1940b

At the time, everyone said the 2010 celebration had been the best ever.

Some said it was because the local council had handed organisation over to The North End Railway and Omnibus Committee, and being free from public sector concerns, that fine body of men had been able to divert all their attention to it. Others said private enterprise had more to do with it, while a minority mumbled something about local and national advertising revenue. But whatever the reason, celebration of the 70th Anniversary of The Battle of Britain turned out the best commemorative weekend Timerton had ever held. Everyone said so.

For starters, the group had organised a series of gala days to fill the market place with wartime arts and crafts, memorabilia displays, shops and stalls, and even a vintage vehicle show. Past events and new invitations had brought TV crews to jostle with local radio teams on the High Street for best shots and interviews. Amateur and professional photographers had begged visitors’ permission for snaps, and cards slipped into the hands of costumed locals arranged for later studio shots. But the centre-piece had been planned to be seen by everyone. On the afternoon of the Saturday, The Battle of Britain Memorial Flight performed a fly-past.

And that wasn’t all. Centred on the steam railway yards at the edge of town, a costume event had been assembled with candy-striped markets stalls, a period fair, and live shows. Timerton Am-Drams had practised new material for a stage play, in friendly competition with the brass band ramped up to concert-ready alert, with countless renditions of Blue Birds Over… backed by a real wind-up gramophone. Very passable renditions of Vera Lynn tugged at heart-strings amongst the throaty churn of 5 litre road-diesels and locomotives building steam. But wherever emotions truly lay, all thoughts eventually turned to the bunting laden carriages that scurried the gradient towards Tareham.

All over town the distinctive insignia of allied army, navy, and airmen could be seen worn proudly and patriotically. The uniforms were more than liberally distributed amongst the modern day clothes of shoppers and traders, as those entering into the spirit of the celebrations carried their enthusiasm into everyday life and wore their lent, borrowed or hired uniforms throughout the day. Many intended a trip to the show grounds later, to soak up more of the atmosphere, though most were very happy to display their patriotism and their support for those heroes lost and the ever-dwindling number of survivors where ever they could. The streets as well as the shops were decked out in Union Jacks, bunting and wartime posters with Model T’s and Austin’s chugging through the melee.

Raymond and Mary Geffen felt no different to any of those hundreds milling about the town. Staying at the Blue Lamp Inn on High Street had proven to be the best of bases from which to enjoy the atmosphere of a traditional English country pub, explore the town and take a rickety old bus trip the short distance to the station for the attractions.

Though Ray had been more than happy to pull on his grandfather's old army uniform, his wife had been a little more reserved in her choices, insisting military functionality did nothing for her figure. She’d chosen a replica 40’s dress and shoes for the weekend and had added further value to the outfit with some authentic accessories found in a retro-shop. The bangles, beads and colours had been rare finds, and put a glow on her face to match the smile already there – a sense of belonging.

It had turned out to be an atypical September – dry and warm. Had it been the opposite Ray wouldn’t have cared – would perhaps even have preferred it that way. But Grandfather’s greatcoat remained on the hanger in their room, hanging next to Mary’s double-breasted Macintosh. Mary liked it this way – she’d invested time and money on her elaborate updo and loved the femininity of it, wanted to show it off. The crocheted snood research said she should net it with had not made it out of the overnight bag.

For his part, Ray fancied the style suited her, had almost blurted out how it took years off her before catching his tongue to mangle an unembroidered compliment. Feeling your age, Ray? Well, you can’t spiv up your Barnet – it’s far too short to do anything with.

So Ray had focused on other, authentic details such as his grandfather’s original ration book and ID card. The ID rested in his breast pocket – gave his age as 32, which suited him fine. Silly old sod!

But things were not all going their way. The two had intended to take the vintage bus to the showground, but at the pick-up point it no longer looked like they were going anywhere in that particular charabanc. With time clocking on towards lunch it became apparent wartime gremlins had been drafted in along with the more welcome attractions.

Ray stood on the loose gravel in the pub car park, hands on hips, as he and a good dozen others from The Blue Lamp eyed the driver and conductor with heavy hearts. Those two uniforms leant with heads under the bonnet of the bus discussing possible reasons why the 70-year-old vehicle wouldn’t start. Ray watched as he listened to half the conversation Mary was having with their daughter by mobile.

‘... so we’ll have to go down later, or wait and see if they can get it started. No, daddy thinks he knows what’s wrong but doesn’t want to get his clothes oily. Well, it does this time, because it’s Granddad’s old wartime stuff. Yes, he is, and so am I,’ she laughed, ‘... and you.’

Ray reached her just as she touched to end the call.

‘Don’t panic, Captain Mainwaring!’ he opened with a grin, then as the lightness melted away: ‘Driver says Green Flag’s on the way, but he’ll be an hour at least. I’d still like to try get to the station before V.E. Day and catch the train. You? It’s just, it’s a long way; too far to walk really. Do you want to drive down?’

‘Train, yes; car, no,’ his wife replied. ‘I’d rather wait for the bus if they think they can fix it. It’ll be more fun and less hassle, what with not having to park and everything.’

Ray nodded as Mary continued, ever the planner. ‘I know it’s a bit on the early side, but why don’t we have lunch now? Then we can have all afternoon at the station and on the train?’

The smile that climbed back onto Ray’s face told her all she needed to know. Twenty years of marriage brought her more than a mere suggestion of how Ray’s thoughts of the driving seat could be steered away by mention of another at the bar.

‘Fine by me,’ he said. ‘Come on then.’

Without another thought, Raymond made to leave as Mary checked about herself, busily accounting for everything before moving off.

Her hands flitted across clothing, patted down empty-smooth pockets and comfort-touched vintage jewellery. Busy fingers lingered over silk scarf and hairgrip, teasing a few stray auburn strands back into place, then straightened her already-straightened cardigan.

Raymond nodded his approval. ‘You look gorgeous.’

Mary batted his arm. ‘Oh shut up, you dozy so-and-so,’ but the flashes of scarlet high on her cheeks and those fluttering lashes higher still begged to disagree with the words.

‘We haven’t left anything on the bus, have we?’ she asked.

‘You only brought your handbag,’ her husband reminded her.

It seemed all those waiting for the bus had decided to find something else to do – the group was breaking up. Most were leaving the car park in the direction of the town centre, perhaps to the shops. Some headed towards their cars, yet others wandered aimlessly, phones held to moving lips – maybe taxi-calls. It was a shame.

Ray and Mary made for the glass doors of the pub, the rear exit aesthetically built beneath what looked to be an original archway closed off by huge wooden gates – the drayman’s entrance – shelter for people passing in and out.

‘Did you notice what time they start serving?’ Ray asked, pulling on the door-handle.

‘Shouldn’t be long,’ she replied. ‘When we had breakfast I saw a sign saying they did all-day breakfasts, so the bain-marie will be warmed up. And it’s almost 12 now.’

‘I fancied a ploughman’s.’

‘Me too, actually.’

Ray smiled. ‘Too early for a pint?’

‘What’s a ploughman’s without a pint?’

‘Dry.’

‘That’s what I—’ began the reply, but was as far as she got, her words smothered by a crunch of gears from truck passing beyond the gates. Ray’s glance snapped to the side, attention again caught by the unmistakeable sound of a gearbox with no synchromesh complaining at its driver’s rough handling.

He caught a glimpse of a huge khaki and green truck trundling past the yard gates – heavy wooden affairs standing a few inches open, as if the last person through had made only a half-hearted attempt to pull them shut and the latch hadn’t kissed the sneck. As Ray watched, a second military truck ground its gears past the narrow opening. Backing up the struggling gears, the deep throaty growl of a big engine coupled to a poor exhaust eked through the narrow gap, chasing the sound of the gearbox.

Ray watched for another. ‘Bit of a convoy going down High Street,’ he said to Mary, now safely inside the building. ‘I won’t be a mo.’

‘Okay,’ she replied. ‘I’ll find us a table; all army trucks look the same to me. Don’t you be long, now; it’s your job to order.’

As Mary disappeared into the depths of the pub, Ray let the door shut on its closer and nipped lightly around to the yard gates. With one bolted into the ground, immovable, the other had to be the opener, and sure enough swung easily as he pulled on it, open far enough to slip through and step out onto the pavement. Absently, he pulled the gate closed behind him.

It latched with a definitive click.

It looked to be quite the convoy, making enough noise and churning out more than enough stinking exhaust than he cared for. It seemed odd the owners didn’t keep their museum pieces in better condition. They really ought to, if they want them to last much longer.

Staff cars, 10 wheel trucks filled with squads of soldiers, support trucks and a couple of smaller vehicles towing cannons trundled passed.

It all looked very impressive, leaving Ray wondering where on Earth they found so many old vehicles in working order, or if they were all replicas.  And where they found all these people, all these guys riding the trucks, all in proper uniform, driving or just sitting in the back looking broody? Volunteers? Enthusiasts? But if they’d chosen to be there, why were the faces so broody, so morose? Why so glum?

If I was up there, I’d be grinning my damn-fool face off.

He looked from one sullen face, peering out from a canvas canopy on one truck, to another, every bit as dour, in the next. Well, despite the lack of staff morale there should still be one heck of a good show on down at the station later.

Hope we don’t miss it.

Ray threw up a salute, pleased to see the co-driver of the last truck respond. He watched it move slowly down the street, swing around the town marker – Blind Sam – to disappear around the corner. He thought it respectful how all the other traffic had stopped to let the convoy through.

And then he looked, and really saw. Then he stared, and understood. All the other traffic on High Street hadn’t stopped to let the convoy through, there was no other traffic. Nothing drove, nothing sat parked, nothing waited at junctions, nearby or anywhere. Now the convoy had gone the roadway lay empty. Actual traffic consisted of just two bicycles, both being wheeled. One moved along briskly, the uniformed owner determined. On his way to the showground, or is he on leave?

The other, an old chap, clad in a dark suit, as worn at both knees and elbows as he was, and topped by a flat cap plodded, resigned, holding onto his bike as much for support as to move it. Going to the post office for his pension, or on his way home to tend the vegetable garden where his lawn used to be?

With a quickening heartbeat Ray realised there didn’t seem to be many people pedestrians either.

A shiver ran through him, unsure why he should feel cold, at all or so suddenly. Fingers of doubt clutching at him were quickly loosened to grasp at common sense. Up and down the street, tourists and locals alike must have just decided High Street too dangerous a place to drive their cars when the show trucks were on the move. That was all. All the others must have made their way down to the showground. Yeah, that’s it.

But his amusement began to turn to confusion when he realised that not only could he see no modern vehicles on the street, he could see no modern people either; not one. The only figures here were all in period costume. All of them.

He absently reached for his phone, whether to grab a picture or call Mary so she could come see this too he never knew, distraction shoving the phone back away as he noted the no signal icon at the top of the screen. Reason suggested everyone in modern dress was supposed to get off the street at this time of day, but that would be a bit of a tall order, wouldn’t it, and unrealistic, even for a theme day for the whole town? But that must be it, mustn’t it? What other reason could there be?

But his confusion morphed into bafflement when he looked for, but failed to find any familiar shop fronts on the main street.

Looking to left or right brought no recognisable shop names into view. On the main street that should have yielded a lot of names – a huge number. No, not a lot, all of them; we’ve been going in and out of these shops all morning!

Those fingers of doubt re-took their hold – tightened as he pried at loosening them.

He had to tell Mary about this… this unseen side of town that they must have missed in their shopping trip that morning. They must have missed this street, surely? This wasn’t High Street. They must have walked by it, not turned down it – been distracted somehow. Surely they had. Because this couldn’t have been put up in a single morning, could it.

Could it?

But the shops fronts. They’d all changed. Yet there was something disturbingly reminiscent about them. They all seemed old, but at the same time, new.

And then suddenly, with a palpable thudding in his chest, he knew. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, he saw and understood, even though he really, truly didn’t want to.

They didn’t just do this, this morning. This isn’t for the 40’s weekend. These buildings aren’t just old; they’re old-fashioned.

The sudden urge to get back to his wife rushed in, all-encompassing and desperate, unexplained and unwanted, the feeling all the more intense by the certainty there existed no need to feel so alone and abandoned just a few short steps from all he knew. But all traces of bafflement left him when he turned to go back through the gate to fetch Mary to see what he could see—

… and behind him stood just a plain brick wall – just a plain brick wall that filled the drayman’s gateway from flagstone to lintel.

Ray placed a tentative hand onto the masonry, feeling the warmth there, the texture of its dry, flaky dustiness, hardly believing it real. And despite how much he wished, it refused to not be there.

The gate had gone. The gate he’d just walked through. He looked up, at the pub sign hanging still in the turgid September air – a sign showing a huge black bull.

The Bull? What’s happened to The Blue Lamp?

Then Ray noticed there were no road signs.

She knew it was more than a little impatient of her, but Mary had been sitting at table seven for almost ten minutes now. Choosing from the menu had taken no time – there probably weren’t any pubs in Norfolk that didn’t have ploughman’s listed, and the chalkboard had been updated for the celebrations. The remains of 12 o’clock could still be seen, smeared beneath the neat, legible hand-written all day. It was well into all day now.

She pursed her lips, and waited, wondering if she should text Ray a third time or try calling again. It wasn’t like him not to answer. Well, she wasn’t about to go up to the bar and order if he wasn’t going to pick up when she called. Anyway, he had to decide what he wanted. Knowing him he’d have changed his mind from the ploughman’s because it was the wrong cheese or something equally irrelevant. He might have said what he wanted, but he was so easily distracted from doing what he said he was going to do these days it was pretty much a foregone conclusion he’d be in the mood for something else when he got back. Must be his age.

And she drew the line at ordering drinks.

He’d probably been distracted by some other attraction on his way back, and that was what was holding him up. Take this convoy for instance. It couldn’t have been that impressive, not enough to hold his attention this long, because the wide front windows of the bar looked out onto the main street, and there hadn’t been any army trucks pass by in the time she’d been in the bar. It must have been a brief spectacle, and on the way back he’d been caught by something else. He’d have been back by now if he’d just stayed to see the trucks.

Still, at least he’d seen it. One less thing they’d miss due to the delay with the bus—

‘Arthur Geffen?’

The voice wrenched Mary back into the here-and-now, interrupting the line of thought that would lead to inevitable words when ray finally sat down. Grateful for the distraction, Mary turned to the owner of the voice – an elderly chap two tables away from her. Strong voice for his age – could’ve sworn it was Ray.

The old soldier’s voice must have sounded a lot like Ray, and not just because of saying a name she recognised. Though a good few feet away, his voice was indeed steady, penetrating and only slightly raised so as to be heard above the low murmur of talk in the room. For the briefest moment Mary wondered at the chance of it being a relative of Ray’s. Could be – knows the name – so no reason why not. But the twang of the local Norfolk dialect there told her otherwise.

‘Didya know Arthur Geffen be any chance?’ the voice expanded.

‘I’m sorry?’ Mary said to the stranger sitting alone at his table.

‘Arthur Geffen,’ the old man repeated again, the patience of the old shining through. ‘He were a local chap. Didya know him?’

A fast appraisal of the man put him at 90 years, if he was a day. Hunched a ittle with age, but with a wide and sturdy frame, Mary could tell he’d once been very tall. Though not in 40’s uniform like most of those in the bar, he was smartly dressed in a navy blue blazer that tried but failed to keep his waistline restrained in much the same way his army-issue webbing belt must have succeeded in years before.

The heraldic crest on the breast pocket of the jacket meant nothing to Mary, but must have held some significance to be worn as proudly as it was. And though the crisp, tightly tied tie screamed ‘old soldier’ to her she smiled with genuine warmth, respect for veterans on a par with that of strangers. The chap’s walking stick and moustache were mere accessories to completing the picture.

Here we go...two hours of war stories coming right up.

But one thought held her interest – her surname.

‘Do you know me, or my husband?’ she asked politely as a disposable smile flitted across her face.

The old soldier unlaced his hands from their grip across the walking stick planted firmly between his feet, and brushed his handlebar moustache first this way, and then that as if clearing the field for take-off.

‘Oi knew Arthur quite well, actually. But ah’s only met ’im laters on, really.’

That Norfolk twang again. Mary found it quite pleasant.

‘Maybe notus well as ah’d’ve loiked,’ he said. ‘Ah believe he was quite the rapscallion when he were a lad.’

Deaf or evasive then, Mary thought, deciding to opt for deaf. ‘Were you in the war together?’ she asked.

‘Ayuh, you could say that,’ he replied, ‘but we was more relative than comrade.’

‘There is an Arthur in my family,’ said Mary, ‘on my husband’s side. I don’t know if it’s the same man. I’m afraid I don’t know much about him but Ray, will be back in a moment. He’ll know. I’m sure he’d love to hear any stories you have to tell. If we’re talking about the same Arthur Geffen, that is. Our Arthur was Ray’s grandfather.’

‘Ayuh. I know,’ the old man said, then paused, groping for words. ‘He’s gone now, you know.’

The loss in his voice skittered between the spaces in his words, the emotion tangible to Mary. For a moment, she felt unable to speak, as if the emptiness of years had leapt across the tables to take hold of her. Seconds passed, during which she found herself able only to endure, not understand or move forward. The old man stared at her, expectant eyes glistening as memories she could only guess at played behind his eyes. It took some effort for her to tear her gaze away from his and reply.

‘Yes,’ she said eventually, touched into sudden respect. ‘He died about 30 years ago. Ray has some of his old things – personal effects and wartime stuff, you know. Today he’s even—’

‘... wearing Arthur’s old uniform,’ the old man finished for her, nodding gently. ‘For this celebration weekend they’s doing.’

‘Yes,’ she said, all thought of food now forgotten. ‘I’m sure lots of people have brought out their grandparents old clothes to wear today.’

‘You’s hair looks nice,’ the old man said suddenly, a twitch beneath the whiskers. ‘You look gorgeous.’

Mary felt herself redden, cheeks flushing with heat. ‘I—’

The old man kept her gaze as she fought for something to say, not offended, feeling his remark not over-familiar, just heartfelt – a compliment from a proper gentleman, a man of a different era, one who maybe saw in her something he hadn’t seen for fifty years or more.

Mary reminded herself she looked the part – was dressed and styled for the 40’s. Her new best friend would have been about Ray’s age in that era. For a long few seconds nothing more came from him in the form of words, a wondering if he’d over-stepped the undrawn line, maybe. But Mary saw his gaze continue, again not pressing nor probing, but respectful and attentive, as if seeing something or someone he’d not seen for many years and had missed desperately. Mary found it hard to tell, but behind the bushy moustache there loitered an emotion she thought she recognised. Then he said:

‘Raymond is a quick learner, isn’t he!’

To Mary, the words were a definite statement, rather than a question, and she took it as such, listening, waiting for the old man to continue.

Eventually he added, ‘Ayuh, he’s a good lad,’ and then winked at her; a friendly gesture. From one so old, it could hardly have been anything else.

She smiled again, reddened less, not so warmly but with more genuine feeling than before, and completely spontaneous.

Their gaze separated as the door opened, both turning heads to see. A couple came in, carrier-bags swinging, chatting, expectant eyes scanning for seats, bar, menu. That it wasn’t Ray framed in the doorway didn’t come with the annoyance Mary thought it would, but to her surprise, concern bloomed – that the newcomers might sit between her and the old fellow with the interesting conversation.

She found herself quickly on her feet, moving over to the vacant table next to the war-hero, so their conversation could go on. It seemed an odd thing to do, given only a moment before she’d been dreading the forced scenario, but there was some unspoken air about the old fellow she found comforting, yet difficult to place, infuriatingly impossible to pin down. He appeared to be not so much the aged grandparent, but more the old friend, lost and re-found. Or was a uniquely special occasion, like her wedding, or the birth of her first child, or perhaps a favourite place reminiscent of good times and redolent of happy memories. And she wanted more.

Maybe the wait for Ray wouldn’t be so dull after all.

‘You seem certain your friend was Ray’s grandfather, then,’ she said, taking her own turn to make a statement, ‘but you look familiar to me. Were you related to Arthur as well? Brother, maybe?’

‘Brother?’ he laughed.

‘I would’ve said there’s a clear family resemblance,’ Mary pressed. ‘And you did say Arthur was more relative than friend. What’s your name, what’s the relationship?’

The laugh came out as a chuckle this time, more relaxed, easing the words into evasion. ‘Oh, I’ve been called lots of things in my time,’ he said, half turning in his seat to face Mary more directly. Coupled with his now being much closer, seeing his face straight on resolved more facial features into recognition. Mary could see the resemblance to her husband even more clearly than before. It was quite striking.

‘I’m sure he’d clock me if he were ’ere.’

‘But he is,’ argued Mary. ‘He’s just out front. He went to see some army trucks drive by. I should go and see what’s keeping him, really.’

The old soldier stiffened a little at that, and in his eyes Mary was surprised to see a little more knowledge and a little more cunning than she was prepared for. Crafty eyes brought a wily old desert fox to her mind.

‘Ayuh,’ was all he said.

The image of the cunning warfare specialist seemed at odds with the rest of his persona though, which was genial to say the least. Mary put her impression down to the once a soldier, always a soldier feeling veterans all carried with them. But then, this guy had been fighting wars and actually killing people for a living before she was born. That kind of conditioning didn’t fade very easily, if ever.

‘Maybe you should,’ he was saying. ‘Maybe you should fetch ’im in ’ere right now. You never know, I might pop off at any moment. I am rather getting on a bit.’ He laughed again and Mary didn’t know whether to join him or not.

‘On, no, not at all,’ she chided in the end. ‘You’re not really old at all!’

‘Oh me dear you are a sweetheart,’ he replied, ‘but I do believe I’m twice as old as you think!’ and let out a roaring belly laugh at that one.

Mary had no doubts about joining him in that celebration.

These old folks and their twee humour. I wonder if I’ll ever think something like that is as funny!

‘I tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll go and find him, rather than you have to wait for him to turn up. He does tend to wander off!’

‘Very well,’ and a courteous nod.

‘You can swap stories about Arthur; Ray would love to hear them.’

‘I’m sure he would.’

‘Back in a mo—’

As she got to her feet again, Mary lifted her bag, looping the strap to safety over a shoulder, then checked about herself, absently knowing she had nothing else to check on other than the handbag. Again, she mused.

She shared a guilty smile with the old soldier at the action, and he nodded his approval, with a strangely wistful, far-away look in his eye.

‘You only brought your handbag,’ he said.

Mary nodded. Yes, she always did; she was just a slave to habit.

But beyond the front windows she could see light flashing off passing cars, the warm glow of autumn shimmering on wide shop windows and the azure bowl of sky beyond the rooftops. Out there was habit-forming, out there was where she should be, not cooped up inside on such a glorious September day. The passers-by may be thick on the pavement and traffic built-up on the High Street but surely she’d get a mobile signal outside. Surely she’d find ray and they could get some lunch and get on. Anyway, he’d love to spend a few minutes talking with the old man, while they ate.

The old soldier spoke from behind her.

‘I’d be going out this way if I wus you, me dear.’

She turned to see the walking stick wavering in the air, pointing in the general direction of the back of the pub – towards the door she’d come in through – the door to the car park out back. The veteran had an unusual look of concern on his face, knuckles white from gripping his stick.

‘You came in through there. If you go out the front door and Ray comes in the back way, you’ll miss him.’

It sounded like common sense.

‘And ’tis bad luck te go out a pub by a diff’rent door to th’one yous come in be,’ he added, never once lowering his walking stick, nor faltering in his earnest gaze.

Mary had never been one for superstition but decided there little point in going against the common-sense advice she’d already decided on.

‘You know, I do believe you’re right,’ she said to him. ‘If he does happen to come in the front door, would you tell him that I’ve just popped out to find him, please?’

‘I will.’

All smiles again now.

‘Shall I say you’re here and wanting to talk to him about his grandfather?’

‘If you like.’

‘And your name is?’ she asked again.

The old man faltered for a moment, finally lowered his stick to composed himself. Then he positively brightened as a decision flowered in his mind. To Mary, it seemed he’d realised an opportunity. He reached into his blazer pocket, and with an old and liver-spotted hand drew out a wartime ration book which he held out to Mary with a steady arm; an arm far too steady for one so old. The document was yellowed and dog-eared, the writing faded. But she could plainly see the name Arthur R Geffen in hand-written script naming its owner.

‘You can give ’im this, if you would,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be piquin’ his int’rest,’ and that smile behind the moustache came again.

Mary smiled, nodded too. ‘I will,’ and then: ‘Thank you,’ as she took the slim book from his hand. ‘We’ll see you in a moment. Don’t go away!’ and she turned for the door to the car park.

‘Ayuh,’ came the reply.

As the door closed behind Mary Geffen, an old lady at the bar put down the menu she had been reading so very intently for the last 20 minutes and moved over to where the old soldier now sat alone at the table, his fingers once more interlaced onto his walking stick. She stepped with a lightness and a grace that belied her years and used no stick to help her.

Settling into a chair opposite her husband she loosened the strap of the handbag over her shoulder and placed it onto her lap. Her quick eyes followed the steady gaze of her husband’s onto the plain door to the car park. They shared a stare so intense, it seemed as if they might look straight through the wood and into the world beyond.

The old lady was every bit as elderly as the old soldier; had been through everything he had endured in their long life together – there’d been no shop-working for this strong-minded woman. As a result she was every bit as in love with him as he was with her.

But she’d remained just a little bit more frightened of this moment than he had ever been. She’d been just a little bit more nervous of how things would turn out, of how the meeting might go, should Mary see her at the bar, or heaven forbid, want to speak to her. Yet she’d insisted on coming

The old man’s explanations and quiet confidence could only support her up until the moment he left her alone at the bar. She knew at that point, she could say nothing to help.

But it was done now; it was all done.

She folded her hands across the bag on her lap and drew in a deep breath, let it out again in enormous relief, so she could speak softly to her husband.

‘It was tough at the start, wasn’t it?’ she sighed.

‘Ayuh.’

‘Harder for me, than it was for you.’

‘Ayuh, that’s true sweetheart. But there were consolations, weren’t there. Don’t tell me you didn’t like the 60’s better the second time around?’

‘Oh go on with you, silly old man.’

‘You did look cute in pigtails, Mare.’

A gentle smile spread across his face as he saw the old lady’s eyes moisten at the memory he'd sparked in her. And as his gaze met hers she was careful to make sure that in return, the smile on her lips betrayed the feigned attempt at harsh words.

‘Shut up, Raymond.’ she said.

Outside The Blue Lamp Inn, the autumn sun shone down on the gravel car park as Mary Geffen stepped lightly through the gate to meet her husband.