Entwined by the young

Grandchildren run down the beach
Buckets in hand
Across the sand
We settle in a deckchair each

I keep an eye on the wee pair
They pick up some stones
As I rest my bones
But close my eyes in the deck chair

The seas song sooothes me fast asleep
Shading my eyes
While Seagull cries
Until I hear not a single peep

I know not how long that I'd slept
Heard distant drones
Weight on my bones
Woke, found that I was quite inept

A seaweed skein draped on my head
Shells on my chest
Pebbles and rest
That weighed down my merman's bed

Soon sea shanty's refrain was sung
Crowds were abuzz
Laughed at the fuss
No shame to be entwined by the young

Image found at https://depositphotos.com/97825174/stock-video-senior-man-sleeping-on-deck.html

At the seaside

My mother had no faith in the sea
But stayed her distance on the golden sand
Except when it retreated at low tide
Then dare to paddle Dad close at hand

She even felt sick on a rowing boat
That crossed to Arun river's western shore
To Littlehampton's deserted beach
Did grip the side, and cry out 'No more!"

While we boys chased around the sand dunes
Explored the old fort or splashed in the sea
Mother fretted that sunny afternoon
Dreamt of safety where she wanted to be

Despite the sun her face was quite pale
As we trekked back to ferry's river berth
She closed her eyes for the journey's row back
Sighed with relief stepping on the real earth

Image found at http://www.simplonpc.co.uk/Littlehampton.html

On Brighton beach

My mind goes far back
Memory of those times past
Fifties in England

Youth in post war years
How the sun shone on us then
Some rain fell as well

Summer holiday
Carrying our suitcases
Tired from the train trip

Finding our new digs
Check for fleas and germs hiding
Long walk to beach

Those girls on the prom
Singing, swinging, swaying skirts
Holiday fever

We chatted them up
Their retorts like sharp scissors
That sure took the cake

I recall just one
Enveloped by cockney lass
Was a great kisser

Image found at www.ebay.co.uk

England in August

War was over, just
It was summer 'forty-five
Holiday called us

We went to Hastings
By train on the Sussex coast
England in August

Barbed wire was all gone
Air raid shelters still in place
Digs a mile from beach

I had no swimsuit
Kids couldn't bathe in the nude
Not that I could swim

Costume was makeshift
Under vest sewn up down there
(If you understand)

Wet it reached my knees
Lackadaisical parents
Were poor as church mice

Wartime was now past
I even had an ice cream
How good was that then!

Image found on www.pinterest.com

Waking up in Samoa

I had hardly been asleep a few minutes or so I thought when I felt a nudge on my back. My wife whispered “Wake Up! There’s someone at the door”.

My eyes opened reluctantly, I glanced at my watch. It was 9 o’clock in the morning and we were in a hotel room. The gentle tap came again and so I wrapped myself up and went to the door and opened it. There smiling happily at me was a young Samoan girl all ready to clean the room. I apologised and explained we had only arrived a few hours ago at 5am in the morning after a night flight from Sydney. “Could you come back a little later?”

She nodded reluctantly as the girls clearly worked to a routine. We were visiting Western Samoa in the Pacific and having done some research had chosen to stay at “Aggie Grey’s Hotel” on the waterfront.

In the heady days of colonisation of little nations by the world’s powers the Samoan Island’s were disputed by Britain, Germany and the USA keeping their gun ships handy to stake their claim. In this case it was decided that Germany was to be lucky superpower and the two main islands Savaii and Upolu became their colony in 1899, while the United States took over the smaller islands and much of the Pacific Ocean waters in the vicinity. Robert Louis Stevenson the author of several adventure books lived there with his extended family until his death in 1889. Western Samoa finally gained it’s independence in 1962 after having New Zealand as its colonial master following WW1.

So now we were in this warm paradise of “South Pacific” fame staying in the timber framed hotel owned by the aging Aggie Grey who had made her money trading with the occupying allied forces during WW2. She now employed the young men and women from her home village in the hotel and who were also the fia fia dancers at the evening’s entertainment. We loved the place. At the swimming pool my wife found herself swimming with the film star Robert Morley. The walkways had bunches of bananas hanging down for the staff to eat as they worked (and also tempting the guests) and there was all invading tropical perfume of exotic flowers and coconut oil. Needless to say I was entranced by the shy smile of the girls plaiting flowers to decorate the bedrooms as they sat in the walkways speaking to each other with a sound like the gentle murmuring of the ocean.

We explored the capital Apia with it German colonial timbered building and sat quietly in the numerous churches but kept clear of the children who with machetes busily cut the lawns with skilful swipes.

It was humid and the first few days the walks were short with frequent rests and long drinks and a cool off in the pool. We explored the island on day trips and discovered waterfalls and swimming holes and exotic beaches and so many churches that were told were built with building material meant to mend the roads, which clearly never were.

Mind you it could have been the pigs that dug up the road. They wandered about freely and wherever they wanted eating whatever they could find.

The bus transport was mainly converted trucks with seats and no windows. It was too humid for that. These plied their way to villages collected the locals to take them to the market and to return later in the afternoon with all their purchases in huge baskets or even building materials tied to the roof or in the aisles so access was an adventure.

On one trip we boarded the crowded tourist bus last and I had to sit next to the driver with the pretty young guide wedged in beside me. She chatted about everything under the sun and told me her surname was Schmidt which clearly came from the German colonial era. As the bus rattled along her bare leg and mine frequently touched and at one time she looked at me and said you are browner that I am, proudly placing her arm against mine to prove it.

Later we took a trip to the larger but lesser populated island of Savaii and walked over the lava fields from an old volcano eruption and shown the “Virgin’s Grave” where a young girl died in a lava flow. Later we nodded thanks at a refreshment stop when the owner proudly showed us her husband's grave in the garden outside the back door as we made to leave.

On the short flight back to Apia’s airport only we were weighed not the luggage before we boarded the light plane as there are some very big people in Samoa! The flight was delayed a little as a mother and her young child boarded late to be taken to the hospital on the main island. As she nursed her child I held the bottle of saline drip attached to his arm while my wife sat next to the pilot up front.

Another night at the hotel the staff also performed in the Fia Fia nights entertaining guests with their seductive dancing and singing and the girl that had served me in the hotel shop earlier now danced enticingly before me. The lights were turned down and the men juggled with their flaming brands.

When we returned I said I really wanted to go again but my better half shook her head and said “Wake up, the first time is magical but it would never be the same again.” Yet even she had been entranced with one of the male dancers!

It is nearly thirty years since we went there and I still remember the eyes the girl that danced before me and who looked only at me.

Faith

My mother had no faith in the sea’s trustworthiness. She panicked whenever the ocean, sea, tidal inlet or even a sluggish river were in close proximity. This became apparent to me as an 11 year old when we spent a holiday with relatives who lived by the sea at Littlehampton in Sussex shortly after WW2. We stayed a in a village a tidy walk from the town and the sea itself was still a distance from the shops. The beach was flat and mostly sandy which was where most people congregated close to all conveniences such as the ice cream parlours, the tea rooms, the amusement arcade, the putting greens and of course the public conveniences.

My father was more adventurous and on hearing of a deserted beach on the other side of the river that ran through the town decided on an expedition to this haven from the hoi polloi, in order that games, picnics and sea bathing could be enjoyed without the need to jostle for space on the main beach, trip over others belongings and join hundreds of others in the an almost religious dip into the ocean akin to bathing in the Ganges. Mother approved the plan and we found that to reach the unspoilt pristine beach we would have to be rowed across the river by a boat plied by a boatman. This was exciting. The boatman himself was a gnarled weather beaten old salt that said little and merely did his job whilst smoking a old pipeful of rank tobacco that sent up a cloud and stench so foul no other water craft came near us. I do remember his hands though; great brown knotted clumps of flesh on the ends of his arms that gripped the oars and seemed to me to epitomise immense strength.

I could see the panic on my mother’s face as we and several other hardy souls intent on exploration also clambered into the boat. The charge per passenger was 1d and for this we were ferried a few yards across the River Arun. This comparatively short river rising somewhere to the north of Arundel was extremely fast flowing. At Littlehampton this was quite evident when the tide was out. When the tide was in, as it was this morning, the basin filled and the water was sluggish so rowing across to the other side was simple, much to the relief of mother. Thus it was when we crossed for the first time and safely delivered on foreign territory we trekked the few hundred yards to the beach and spent the whole day there, exploring, eating, playing and even bathing. Mother however merely donned her sunsuit and had no discourse at all with the sea.

With all the food eaten, burnt by the wind and the sun, tired out from so much exploration and hungry again we made our way back to the ferry crossing. There was a queue of customers as the journey seemed to take longer this time. The tide was going out. No that is not true it was racing out and the pair of ferry boats in use were making very heavy weather of the trip. When we finally boarded and pushed off the boatman with grim determination immediately turned the craft and rowed with a steely look on his face in what appeared to be wrong direction upstream and continued that way painfully slowly. Only when the berth on the opposite side seemed totally out of reach did he carefully swing the boat around and drift down with the current. The craft seemed hopelessly out of control until some yards from the berth did he nudge the boat into the waiting hands on shore to quickly fasten it and unload the passengers on dry land. Now we boys and Dad certainly had faith that all would be well. Mother on the other hand did not open her eyes until she was helped out of the boat on the other side.

Postcard of the tiny ferryboat in middle of photo crowded with faithful trippers c.1950

The Demand

Last week Ben discovered more of Venice than he anticipated, this week we discover more of his wife Rosie that we anticipated.


As soon as Ben closed the door, Rosie opened her eyes. She waited a full three minutes listening, just to see if he might come back. Perhaps he had forgotten something. But no, not this time.
She swung her legs around and sat on the side of the bed. Again she waited a few seconds, then picked up the phone.
"Signor Guidi's room, per favore."
Her mixture of English and Italian was apparently understood, and almost immediately she heard, "Pronto?"
"Antonio?"
"Si."
"It's Rosalie. "I demand that..." there was a pause, " that you inspect our room."
Rose's breathing betrayed her, as she struggled to say what they had agreed she should say.
Antonio the coach captain, murmured his assent and hung up. Rosie gently put her phone back on its cradle. She went to the dressing table and tidied her face and hair. As she looked into the mirror and saw her own eyes, she chided herself.
"Don't look at me like that. You persuaded me last time. Now you have to go long with me this time."

Having justified herself, she turned away from the mirror and waited for the knock on the door. To Rosie it took a very long time in coming. Antonio, had in fact had been waiting. He was an old hand at this game. He boasted to his fellow guides that he could recognise the possible liaisons on the very first night when they briefed each new coach party on the tour. He walked casually from his room, down the passage to the foyer. He called the lift, entered it alone and without having to consult his little notebook, where Rosie's name and room number were written, pressed the correct floor. He examined himself again in the mirror of the lift. He dressed casually, light weight cotton trousers, a blue polo top and matching canvas shoes. He was not tall, but the way he walked on springing steps made up for that. His dark brown hair was soft and long. It rode over his collar and curled around his ears, and almost as if planned, he allowed a lock fall forward onto his brow. His face was animated and held a half a smile on his lips at all times. His eyes were deep and sensuous with feeling and moved quickly, picking up everything that was happening around him. He noted subtle movements, what people did with their hands, how they stood, what messages their eyes sent that their conversation did not. He took everything in and stored it away for future use. The messages he had received from Rosie said she wanted to be touched. Now he was going to touch her.

He knocked on her door. "Antonio." He called. She opened it straight away, not even a suggestion that she had to walk from the other side of the room to answer it. Antonio put that away too. She was a little too eager. He would have to slow her down a little, just a bit. He regarded her standing there. At first her eyes looked up at him, then she lowered them, as he said, "You wish to see me?"
She looked past him anxiously lest anyone else from the coach party should see him there. She pulled him into the room by the sleeve of his shirt. She closed the door and slid the little brass chain in its slot, hoping it would not seem obvious. Nothing escaped Antonio.
Rosie wore a light summer dress; it had a high rounded neck and a deep opening at its back. Its large pink and blue and white flowers made her look cool and serene, despite her anxiety. Her arms and legs were bare and their honey brown colour contrasted sharply with his fiercely dark skin. She had put Paris perfume on, but regretted it as it seemed too heavy now. He took her by both her hands, lightly. Then drawing her closer to him, bent down and kissed first one hand then the other. He kissed the back of her hand, then the fingers and then with a delicacy that surprised her, kissed her palms, her thumbs, then each finger until the little fingers were reached. She was already feeling a little faint and wanted to sit down. She moved slightly to her left and sat down on the bed. As she did so she kicked off the sandals she was wearing. He still had hold of her hands and she leaned forward and lay her cheek against his fingers, and heaved a big sigh. With incredible tenderness, he touched her hair, her ears and traced the soft roundness of her face. He lightly touched her nose, ran his fingertips over her now closed eyes and finished with one finger just touching her lips.

Rosie didn't mean to, but she let out another sigh. It was not a sigh of regret or anxiety. It was a sigh of exhilaration and satisfaction. But the sigh was short lived Antonio bent over and kissed her on the lips he had just touched. If Rosie had expected a violent passionate kiss with a searching tongue to explode her senses she was very much mistaken. He kissed her with just that same amount of tenderness that he had touched her face and now continued to touch the rest of her body. Rosie who was at anticipating to be borne away in a masterful Latin lover's fiery embrace now found herself melting into his arms, into this delicious slow seduction. It was, on reflection, what was precisely missing from her normal lovemaking with Ben. She expected to be ravished, but this was not happening; he was taking each and every part of her and quietly, gently, lovingly, praising it and making it his own. There was little conversation; he murmured a number of 'cara's' and 'bella's' and even a few 'bellissima'a' but he didn't speak directly to her or demand that she say anything in return.

With his practiced art, Antonio touched and unzipped, kissed and slipped off, held tight and set free until they were both without even one stitch of clothing on. Antonio now was very much a part of her. Somehow almost without her noticing the very moment that it had happened, he had found his way into her and she felt very good about it. There was no rush of love making; there was just this exquisite togetherness. And yet, as they touched and moved and fondled each other, she felt the wave of indescribable fulfilment envelop her. The inevitability of their lovemaking now burst in her and over her like a shower of stars. She clung on to him and felt his warm body against her. As she slowly recovered, she felt the tears of her passion run down her cheeks and smear against his chest. She knew too that her body was moist with perspiration. She felt spent and satisfied.

The feeling lasted only a very short time. The hairs from his chest tickled her face and she wanted to dry her eyes. She felt now that his body was a stranger's body, and wanted to draw away from it. She was anxious to wash the evidence of their lovemaking from her. She glanced up at his face and even that no longer held the attraction it had. Was he the same man that flirted with her on the tour, and held her possessively as she had almost slipped on the steps of the coach? She eased herself from under him, and almost as if he had read her mind, he rolled over too and sat on the side of the bed. He pulled his clothes back on and turned his back slightly to her so that she could rearrange herself.

When he turned back, she had covered herself with the sheet. He got up then and as he slipped his watch back on his wrist he glanced at it deliberately. She noticed this but did not look at him again. He bent down to slip his shoes on. When he had done this, he approached her again, took her left hand only this time and kissed it on the back. He smiled at her and went to the door, slipped the chain and left with, "Perhaps we will see each other at dinner?" Then he was gone.
She gave no reply.

Rosie got up, went to the door, fastened it again and headed straight to the bathroom. As the water tumbled all over her she reflected that she had not said one word to him. She nodded and smiled to herself; as though by that fact alone, it made what she had done quite innocent. Perhaps it had not happened at all. As she stepped from the shower she saw herself in the hazy mirror. "Well, I won't tell if you don't," she said.

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.

My Roman Affair

(OK, so this isn't new but it has not been posted to a prompt before so I thought it needed another airing for newer readers.)   

I looked down at the plate. What had they given us this time? It was 9.30pm Maureen and I were in a ristorante in Rome with the rest of the coach party. It was our last night in the city and and we were enjoying our farewell dinner. The place was crowded, and this was no understatement. It was packed to the rafters! When we had arrived our hearts sank as we could see the place was full. Surely the arrangements had gone seriously wrong. But no, we were ushered in, through the ground floor dining rooms, down a passage, past the kitchens when ten or more chefs and kitchen hands worked in a typical latin frenzy.

At the end of the passage we turned left and squeezed past waiters moving back and forth from service areas to eating areas. Then we went down some steep stairs to the lowest rooms of the building, we had arrived in a series of subterranean vaults that had been converted to dining rooms. We made our way through the mass of diners already eating and eventually found ourselves in a corner with just enough tables and chairs to seat our party.

I automatically looked for the fire exit; there was none! In my mind I read the page three European news in my local Australian newspaper. "Hundreds die in restaurant fire in Rome. Australian tourists believed to be victims. Difficulty in identifying charred bodies. Police have issued an arrest warrant for missing restaurant owner."

We all sat down. Then with typical Italian flourish we were welcomed by the waiter who fussed around the women with smooth courtesy. Wine and water were placed on the table and we were encouraged to ask for more when that ran out. It was included in the meal. So things were not so bad after all! The bottled water might help to put out any fire that started!

The gourmet food and wine were consumed, course by course. Laughter erupted out of the conversation like a natural by-product at such a gathering. New friendships forged in recent days spoke of enduring relationships and the wine flowed. The waiters teased, picked their favorites and customers allowed them liberties that they would laugh about or perhaps choose not to remember in the morning.

My eyes strayed from the group. Through an archway in the wall another party were similarly disposed. A family group of Italian grandparents, parents and children joined in the repartee with the waiters and shouted encouragement at their antics. The eldest granddaughter was a Gina Lollabrigida type; dark eyes, flowing black hair and a sensuality that reflected in every movement.

The main course was served and with a clatter of plates, the most handsome waiter chose his favorite at each table to present their meal on a silver platter. He insisted on a reward of course. He drew his napkin from his arm and with no lack of Latin charm shielded his chosen lady while he stole a kiss. If she resisted he persevered. If she encouraged he took his time. There was no escape and the crowded room erupted with laughter. The wine bottles were exchanged.

I glanced back to family through the arch. A three piece group of musicians were serenading each table and had arrived at Gina Lollabrigida's. She was entranced. She wriggled with desire and rose willingly when the singer invited her to dance. She swayed voluptuously in his arms, her eyes shining and her body reflecting the rhythm of the music. The singer was called away by the leader of the group and she stood in hurt solitude, her supple young body not yet ready to give up. A passing waiter found himself dancing with her, but he was too keen and held her close to feel that young body against him. She frowned, shook her head and released him from her grasp. Yet another waiter was chosen, this one was a fine dancer too. He held her lightly, and led her around the tiny space available, their bodies moving in perfect timing with the music. She closed her eyes in ectasy with a seductive smile on her face.

I was captivated.

The band of minstrels moved away from their area and she reluctantly returned to the family's table and sat down.

I returned to my Gnocchi.

A little while later the musicians approached our table. What fun it was. The ladies were serenaded in turn and the men were encouraged to place a note on the guitar if they approved of the music. There was certainly no room to dance where we were but the thrill of the seductive music, the charm of the Romeo musicians and the effect of the wine showed in the eyes of our partners.

I do not know what made me glance back to the dark eyed nymph through the archway, but I did. She was pouting with exasperation that the music was so close again but unavailable to her. She remonstrated with the singer to come back to her, but he merely smiled and turned back to our group. I kept my eyes on her. For the first time now facing in our direction she saw me too. There was the merest hint of understanding. We searched each others faces and for just one second she was mine. But the moment was brief. In that time I too held her in my arms and danced with her. I could feel that sensuous body against mine and I kissed those red lips.

We both turned away at the same time, then she was lost to me forever.

I returned to my glass of wine and smiled brightly at Maureen and the others on my table hoping my eyes would not reveal my passionate affair.

(Danse a la ville, painting by Renoir c 1883)