he walked away, he saw a young woman laying a wreath not far from where he had been. Almost at once he recognised her as being the same woman who had run out into the street in search of a cab. She didn’t look up. Instead, she blew a kiss towards the grave and walked slowly away, out of the far exit.
As before, Tom was intrigued. ‘Strange,’ he mused aloud, ‘to see her twice in such a short time.’
As he drove off, he wondered about her. Then, as always, his mind returned to the other, more pressing thoughts plaguing him.
Behind him, the stranger watched Tom depart before, with stealthy footsteps, emerging from the undergrowth. At the place where Tom’s family were laid to rest, the stranger paused a while, then reached down to snatch up the bouquet left by Tom. In an angry, callous gesture, the flowers were slung aside, and a new, grander bouquet left in its place.
A few words of regret, a blown kiss. And the stranger was gone.
WHILE ON THE trolleybus travelling back to her modest flat in Acton, Kathy had time to reflect. Every weekend for the past year, she had gone to the churchyard and laid a posy to remember her father. He had been a good man, a loving father, and she missed him more with every passing day.
The pain of losing that dear man was made worse by her mother’s admission that she had never really loved him. In a terrible outburst, Kathy’s mother Irene had claimed that her husband was not the innocent, caring man Kathy believed him to be. Moreover, she had told Kathy that he was selfish and domineering, in that he had always held Irene back in whatever she wanted to do. She said that, throughout their marriage, he had been the bane of her life … always at work; never adventurous enough for her. When he had suddenly fallen ill, she had made it quite clear that she was not prepared to dedicate her life to looking after him.
As it turned out, though, his illness was short and fierce. He was gone in a matter of weeks.
Distraught, Kathy had never forgiven her mother for the things she’d said. Her sister Samantha, however, was quick to defend Irene. It had always been that way: Samantha and her mother on one side; Kathy and her dad on the other. To make matters worse, Irene had almost seemed to enjoy setting her daughters against each other, always suggesting that Samantha was the prettier, more talented one of the two. There was no denying that, with her long, slim legs and a figure too perfect for words, Samantha was devastatingly attractive; the absolute apple of her mother’s eye.
One particular evening stuck in Kathy’s memory. In front of visitors, Irene had openly chided young Kathy for not caring enough about her appearance. ‘You’ve always been a slovenly creature,’ she complained. ‘You take after your father, more’s the pity, whereas Samantha takes after me. She’s smart and intelligent. She’ll make something of herself. As for you … I don’t know where you’ll end up. Or who will want to marry you. Still, what does it matter? I dare say you’ll be quite content.’
Later, when her mother was busying herself elsewhere, Kathy tearfully confided in her father. ‘Why does she hate me so much?’
Brushing aside his wife’s remarks, he quietly pacified the sobbing child, saying how Kathy mustn’t be upset, that her mother didn’t ‘hate’ her. He suggested that maybe Samantha got more attention simply because she was the first-born by nearly two years. He constantly reassured her that she was loved and wanted, every bit as much as her sister.
It was all of little consolation to Kathy. Time and again in the years that followed, she was made to feel rejected and isolated. In fact, if it hadn’t been for her father and his quiet love for her, her life would have been unbearable. ‘You must never feel second-best,’ he would say. But, with a sister who could do no wrong, it was hard not to feel inferior.
Inevitably Kathy and her father grew closer over the years, and when his expanding business ventures took him away for days on end, she would pine at the window, watching for him hour after hour, ‘like a puppy dog!’ her sister teased, but by now Kathy had learned to shrug off such cutting remarks. Though it hurt when her mother described her in barely concealed undertones as ‘the plain one’. In her heart and soul, and in spite of her father’s reassurances, Kathy knew she could never be the natural beauty Samantha was. Small-built, pleasantly pretty with chubby legs and a hearty laugh, Kathy spent ages looking at herself in the mirror and comparing her modest attributes with those of her more glamorous sister. It made her smile; made her sad. In the end, she shrugged it all off and, safe in her father’s love, simply got on with her life.
She had proved her mother wrong: someone had wanted to marry her. Her wedding to Dan had been a quiet, wartime one, snatched during his leave, with no time for a pretty dress or a party. The two of them had fun at first, in the short, intense bursts of leave, but the long absences had taken their toll. They had never really got to know each other properly. Since the end of the war, Kathy had tried to be a wife to him, but with no children to care for, and a husband who was hardly at home, it had proved difficult. Dan had grown more and more distant, and had finally left her for another woman just before her father became ill.
And now he too was gone and she was alone, except for a sister and mother who treated her with contempt. Oh, but there was still darling Maggie, a very special friend who over these past few years had become more like a sister to her than Samantha could ever be.
‘Your stop, miss!’ The conductor’s voice cut through her thoughts. ‘I thought for a minute you’d gawn off to sleep.’
Kathy laughed. ‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she replied with a grin. ‘To tell you the truth, I could sleep on a clothes-line!’
He waited for her to disembark. ‘What? Boyfriend been keeping you out late, has he?’
Kathy thought of her last encounter and laughed out loud. ‘I’m done with all that,’ she told him, and meant it.
Tucked away behind a row of shops, Kathy’s flat boasted one tiny bedroom, a kitchenette, a sparkling white bathroom, and a surprisingly spacious living room, whose wide window looked down over the hustle and bustle of the locality.
Furnished with a brown, second-hand sofa, a little oak dresser carved with roses, a couple of seascapes hanging on the wall, and other market bric-à-brac placed here and there to make it more like home, the flat didn’t have much in the way of luxuries. But it was clean and functional and suited her for now.
She had decided to rent it after she and Dan had split up. It had been a struggle on her salary, but with Dan’s small monthly cheque, she could just afford it. She couldn’t have stayed in their old home. This place had given Kathy that sense of freedom and independence she had sorely needed. It was her sea of calm after the storm, and she loved it.
Relieved to be home, she pottered around the flat, her voice softly humming to the tune of Doris Day’s ‘A Guy Is a Guy’. She had spent a small fortune playing that song on the jukebox at the Palais, but it never failed to make her smile, as it did now. She danced across the room; she was looking forward to the usual Saturday evening at the Palais with Maggie. Saturday night was the one time they could really let their hair down; they could lie in for as long as they liked on Sunday morning.
Kathy picked up her bag, and ran down to the payphone in the hall. Her toes were still tapping as she waited for the connection. While she waited she launched into another rendition of ‘A Guy Is a Guy’, her arms and legs jerking in time with the rhythm.
It
