Truly, Madly, Deeply

‘Thank you.’ Ignoring the daggers of death Trev was now willing at me with his stare, I calmly handed my clipboard to Mum and walked into the staffroom to collect my things.

The more I considered Mr Gardner’s request that weekend, the more intrigued I became: so much so that by Monday morning I could bear it no longer and took a detour at the end of my round to visit Mrs C.

‘Emily! What a lovely surprise. Come in, dear.’

When we were sitting with china mugs of tea and large slices of homemade ginger cake, I broached the subject of the photograph.

‘I have a favour to ask,’ I began, studying her expression carefully. ‘Last Friday, I went to see a new client who has recently returned to the area and he mentioned The Rialto Ballroom.’

‘Really? How funny.’

‘I know. I said as much to him and then I happened to mention that I’d been shown a photo of it that morning. With hindsight, I realise I shouldn’t have said anything, but it took me by surprise and I mentioned the photograph before I thought better of it. The thing is he reacted very oddly when I told him the date the photo was taken. I think he might have been there the same time as you. And I know I probably shouldn’t ask, but I wondered if I might borrow the photo, just to show it to him?’

Mrs C observed me quietly and stirred her tea.

Instantly, I regretted asking. ‘Obviously if you say no I’ll completely understand,’ I added.

‘How old is this gentleman?’ she asked, her expression giving nothing away.

‘To be quite honest, I don’t know. It’s difficult to tell.’

‘Hmm.’ I watched the silver spoon make several more rotations. ‘The photograph is very precious to me, Emily. When I was in Canada it was the one thing that reminded me of home, of who I really was. Of the life that might be waiting…’ Her eyes were very still, focused a thousand miles away. ‘You have to understand that when I went to Canada I had to become somebody different: someone’s mother, someone’s wife. And for many years, I felt like my life wasn’t my own. Remembering who I’d been in England gave me strength enough to return years later. The photograph was a big part of that.’

Her candidness hit me like a fist to the stomach. I knew she hadn’t had an easy life in Canada but I’d never appreciated how much of herself she’d been asked to give. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked. Forget I did, OK?’

She shook her head. ‘No, it’s lovely that you asked. I know how precious my memories are: if this gentleman wants to see the photograph to bring back his, I see no reason why he shouldn’t.’ She reached for the photograph album by the side of her armchair, turned its pages and gently removed the picture. ‘There. Take good care of it.’

My hands were shaking as I accepted. ‘Thank you, Mrs C. I promise I will.’

I called Mr Gardner as soon as I returned to my van, but there was no reply. Disappointed, I placed the photograph carefully in my work diary and drove back.

For the next three days, none my attempts to reach Mr Gardner were successful. By Friday, my anticipation was at bursting point and my delivery round seemed to take an age before I was finally driving down the steep streets of St Merryn.

Waiting on the doorstep of his cottage, my heart was thudding against the cardboard box I held. I wanted to see his face when I produced the photograph, excited to see him reunited with a piece of his past.

The door opened and a young man appeared, taking me completely by surprise. It was as if I was meeting Mr Gardner over fifty years ago: his eyes were the same sapphire blue, his frame as tall and his hair as thick, albeit a dark mass of black-brown rather than silver.

‘Hi,’ he smiled, and my world seemed to spin momentarily. ‘You must be the famous Emily. Come in.’

As I shakily entered the hallway, he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Dad! Delivery!’

Tim appeared at the far end of the hall. ‘Ah, Emily! I see you’ve met Ethan. You see, son? I told you she was beautiful.’

Flushed, I hurried past him and began to unpack the meals.

‘I’m sorry I missed your calls,’ Tim said, as Ethan joined us.

‘That’s OK. I have a surprise for you.’ I closed the fridge door, opened my work diary and handed him Mrs C’s photograph.

For a moment, Tim appeared to wobble and Ethan rushed forward to steady his father. Sitting on a kitchen stool, he stared at the photo.

‘Dad?’

‘I’m fine, son. This just takes me back…’ He looked at me. ‘Can I ask the name of the person who gave this to you?’

‘I’m not sure I should say.’

He nodded. ‘Of course. But it looks so familiar. If I didn’t know better I’d swear…’ Slowly, he turned the picture over and closed his eyes. ‘T.W.M.A.’

Ethan and I watched helplessly as Tim’s loud sobs filled the kitchen.

‘What if she says no?’

‘Dad, you can’t think of that. You said it yourself, you had a connection once.’

‘I don’t know. What did you tell her, Emily?’

I smiled at Tim. ‘I said I had a surprise for her and that I was taking her out for afternoon tea.’

Tim Gardner’s face was pale as he hovered in the lobby of the hotel, wringing his hands. ‘I didn’t think she would come. What do I say to her after all these years?’

‘You start with, “Here’s the photograph that I gave you.”’ Ethan grinned at me and I found myself grinning back. Like father, like son…

‘When I handed Genevieve that picture my heart was breaking,’ Tim said, gazing through the glass door that separated him from the girl who walked out of his life sixty-two years ago. ‘She was leaving for Canada the next day. I penciled “T.W.M.A” on the back to remind her I was waiting: Till We Meet Again. I told her to keep it as a reminder of the woman I knew she was.’

I put my hand on his shoulder. ‘She said it was what kept her strong during all those years in Canada. And what made her come home. I think you might have been an important part of that. Why don’t you just go in there, say hello and see what happens?’

His blue eyes glistened as he looked at me. ‘Thank you. For finding the love of my life again.’ Shaking hands with Ethan, he turned, took a deep breath, and walked into the hotel restaurant.

And that’s when I knew: I knew my job was more than time slots and ready meals, more than delivery rounds and menu plans. It was a gift, in the truest sense of the word.

Would Mrs Clements and Mr Gardner rekindle their romance after most of their adult lives spent apart? I couldn’t say for sure. But learning that Genevieve Clements had made the ultimate sacrifice –to leave her sweetheart behind –to do what she thought was right for her family, made me wonder if maybe she had waited all her life to put right the decision she had regretted most.

‘I think they’ll be OK.’

I looked up to see Ethan Gardner smiling at me. ‘I hope so. She might never forgive me for setting her up.’

‘Maybe. But you made Dad smile and I haven’t seen him look that happy for years. I’d take that as a good sign. So, do we wait?’

‘I suppose so.’ I peered through the glass door but couldn’t see their table.

‘Well, I think I should get a coffee while I’m waiting.’ He held out his hand, his blue eyes –so like his father’s –intent on mine. ‘Shall we?’

Heart racing, I reached out and felt his warm fingers close around mine. And as we walked through the doors, I smiled to myself.

I love my job.

Clarion Call

Catherine King

CATHERINE KING was born in Rotherham, South Yorkshire. A search for her roots –her father, grandfather and great-grandfather all worked with coal, steel or iron –and an interest in local industrial history provide inspiration for her stories.

Clarion Call

The Yorkshire Dales, Spring, 1905

Bright sun streamed into the warm kitchen and Meg felt her excitement bubbling. She hoped Jacob would be at the Mission today and she looked forward to spending time on her appearance before she went out. She could hardly wait to see him again.

‘My, that was a grand dinner, Meg.’ Her father scraped back his chair and stretched out his legs.

‘Thank you, Father.’ Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with fresh greens from the garden was his favourite Sunday dinner and she hoped it had put him in a good mood. He wouldn’t be happy when she told him she was going out. She stood up and said, ‘I’ll get on with the washing-up now. Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘We’ll have it later, love. My roly-poly pudding hasn’t gone down yet.’

That meant tea in the middle of the afternoon and Meg wanted to be at the Mission Hall by half past three.

Meg loved her father. He was a good parent to all of his six children, even though they were scattered across the county. As youngsters, they never went short of shoes or night school fees for the boys, and he still worked hard at the quarry all week. But she was the youngest and the others had grown up and gone.

Meg had helped her mother cook Sunday dinner for years and had run the household since Mother had been taken from them two years ago. It had been just before Meg’s eighteenth birthday; her elder sister had married and only two of her brothers had been living at home then. Now the boys were young men and had good jobs and lodgings in Bradford and Sheffield. So there was only Meg left to look after Father.

He was wedded to his routine. Meg thought she had done the right thing by keeping it going when Mother died. But recently she had noticed that he was becoming more set in his ways and dependent on her. She didn’t want to grow old as a spinster looking after her aging father. She was already twenty and her friends were beginning to marry.

Meg cleared the table and washed up in the scullery while father enjoyed a pipe of tobacco in his easy chair by the kitchen fire. The casement clock in the hall chimed. She dried her hands and said, ‘Well, that’s all done for today. I said I’d meet Sally to help out at the Mission Hall this afternoon.’

‘Don’t you want to give me a hand in the garden?’ Father sounded hurt. ‘Your mother used like sowing seeds on a sunny day.’

I’m not Mother, Meg answered silently. She felt disloyal. Her mother and father had been close and had brought up their six children to support each other. She had loved Mother as much as he had. A tear threatened and she pulled herself together. Why don’t I tell him about Jacob? she thought. Because there’s nothing to say yet, and there never will be if I can’t get out and meet him on a Sunday.

‘Isn’t Sally stepping out with a young man?’ Father queried.

‘She is. Robert’s a clerk in an office now.’

Father nodded with approval. ‘She’s done well for herself.’

Meg cheered up at this comment. At least Father would approve of Jacob. He’d been at the grammar school with Robert and he worked in a lawyer’s office in Leeds. But he came out to the Dales every Sunday on the railway train even when it rained.

‘They won’t want you tagging along, will they?’ Father added.

‘Robert will be cycling with the Clarion Club until teatime.’ So will Jacob, she thought, and dreamed for a moment about seeing his tanned smiling face and bright blue eyes when he returned.

‘There’ll be a Clarion Club in every town soon,’ Father commented.

‘Well, so many folk have bicycles nowadays. Sally and I have been asked to help with teas at the Mission Hall. They’re busy on a Sunday with all the cyclists as well as the ramblers.’

‘Haven’t you enough to do here, after a week at the mill?’

More than enough, Meg thought. She never grumbled, as a rule. She had gone to work in the mill as soon as she left school. The hours were long but the money was good and sometimes she and Sally got best quality cloth cheaper than from the market because the loom had produced a flaw in the bolt and it couldn’t be sold to a warehouse. She made most of her own clothes and looked forward to wearing her new blouse this afternoon.

‘We are raising money for the chapel roof,’ she explained.

He couldn’t argue with that, she thought, but he sounded disgruntled. ‘I see. What time will you be back?’

Meg’s heart sank. She decided to stand her ground. Father would have to get his own tea today. ‘I don’t know. We might go for a walk by the river afterwards.’ With Robert and Jacob, she added silently.

Father made a grunting noise in his throat and Meg hoped he wasn’t going to be difficult. She stifled her mounting impatience and went on, ‘I’ve made your favourite lemon curd tarts. I’ll leave them on the kitchen table under a tea cloth. There’s a full kettle on the range and I’ve put the tea in the pot ready for you.’

‘You’ve made up your mind then.’

‘Don’t be like that, Father. I don’t go out in the week. By the time I’ve walked home from the mill, cooked a meal and tidied round, it’s too late to do anything.’ Not that there was anywhere to go in their small market town

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