was waited for my luggage to come through on the airport's carousel, I thought back to that old case. It had outlived it's first owner Mr. Weston, Granddad and my own Mother and Father. I felt a pang of shame as I collected my cases and put them on a trolley. At some time I had discarded that case in one of the many moves in my life and I had not given it a thought to those good old days until now.

Delicious meals in austerity Britain

I have always been thin. It was a worry to my family. Especially my Auntie Maud.
"He needs building up", she told my mother.
My mother only smiled wistfully.
"Do you give him any dripping?" Auntie Maud went on.
"He loves it", said Mum. "He's always putting it on a slab of bread".

This was true. It was caviar to me. The small pudding basin of dripping kept in the larder was under constant attack. I used to make a hole in the off white surface and burrow with a knife down into the depths to reach the meaty bits at the bottom. The layer of brown jelly was the prize. With chunks of bread cut with the bread saw, I spread the brownish white concoction on thickly. I then liberally sprinkled it with both salt and pepper and returned to the old chicken shed at the top of the garden which was my hidey house. Only there with the floor still covered with fowl droppings and the sun beating on a tar felt roof, could my gourmet meal be truly savoured.

I was a dab hand in the kitchen. My brother was useless. To be sure, I didn't do much more than open a tin or two and light the gas, but I never starved. My brother didn't starve either, he had another tactic. He would visit his friends when the hunger pangs came on. He would just hang around until the family he had invaded would be obliged to feed him. He was a bit like a cuckoo in this respect, only he relied on the existing chick to stick around to lead him to the table.

Meanwhile back in our kitchen, I would be boiling an egg, prior to heating a tin of spaghetti and burning a slice of toast. Timing never came easily with me. This meal was 'Birds Nest'. The toast, liberally buttered, would be covered with spaghetti and the hard boiled egg placed on top. I needed to be alone when I cooked this, for if my brother was around he would scoff one or more of the component parts. He was a cuckoo at home too!

On Sunday mornings, with all the family at home, we had a late breakfast of fried bacon and egg, with tomato and the finest, thickest and greasiest fried bread ever. I can imagine and smell it now. The crisp outside was uniformly brown, and oozed hot bacon fat.

Delicious!

After the meal was served, the cuckoo and I would each have our beaks open waiting for Mum to toss us the rind as she cleaned up. This would be stripped of its fat first, gulped down and the hard rind nibbled at leisure later. I don't know where my brother ate his but I took mine to the chicken shed.

Three or four hours later, the Sunday roast was on the table. My Dad was very good about this. He only stayed at the pub for a couple of beers. My school friends fathers never used to return home until after Two o'clock, when the landlords threw them out. They took no part in the preparation of the meal, but ate it mechanically and then retired to bed to sleep off the effects of five or six pints of bitter. My Father on the other hand would have the most important job of carving the joint. To this day I still consider this, the essential part of the Sunday meal's preparation. The laying of the table was entrusted to us boys. That usually meant just me. The cuckoo was already eating at Tommy Radford's house two streets away. Mother did all the minor jobs of peeling vegetables, preparing the meat and turning it in the oven, boiling the vegetables soggy with ample sprinklings of salt, putting bi-carb in the cabbage to make it green, and making suet pudding and custard.

She would confidently say, "Your Father will be back soon, and then we can dish up."
And he was. He had that most important job to do. I dreamed of the day when I could do it too. He used to sharpen the knife on the doorstep, which developed a concave depression through continued use.

But I didn't get any fatter. Or did I? Well it didn't show then. Forty years later after eating sensible low fat meals, with plenty of fruit and vegetables has done me no good whatsoever. Those early days of a liberal fat intake has given me a high cholesterol reading regardless of the drugs prescribed to combat it.

The day I dared

"Jim Norris! I would never have believed it."
Neither did I, here I was 12,000 miles from home, in a restaurant in England and somebody was calling my name. I turned and a broadly smiling face greeted me. Quickly I did a spot check. Who was he? He was clean shaven, had grey hair, was shorter than me and carried a bit of weight.
"Why! Hello there," I responded weakly. My brain was in a whirl. Who was he?
I returned his beaming smile, would anything about him give me a clue?
"You don't remember me, do you?" he said, still smiling and with good humour.
"Graham." I quickly interjected. "Well I never." At least something was coming back. I had been to school with him forty years ago. Who recognises old school chums? Well he did! Now what was his surname?
"Did you ever meet my wife Helen?" Then all in the same breath he went on. "Of course you did, you were both in the same form, weren't you?"
In my confusion at trying to recognise the stranger, I had completely ignored his partner at the table. I turned to her. Helen. Helen Ritchie. Oh yes! I knew Helen.
She smiled up at me and we shook hands shyly.
"Hello Helen, isn't this just amazing. Here am I just visiting England for a few weeks, and we meet each other after all this time."
Graham clearly was very pleased with the whole affair. He fetched a chair so that I could sit at their table. He ordered another glass for me to share their wine. He prattled on about the inane and inconsequential. Yes, I remembered Graham now. He was both a laugh and a bore at school. I had quickly grown away from him and his gang of cronies.
But Helen.....
Now at this point I must say how ashamed I feel about my relationship with Helen.
Graham was right, we were in the same class at school, but it wasn't until we were in sixth form that we really took any notice of each other. As sixth formers were supposed to be more responsible, so in our periods free from rostered classes, we were allowed to study in the library and even play tennis. We did both of these. During such times we talked about everything under the sun. She went to ballet classes, loved opera and classical music, and had the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen. On the tennis court we always seemed to play against each other in doubles and it was then I noticed what shapely tanned legs she had. In the library when we were together we talked about politics, music, art and our futures.
I remember she wrote out the English translations of some of the famous opera arias just for me. We were like brother and sister. It must have been when we were talking about the opera La Boheme, and the duet of Rudolfo and Mimi and her problem of frozen hands that we got around to talking about our own hands.
And I dared to touch her hands.
Her fingers were slender, with neatly cut nails and her palms were soft and warm. Not like Mimi's! I had never before been in such an intimate situation and its importance was completely lost upon me.
Later like a fool I asked Helen if she could help me. My roving eye had fallen on the voluptuous Rebecca Simpson and could think of no way to attract her attention, so I asked Helen intercede for me. She did so, and before long had arranged a meeting for Rebecca and me.
I can remember quite clearly the evening she told me. As usual I had walked Helen to her bus stop. Arrangements made, I thanked her. As she looked so sad I asked if she was O.K. The smallest of tears formed in her eyes and she said she loved me herself. Only she didn't say it in English, she said it in Italian, the language of opera. I didn't speak the language but clearly understood the amore part. I was helpless and hopeless in this situation. I was still thinking of my future meeting with Rebecca. When her bus came in she gave me a quick peck on the cheek, a squeeze of the hand and left me for ever. We hardly ever spoke or did things together after that.
Now forty years later here she was, married to Graham! Well he seems to have done well for himself. While we exchanged pleasantries I looked a them both. I am lying of course I spent most of my time looking at Helen. Yes, of course she had changed, but she was still Helen. She was just as attractive. A little plumper perhaps, touches of grey in her hair, crinkled lines at the corners of her still beautiful eyes, but none of these detracted from the classic shape of her face with the high cheek bones, the unblemished skin, and her hands..... No! They had not changed either.
A mobile phone rang, it was Graham's. The reception wasn't good so he excused himself and went out into the street to answer it.
Helen and I were alone together.
It was then that she did the most extraordinary thing. She reached out for my hand, took it and with exquisite tenderness touched each finger. I was looking at her face as she did this and she looked back up at me.
"Nothing has changed," she whispered, "It's just like yesterday."
With that same sad look of so many years ago she gently let go of my hand.
"You had better go now. I'll tell him you had an appointment to keep."
So once again she slipped out of my life. This time I didn't even get a kiss on the cheek. But it was in the way she had touched my hand I knew that we had had a very special sort of love.
I left without either of us saying another word.

When Angela was brave

"Are you set to go Jenny?" Angela called to her three year old. Jenny appeared in the hall with her dolls pram. She was ready as usual to go out for their walk. With Jack fast asleep in his pram they left the house by the front door shortly after Ten o'clock.
Although Angela tried to change the route, Jenny usually dictated the ultimate destination, which was the childrens playground on the corner of Cypress Avenue. Sometimes Angela would try to get there by a more round about route but Jenny knew if they were walking away from the playground.
"This is not the way Mummy."
"It's just round the corner dear." Jenny looked up at her mother doubtfully and conceded this time.
Mrs. Maxwell came out to her gate and remarked how beautiful the children looked. Angela prided herself on the way she dressed her little ones and felt it was her due, when complimented.
"Jenny had her dress given her by her Nanna, didn't you?"
Jenny nodded shyly and Mrs. Maxwell smiled down at her. She then turned and headed back to her door saying "Its a fine day."
They reached the park. Jenny headed for the swings. Angela started her swinging and pushed Jenny's dolls pram back to stand next to Jack's larger one. Angela sat on the bench seat under the wattle tree and relaxed. She could see both of her babies at the same time and felt with the warmth of the sun, a deeper, warmer, more satisfying feeling of contentment and pride, at being able to produce two such perfect children. Jenny, she could hear was singing the nursery rhyme Polly Flinders but had got the words mixed up with Ring-a-ring o roses. She smiled to herself and noticed at the same time out of the corner of her eye that there was someone running towards the playground. She turned and saw two teenager boys approaching. When they reached the fence, one jumped clear over it, while the other scrambled over. She stood up concerned lest they frighten Jenny who was some distance away from her. The two youths were now whooping and skylarking on the equipment. They reached Jenny first. One mounted the other swing and the other got behind Jenny and pushed her hard. Angela heard her cry out in alarm and started running over to her. They danced away from the swings and raced past Angela.
"Whats-a-matter lady, scared?" The last word drawn out with horrifying intent.
Angela looked right into the face of the youth. His pale spotty complexion, crew cut hair and vicious sneer on his face sent a shudder of fear through her.
"Leave my children alone."
"Huh. Where's the other one then?" They scampered off toward the prams. Angela screamed.
"Don't you dare touch him!"
Its made no difference. They took a pram each and with careless abandon and intent tore around the park with Angela chasing after them, whilst Jenny sat wailing on the ground. The youth with the dolls pram at one point lifted the whole contraption up and turned Jenny's doll out on to the grass. Angela was so terrified and anxious at this point she thought that it was Jack that had been pitched out. She rushed up to the tiny heap of clothes and searched though them for her baby before she realised her mistake.
Luckily the torment was soon over and they left the playground almost as quickly as they had arrived. Jack was unharmed and although awake was unconcerned by the events. Angela gathered the children and the bits and pieces together. Still sobbing she and Jenny hugged each other for comfort.
"Let's go home now darling."
It was only then, when she started to push the pram that she saw that her handbag was missing. She looked around frantically for it but it had definitely gone.
"Those damned boys have stolen it."
Jenny looked up in surprise at her mother. Her sobbing stopped. Mummy hardly ever got cross. Just to help she said:
"Those damned boys."
Despite the seriousness of the situation Angela laughed and squeezed Jenny's hand.
"How are we going to get back in the house without a key? Daddy is going to think me such a fool."
The little family group got back to their street. Angela tried both of her neighbours but neither one was there. She had to go further up the road to Mr. Lawrence's house before she could find anyone at home.
The elderly white haired man came to the door.
"Well hello my dear...."
Angela cut him off. "I'm sorry Mr. Lawrence could I use your phone. I have just had my handbag stolen and they've taken my keys as well."
The old man took several seconds to take it all in.
"Oh. Oh. Yes. Come on in. Do you know the number?" He started fussing around with the directories.
"It's all right. I shall phone the police first."
She dialled the emergency number. Waited, then when answered, had to explain which service she required.
"Police."
She was asked to hold on. Again the wait. She looked around. Jack was getting restless in the pram. Jenny was clinging to her thin dress.
"I've been robbed.....In the street.....Well at the Sarah Patterson playground on Acacia Avenue.....They took my handbag.....Two youths..... No, I'm at a neighbours now.....
Well, money, keys, credit cards and personal things..... No, I can't get in but I'll phone my husband next."
She agreed to return home and wait for a patrol car to arrive.
"Could I make another quick call, Mr. Lawrence?"
Mr. Lawrence nodded his head. His worried look probably meant that all this was becoming too much for him to cope with. Jack was crying now and Jenny pulled insistently at her clothes.
"I want to go home Mummy."
"Let me talk to Daddy first darling." There was no answer. Mr. Lawrence looked pained. His morning procedure was being severely disrupted. She gave Jenny a cuddle then cooed at Jack who refused to be pacified.
"I'll try Frank again." she apologised.
Still no answer. Where was he?
"I'll have to go. I'm meeting the police at my place."
Mr. Lawrence looked relieved.
"Could you ring my husband again. Please ask him to come home straight away."
The old man nodded in agreement, took Frank's number and ushered them out onto the street.
She wheeled the family home. Jenny valiantly pushed her doll's pram despite the uphill climb. Sensing her mothers distress she said not a word.
Angela felt relieved to get back home but frustrated because she couldn't get into the house. Jack needed a change of nappies so she took them both around to the side of the house under the patio. She deftly changed Jack's disposable nappy and rinsed her hands under the garden tap. She sat down on a patio chair in the dappled sunlight and rocked Jack back to sleep again. Soon he was quietened. Angela relaxed and hoped that Frank would come home soon. Then she remembered that the police were due to arrive and glanced now repeatedly towards the front garden. All was quiet. She started making lists in her head of all the things she needed to do as soon as she could get indoors. She had to ring the Bank, then there was the store and credit card numbers. There was her driving licence. She knew there must be more.
"Oh. Frank please come home" she murmured.
Jenny went off to talk to the gnomes in the front garden.
"There's someone at our front door, Mummy."
"I'm coming."
Angela walked around to the front door. She expected to see a police patrol car in the road, but it wasn't there. Neither were there any policemen on her doorstep. The front door was open.
"Daddy must be home" she breathed with a sigh of relief.
"No, it's not Daddy."
Angela froze. Until this very moment she hadn't dreamt that the hooligans would use her own keys to break into the house. Without a seconds thought, she told Jenny to go back to look after Jack in his pram. With a fury that she could not explain, she went in through the open door. She picked up the walking stick with a brass birds head handle that was standing in the chinese pot, with the umbrellas by the front door.
Quietly she listened at the Lounge Room door. She could hear them talking.
"Quick. There's no time to fiddle with it."
"Pull it out from the bloody plug."
"Go and see if there's anything in the bedroom while I check the Kitchen for cash."
As one of the youths came out the door to the Hall, Angela swung the walking stick and hit the boy across the throat. He made a strange 'thuk' 'thukking' noise as he dropped the video, fell to his knees and clutched at his neck. His face was drained of all colour and he had difficulty breathing. He lay on the floor twitching.
"You haven't dropped it, you pillock!" shouted the other boy from the Kitchen.
Angela was waiting for him as he emerged from the kitchen with a fist of small notes in one hand and the other putting the loose change from her earthenware spice jar in his pocket.
"You bastards, how dare you do this to me and my kids."
The spotty lad's mouth fell open. As quick as a flash he turned to go back out through the Kitchen. Surprising herself Angela darted after him and struck at his back with the stick. The birds beak caught him in the middle of his back and stuck there. The stick was wrenched from Angela's hand as he fled. He reached the back door but couldn't open it because of the deadlock. She looked frantically around for another weapon. All she could find was a copper bottomed saucepan. She stood over the crumpled figure by the door as he desperately tried to reach the walking stick stuck in his back and get away from her. The saucepan was lifted high in case he made a move against her.
Suddenly she felt an hand on her shoulder and the saucepan taken from her grasp. She thought that the other boy had come after her. She struggled and slipped away, only to see a policeman holding the saucepan that he had wrested from her.
"Thank God you've come."
"Perhaps you could explain what's going on, Madam, while my colleague calls an ambulance."
Angela could see the second police officer kneeling by the boy with the injured throat. He was calling base asking for assistance. "I must see to my children."
"Not just yet, Madam."
"Don't you try to tell me what I can or cannot do with my own children." Angela hurried back out to the Hall past the figures by the Lounge door and went out to get to Jenny and Jack.
"Would you please stop, Madam." The policeman insisted as he followed her out. Angela ignored him and went to the children.
"Is everything all right now Mummy?
"Yes, darling." She lifted up her daughter to hug her.
A vehicle drew up at the curb, Angela turned and hoped it would be Frank. It wasn't. It was the meter reader. He smiled at her.
"It's a fine Day!"
Angela nodded. Yes, perhaps it was now.