Novels with a surprise ending

The church was filling up fast.  I sat in the front pew, my lovely Mum in my thoughts, as I held tight to my fiancé’s hands beside me.  I felt very emotional and struggled to keep out the tears that were welling up inside me. My duty was to be right behind my mother today. But I had sprained my ankle yesterday and John had to help me to church. 

She was well-thought of by the people in our small village. Mum had a lovely character. Her face was always radiant like a sunny, summer day. She would stop and talk to people, ask about any sick member of the family, offer encouragement and, very often, help out where necessary.  

Now, as the gentle rustle in the pews grew and people shuffled and coughed as they waited patiently for the front door to open, an early memory of my mother flooded into my mind. I was a child of five, and she was accompanying me to my first day at school. I was crying, afraid to leave the safe haven of our house. She had hugged me tightly to her, kissed me softly and encouraged me to take this first important step in my life. “Trust your mother”, she said, “I will always be there for you.”

As the years went by and I grew into a young woman, facing the inevitable problems of the heart, she was always my tower of strength, my confidante, my trusted friend. What would I have done without her? I was the youngest of three sisters. Joan and Janet, following their marriages, had emigrated to Australia and settled there. Dad had died two years ago leaving Mum and all of us shattered and disconsolate.

Following my persistent encouragement, Mum had flown to see my sisters only six months ago. She had made friends there, as Mum can often do very easily wherever she goes. She was satisfied and glad that her elder daughters were happy Down Under.  And she was, moreover, ecstatic to see her two Aussie grandchildren for the first time. 

I noticed that the choir was now preparing its special hymns for this occasion. The soloist, a young lady in a long white dress, was busy conversing with the small-statured conductor and the old bald-headed organist was leafing impatiently through his scores. 

Again, my mind went a-roaming.  I remembered once when Mum had baked me a gingerbread man. “Eat it”, she had told me with a smile, “while it’s still warm.” I didn’t eat him. I didn’t have the heart to. He was such a lovely gingerbread man.  

I would now miss her terribly. I’d miss her knowing nod, her proud smile when I did something right and I’d miss her stern look when I did something wrong or not to her liking. As I looked in front of me at the tall white flickering candles and the six silver Apostles on the High Altar, I felt myself muttering a silent prayer.  I looked backward and, amid the solemn silence, saw anxious faces waiting for the door to open.

My mother, I recalled, was the voice of reason and when my head was in the clouds, she would bring me gently down to earth. But when I was feeling down and losing hope on something I wanted so badly but could not achieve, I remembered vividly her wise words to me – “Hope is what life is all about Mary. If you lose that, what’s left? When you are down, you need to cling to something. Hope is the last thing to save you.” How I shall miss her comforting soothing words. 

Suddenly there was a noise at the back of the church and the huge door opened. We all stood up. I straightened my back, the organist began to play and the choir intoned their first notes. 

Next moment there were signs of rupture as my Mum, framed in the huge doorway – her silk dress shimmering and the flowers in her hands glowing – walked slowly towards the altar where Jim – the handsome middle-aged man she met in Australia – was waiting in full morning suit to take her hand and start a new life together in the land of Waltzing Matilda.

Laura was taking a strong cup of Earl Grey tea in her small kitchen, thoughtfully and calmly. The family photo, mounted on a small silver frame, looked down on her from the mantelpiece. It showed a beaming man posing on a sandy beach. A woman beside him was holding on to his arm. A ten year old girl, in a red bathing costume, was perched on his shoulders. 

How well she remembered that day. It was in Blackpool, during their summer holiday some twelve years ago, when her father was on leave from his naval base in Portsmouth. She used to look forward so much to her annual holiday by the seaside. What a happy family they were then. How time flies!

It was now two years since both her parents had died within a few months of each other leaving her alone in this house in Chester. Both her parents would have approved of Daniel, especially Dad who was, like him, a keen football follower. She had met Daniel Johnson six months ago when they were both following a short computer course at the Polytechnic in her home town. She had then just turned 21. They used to have coffee together during lesson breaks. They opened up to each other and talked about a hundred and one different things. They knew, after only a short time, that it was the beginning of something special for both of them. 

Daniel was not a handsome man. Hardly! His nose was large, his mouth stretched too much and his eyes drooped on both sides of his face.  But he had a winning smile. Every time he smiled his face shone, changing its configuration completely. Being a keen singer herself, they attended karaoke nights at the Carlton Club where she would enjoy herself singing ballads and other songs especially ‘Danny Boy’ which was undeniably Daniel’s favourite. He told her about Edinburgh, his home town in Scotland. It is, he said with pride, one of the most beautiful cities in Europe draped across a series of rolling hills overlooking the sea. 

Their romance prospered and, after a short time, he invited her to come with him for a short visit to his birth town. There he showed her around this historic capital city which was listed as a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1995. Daniel drove her around quaint little villages that nestle around the city. They walked hand in hand along narrow country lanes; window shopped in busy main streets and looked around lovely public gardens. She enjoyed it immensely especially because she was close to the man she had grown to love so much. She vowed that she will continue to remember that day forever. When the computer course ended and he had to go back to Edinburgh, he promised to phone her and continue their love story.     Days, weeks and months passed since his departure. She waited for the promised call or letter. Her new-found happiness was slowly ebbing away. But he never phoned and he never wrote.

Laura did not believe that he must have met another girl and that their own love was over. Their love was short but it was too genuine for him or for her to forget so easily. She was sure that there must have been a plausible reason for him not to contact her. But, subconsciously, she was certain that Daniel still loved her.  In time, which is a great healer, she put her love experience behind her and immersed herself in her work. There was so much to do. Following the computer course she was appointed as supervisor and was having great satisfaction in her work. She made new friends and had dates with different young men from her office. Six months passed. She decided to go on a holiday. But where? London was very metropolitan and too chaotic. Blackpool and other seaside resorts would be too crowded and full of children. No, she wanted somewhere else. Edinburgh? Why not? It would give her the chance to see the sites which Daniel had shown her and which she had loved so much. And maybe look him up or make enquiries about him somewhere.

She arrived at Edinburgh station on a cold January morning and, following directions from a tourist map, set out on her visits – Princess Street, the Castle, the Royal Mile, the magnificent monument of Sir Walter Scott. Daniel had told her that Edinburgh was very closely connected with Alexander Graham Bell, the engineer and telephone pioneer; Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, the creator of the famous Sherlock Holmes; J.R. Rowland, the author of the Harry Potter books; Robert Louis Stevenson, who wrote Treasure Island and other classical books; Sean Connery and others. 

One evening, while strolling down Princess Street, she heard singing coming from a pub sited nearby at the end of the street. A Karaoke was on. She entered the place filled with jovial Scots lads and lasses singing their hearts out and enjoying themselves immensely. The announcer was shouting through the microphone. “Any one here game for a solo song?” Caught in the joyful atmosphere of her surroundings, Laura went up the stage, whispered to the band leader, took the mike in her hands and said – “This song is for one who is very close to my heart, wherever his is today !” Then she began to sing Daniel’s favourite song. 

“Oh Danny Boy, the pipes are all now calling,

From glen to glen and down the mountain side.

The summer’s gone, and all the flowers are dying.

If you must go, then go and I must wait and bide,

But come you back when summer’s in the meadow

Or when the valleys hushed are covered white with snow,

I’ll be here waiting in sunshine or in shadow.

Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy, I love you so.

And if you come when the flowers are all dying,

And I am dead as dead I well may be,

You’ll come and find the place where I’m lying,

And kneel to say an ‘Ave’ there for me. 

Then I shall hear how soft you tread above me

And all my dreams will warm and sweeter be 

If you’ll not fail to tell me that you love me,

I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.

Oh Danny Boy. Oh Danny Boy, I love you so. 

The crowd was enthusiastic. They cheered, clapped and shouted for more. They had not heard such a lovely voice for a long time. Everyone was familiar with the powerful words of this song but never before had they heard it sung in such a way. There was not a sound while Laura was singing. Even the barmen stopped their service and, spellbound, concentrated on the heavenly voice. Laura’s caressing words bathed the cool night in soft gentle warmth, weaving a magical spell all around. “But come you back when the summer’s in the meadow, or when the valleys are white with snow.” Her lovely voice rang out clear and fine, as now the folks began to sing along with her, until the chorus swelled so strong that it could have been heard many miles away. “For I’ll be here in sunshine or in meadow – Oh Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so ….”

The song had never moved her so deeply. Where was her Daniel? If only he could hear her sing his song. When her sad eyes scanned those faces all reaching out to her, she saw one other who stabbed her heart. It was an old man who appeared to be isolated from the crowd – a small solitary figure lost in his thoughts, his face creased with anguish. But through the tears which ran heedlessly down his face, there shone a defiant pride which lit up his features with a haunting beauty and which made Laura wonder whether he also was thinking of his beloved one, now gone away from him. When the song drew to a close, the crowd stood transfixed, then, of a sudden, the silence was broken. The cheers that had caught in the choking fullness of their thoughts broke through in waves of shouts and cheers, all praising Laura and all wanting more. She thanked them all but went down the stage and sat at a table to compose herself. The melancholic lyrics of this beautiful song had brought up so many memories of her Daniel that she needed to rest. Then slowly and discreetly she went out of the side door. 

On the last day of her visit, tired from her walks, she entered St.Mary’s Cathedral and sat down admiring the architecture and paintings of this lovely church.  Then she followed other visitors who wandered to the churchyard alongside the same church. The grass here was green and fresh. A place that spoke of peace and rest. She passed the time reading the epitaphs mounted on the rows of graves, people who had lived and died in this northern town – “Shaw”, “Gilbert”, “McCulloch”, “Spencer”, “McTavish”, “Williams” …………….

Then she saw it. The epitaph on a white marble headstone – “Daniel Johnson, born 20.6.1986. Died in a car accident on 15.4.2009. Rest in Peace.”  She gasped. Daniel was dead! This was his grave! At that very moment she realized what had prevented him from writing or calling her. She turned blindly away, the tears, stemmed for so long, flowed unheeded down her cold face.  

From my small balcony overlooking the Lake, I could see the tourists embarking on boats to go to Bellaggio, Tremezzo, Varenna and the other enchanting towns and villages on the Lake. On my right, the caterpillar train was slowly climbing the Brunate mountain, taking people there to be closer to nature. Nearby, the strong smell of good coffee coming from the cafeteria below my balcony, filled my nostrils.

I checked my mobile to see if I had any messages, wanting and not wanting to receive any. The screen stared vacantly back at me and I put it back in my bag, only to take it out again and check a few seconds later. I stared again at the scene before me. The sun was up, shedding colour on the buildings, the blue sea glittered and the boats plied the Lake from one end to the other. I shielded my eyes against the glare with my arm, hoping my mood would improve as the day got hotter.

I had come to Como to rest and think things over in peace after a few problems had cropped up in my life. My mother, widowed for the last few years, had died a few weeks ago. I had reeled from her death, missed her terribly, she was so part of my life.
Also Brian and I have had frequent arguments lately culminating in a rather big one some days ago when I had stormed out of the house after a shouting match. Was it the end of my marriage? I just don’t know. I needed some time and space to think things over.
Brian had since been phoning me but I did not reply. He had also been texting me endless messages which I ignored or only just glanced at. He wanted us to get together again, make an effort to make our marriage work again. He was convinced that we could do it. But was I?

I was angry with myself for giving in to melancholy. I grabbed my sun hat, slipped my sandals and made my way out of the hotel, crossed the piazza and walked along the promenade. There were a lot of people about, mostly tourists starting on their sightseeing for the day. I noticed this endless procession of people of different nationalities communicating in various languages. There were young couples embracing each other without a care in the world, older ones holding hands and guiding each other with care and students overflowing with energy, laughing at each other’s antics. I wondered what their life was really like, whether they too had problems.

Sitting on the wooden bench facing the shimmering Lake, I let my mind wander and go back to far-away London. Brian and I had met at a friend’s birthday party, we started dating, he came to our house and met my mother and after some time, we married and set up house in nearby Chiswick. Brian loved children very much but we both led a hectic life and I never gave it much thought or importance. I remember Mum telling me before and after marriage, that all marriages have their ups and downs, that life is not always a bed of roses. She insisted that you have to make marriage work by compromising, by giving besides taking, by showing love to one another. I now remembered all these things. Sometimes, however, we forget the things we don’t want to remember. It was now nearing noon.

The sun was getting hot. I crossed the busy piazza again, entered the cafeteria of the hotel, sat down on an outside chair in the shade and ordered a cappuccino. Various boats still plied the bay. People were in movement everywhere. The piazza thrived with activity. The telephone rang again. I retrieved it from the bag. It was Brian but I did not reply. Perhaps he was trying to find where I was, to discover my hiding place. But I still felt comfortable in my loneliness. I looked at the heart-shaped chocolate coating on top of my cappuccino. It is nice to have everything exactly as you wish. But life is not like that, is it? Things happen that we cannot change and we have to learn to deal with them as best we can. I have to learn to accept other people’s weaknesses as well as their strengths, particularly because I have discovered that I am weaker than I thought. 

I remembered King Solomon’s wise words when he was pondering on life’s ups and downs. In the book of Ecclesiastes he wrote – “To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under heaven, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance.” Perhaps for me it was time to heal the wounds of the past and look forward to the joys of the future.

My mother’s wise and gentle words came again to my mind – “Make your marriage work”; “Don’t be stubborn in love”. I finished my coffee and recalled a time when Brian and I were so much in love, the kisses and the laughter, the hugs and the smiles. “We could do it again”, I said to myself. “Especially now, especially now!”

I placed my hand on my belly. Through the folds of my dress I caressed the new life inside me. I took out the phone from my bag and with shaking fingers typed a message – “Come to me Brian. I’m at the Bayview hotel in Como. I have something to tell you.”  

In the air, the Battle of Britain raged furiously over London and the South East. It was a hard-fought, relentless struggle to the death. The Royal Air Force and the Lutwaffe were at each other’s throats’, each well aware of the consequences of victory or defeat.

The pilots of the RAF were bravely, and at a cost, repelling the German air-raids. It was with good reason that Prime Minister Winston Churchill broadcasted to the world that “so much is owed by so many to so few”.

It was Sunday morning on the streets of London. March had given way to April, bringing with it the promise of spring. Kath and Scott were strolling along the Strand. Every time they came in front of a theatre, now closed during wartime, they stopped, looked at the magnificent facade and old posters publicizing a previous show or a play and then continued on their leisurely walk.

They crossed over to Waterloo Bridge, rested their arms on the cold black iron railings and looked eastwards across the river. “That tall slim column there, it’s called Cleopatra’s Needle”, she told him.
“It does look like something Egyptian to me”, he replied amused.

“It is, if you want to know”. Kath was doing the honours of a tourist guide. They looked at the other side of the bridge. “And that dome there, it’s St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was hit and damaged only last week”, continued Kath as she pointed to the dome in the distance.

Kath was a London girl, now driving an ambulance as an ATS, having joined a few months previously to contribute in the war effort. Scott was born and bred in Glasgow, had never been to London, and now was a fighter pilot with the 11th Squadron of RAF Fighter Command based at Croydon Air Force Base.

He pushed himself up on his elbow and looked at her. “Kathy, you’re the person I thought I’d never find. Now I’m frightened. For the first time I know what I could lose.”
“But you won’t lose me”, Kath replied.

“I hope not. But hope seems a little flimsy sometimes”, replied Scott as he smiled at her.

They were quiet. She looked at him uneasily and saw that he was smiling. It was then that she saw his eyes were a clear bright blue. How could she not have noticed them before? They were, undoubtedly, his best features in face that was pleasant but quite unremarkable. She smiled back at him, a little more confidently.

At that moment, Kath too felt scared of ever losing him. He looked at her again. She was beautiful – tall, slim, long-auburn hair that glistened whenever the sun caught it, skin as fresh and clear as porcelain and a personality that would charm the birds out of the trees.

Both were on a 24 hour leave period before going back to continue their bit for God, King and Country. They had met only two months before at the ‘Horse and Crown’ in Piccadilly. She was with her friends when three RAF men walked in and asked if they could sit down besides them. Kath and Scott locked eyes on each other. No one professes to believe in the possibility of love at first sight – most would say that it is a myth – yet it happened to both of them. They were convinced, immediately, that Cupid had struck.

From then on, Kath and Scott saw each other every time they could manage it. As he was new to London, she wanted to show him the sights of her lovely old capital. They had walked from Russell Square, down Southampton Row, along the Strand, Waterloo Bridge, into the Strand again and on to Charing Cross station. This is the part of her London that she loved so much – the stomping ground of Barbara Cartland’s Victorian characters. How she loved reading her romantic books. It was like living in London a century ago.

It was cold. She put her collar up to her ears, tucked an escaping tress of long hair into her hat, took Scott’s hand in hers and said – “I could stay here forever love, but it’s time for you to catch the 4.15 from Charing Cross station to Croydon, so it’s better that we move on, shall we love?”

They had agreed to get married during their next leave together in a month’s time, set up house, start a life together, see the war through, have children and live happily ever after.

Now they walked hand in hand to the station. From some noisy pub in one of the small side streets, they heard the lovely voice of Vera Lynne singing the popular notes of the most popular song of the time. 

“We’ll meet again,
Don’t know where, don’t know when,
But I know,
We’ll meet again, some sunny day!”

The notes floated achingly across the lonely street and disappeared into the evening. It was an emotional song of hope, peace and love. An elderly woman walking with a man in front of Kath took out a handkerchief from the pocket of her coat. The man besides her bit his lip. Kath felt the tears welling up. ‘How many will not meet again’, she thought.

As the departure of the train was being announced on the tannoy, Scott hugged Kath tightly and kissed her passionately. “We shall meet again Kath,” he said. “It’s a promise that I’ll keep”. He lifted his bag from the ground and left for platform 5 as the train started to move away.

Only a few hours after arriving at his Croydon base, an alert sounded signifying that enemy planes were coming across the Channel. Scott and his men scrambled to their Spitfires and were in the air in no time, eager to meet the enemy planes before they reached London and start their bombing.

He was still a young man, a full life still lay before him, yet he believed that whatever it is his destiny was already written in a big book in heaven and that was that. He was not afraid. If his time had come, there is nothing he could do about it. He was however determined to make it back and marry Kath.

The Spitfires engaged the German planes as soon as they had crossed the Channel. A terrible dog-fight was being fought over the Sussex countryside. It was a battle of life or death. Buddy Jones saw Scott besides him, shells were bursting around them and machine-gun bullets were flying all over. He saw Scott’s plane bucker and shudder, and thought that it was going out of control. He thought he would bale out. Then six Jerries came at them again. Jones pulled his plane around and flew into the sun. He didn’t see Scotty again. 

Down at the Air Force Base in Croydon, Sgt Johnson was on the Tower, intensely checking the Spitfires returning from their engagement. He was watching them descending on the runway, one by one, and taxing on to the main hangar. Besides him, his eyes as sharp as a hawk, was Base Flight Commander Hawkins, also ticking the boys coming home to base after the battle, praying that none of his men will be missing.

“Buddy Jones has come in Sir”, said Sgt Johnson. “And Tiny Wharton, Hank Kirkwood, Scarface, Smiley, Peters …………” Flt Commander Hawkins was still anxious. “And the others Johnson, what about them?” he bellowed. “They’re behind Sir, but coming in slowly – Paddy’s about to land, Albert there behind him and Foxy Foster’s just appeared now ……. It appears all are back except Scotty. I’ll try radio contact again Sir.”

The Commander grimaced. Scotty’s still not back. He felt that the young fighter pilots were his sons. It would be hard if he lost one of them. “Damn those Nazi pigs, damn them!!” he uttered bitterly. A few minutes later he was shouting commands again. “Johnson, try again to get Scotty, see what’s happening, fast Johnson, fast,” bellowed the Commander, now in an angry mood.

A few seconds later Sgt. Johnson burst in. “I got him Sir, he’s over Dover now, but coming in slowly, he’s hit on the starboard wing and on the tail, and he’s injured Sir, but hobbling on towards base, he says he’s determined to make it ……….”

“OK Johnson, get the ambulance people on the runway, tell them to be on the alert, they might need to speed him on to St. Mary’s directly. And the fire people, we might need a rescue operation as soon as he comes in, fast Johnson fast.” shouted the Commander.

Johnson did not need any instructions; he knew what he had to do. Ambulance, fire and rescue teams had to be in hand to give assistance. Scotty and his Spitfire are probably in very bad shape. “I’m now in contact with his radio Sir, it appears there’s some music coming on!” said Johnson in exasperation. “Music? Is it a message?” shouted the Commander. “What music Johnson? What the heavens is Scotty playing at? Is he mad or something?”

“It’s a song Sir,” replied Johnson. “He’s singing Vera Lynn’s song “We Shall Meet Again”, continued the Sergeant now chuckling in relief. “He’ll make it back Sir, you mark my words!!”  

I looked forward to meeting my two friends Shirley and Norma at the restaurant on the High Street this morning. I put on my favourite red knee-length dress, my pearl ear- rings and matching necklace and looked in the mirror. I liked my appearance.

It was a reunion lunch. We did it every year for the last five years. Each one of us recounting what happened to her during the past twelve months. We would talk about our children, our grand children, our likes and dislikes. We would bring back memories of long years past. We would enjoy being together another year.

We had met for the first time at St. Mary’s Hospital in London – there was also Sally – while we were having treatment for breast cancer. We were together during the long-suffering ordeal – surgery, ward patient, hospital visits and recuperation. All four of us gave encouragement and hope to each other. We had cried and laughed together. We held hands when the end of the road seemed to be near. We laughed when things looked brighter and we seemed to be winning. We were there for each other. And we survived!

We had all four of us met for lunch every year, since our discharge from hospital five years ago. But this year we would be three. We would miss Sally. She had been the life and soul of the group. She was always recounting some funny story, or cracking  a joke, or waving her hands in dramatic fashion. She was the conductor during these lunches. It was the first year that we would be meeting without her. She would definitely be missed, terribly missed this year.

An image of her face filled my mind – blue eyes, blonde hair, rosy cheeks, upturned nose – a jovial, laughing face which would make all around her happy. “Keep your chin up” she would say to any of us who were passing through a rough patch. I was amazed how she could joke about even the darkest of things. That was Sally.

We had promised that, rain or shine, we would try to make this reunion every year. For old time’s sake. For becoming friends when we needed so much love, comfort, encouragement and understanding. We gave all of these to each other as we battled with that life-threatening disease. And we survived!

Shirley and Norma were waiting at the restaurant when I arrived – Shirley with her white wide-brimmed hat on her head and several bangles around her wrists, and Norma the quite one, looking prim and proper, always listening and smiling in agreement, but always positive. Shirley, Norma and I all had different characters. But Sally, bless her, had the best character of us all. She always used to make us laugh.

The place had started to fill up around us. The waitress bustled over for our order. “Are you waiting for someone else?” she said looking at the empty place. I shook my head but when she moved to clear the extra cutlery I stopped her. “Please could you leave them?” The waitress looked puzzled but nodded and left.

For the next half hour we talked on this, that and the other. We brought ourselves up to date with each other’s life during this past year. As I looked with pride at my two friends, I could not help but think how lucky we all were. That bad experience of the past had bonded us together like childhood friends.

After we had eaten, we ordered champagne as was our custom at the end of the meal. “Could we have four glasses please?” I asked the puzzled waitress. “What are you celebrating?” she asked us as she laid out the glasses and then, at my request, put the fourth glass in front of the empty space.

It was Shirley who spoke in her exuberant melodious voice. “We are celebrating being alive. We’re all survivors of breast cancer, you see. We met for the first time in hospital and went through our treatment together.”

“We encourage each other. Each year we get together and celebrate another bonus year”, I added. “This is our fifth year” put in Norma. The waitress looked at us, admiration on her face now. “That’s amazing”, she exclaimed. Then she looked at the empty chair, the unused cutlery and the empty champagne glass. “Oh I’m very sorry, I ……..” She broke off, clearly did not know what to say.

I looked at my two smiling friends, then at the bewildered waitress and said. “Sally got married and emigrated to Canada last year. She could not make it this year but we hope that she would join us again next year. We promised that we would always save a place for her.”

It was at that moment that Shirley made a toast. “To our dear friend Sally, whatever she’s doing, wherever she is, wishing you good health, see you next year!”  

Pat and Jenny Rawlings and Rod Maudling had known each other for almost all their young lives. The two families had been close friends for as long as any of them could remember. They experienced their childhood years being pushed in their buggies by their mothers, their teen years playing together in the park, going to school and so many other things besides. 

Both families had hoped that Rod would end up marrying Jenny. So they were surprised when Rod and Pat started living together. Indeed, Pat’s father did not hide his disapproval. Both felt disappointed at this hurdle in their life. But Pat, always the philosophical of the two, told Rod – “Life is not about waiting for the storm to pass. It’s about learning to dance in the rain, to accept things as they are, to adapt to the situation and live as best you can.” So they set up house in another town and only occasionally visited their families. On the other hand, Jenny appeared to have overcome her disappointment over Rod and had since married. She was in fact expecting her first child and had asked Pat and Rod to be her godparents.

The christening of Jenny’s little girl was an occasion for members of both families to meet. For Pat and Rod, who had been away for some time, it was an ordeal. Even though Jenny had eventually found her love and settled down well with her husband, her father still resented that Pat took up with Rod and were living together. In fact he hardly spoke to both of them. When they returned home that Sunday evening after the christening, they resolved to continue living their life as they felt it. Both were in love with each other. They professed, during romantic moments, that they could not live without each other. “Love”, said Pat, “is that new feeling which surmounts any obstacles found along its path.”

Prior to settling down with Pat, Rod had a somewhat turbulent life–dropping out of college, changing several jobs, experimenting with drugs. But Pat had now stabilized his life. They were good together. “I just wish that I could turn the clock back,” said Rod. Pat looked at him directly and replied – “You will never be able to do that. Most of us have done things in our lives that we later regret and wish that they never happened. But Rod, what’s past is passed now.” These wise words encouraged Rod considerably. They felt like soothing balm on a fresh wound. He felt confident and ready to face anything. Pat’s words had that effect on him.

Their apartment, in the most fashionable area of the town, was tastefully furnished and decorated. Both were book worms and also loved operatic music. There were, naturally, books everywhere. They often relaxed reading or rereading a good classic story and later enjoy the music of Chopin, Verdi or Mozart. Evidently, both had good tastes. There were times, as always happens in life, when one of them, or both of them, felt somehow below par. That was when the genuine love and affection for each other become evident. Love is the strong bond that unified and fulfilled the lives of Pat and Rod.

The years rolled by. Jenny had another child. Pat’s father died and both Pat and Rod attended his funeral and wake. They mingled freely with the visitors accepting their condolences. It was on the day after, when his obituary, appeared in the local paper, that the neighbours raised a few eyebrows – “Jack Dawson, died on January 28 at the age of 70. He is survived by his wife Sue, his daughter Jenny and her husband John, his son Patrick and his partner Rod.”

They met again after seven years. Julie and Tonette were school friends at St. Margaret School in Portsmouth – inseparable friends to be exact. They studied together, went to dances and the pictures, met boyfriends, cried and laughed together. At the end of their last school term, Tonette and her family moved to the Isle of Wight. After some months, both friends lost touch and went their separate ways.

Julie embarked on a career in accountancy. After obtaining her degree, she found employment with a local audit firm, continued her post-graduate studies, achieved promotion and was looked upon as a respected member of her profession.

Tonette, in a different way, also had a successful career. She exploited her artistic ability as a piano teacher and gave lessons in music to children and young persons. She was looking to opening up a school in town in order to fulfill the large demand from parents of children wanting to further their musical career.

Julie had met her boyfriend soon after she left school. They courted each other assiduously. Their love was passionate and without reservations. There was no two ways with Julie. If she set her mind on something, she would not rest until she achieved it. They were married soon after and set up home in Portsmouth were they both worked.

The honeymoon over, it did not take her much time to realize that she and her husband were not compatible with each other. They had different views on life and on most other subjects. They suffered each other for a couple of years and then agreed amicably to divorce and live their separate ways.

Tonette was more conservative in her nature. She enjoyed life like any young girl of her age, but was not tied down to any one boy in particular. She was in no hurry to get married. As her mother used to tell her – “See the field first Tonette, there are so many fish in the water, do not hurry, marriage is for keeps, take your time darling!”

She enjoyed travelling abroad and every year without fail visited a different country. She enthused about the art in Italy, the easy life in Spain, the discipline in Germany, the mountains of Switzerland and the boulevards of France. She loved mingling with the people, learning about their culture and their way of life. She was fascinated by the fact that people were so diverse – different language, religion, culture, way of life – just because they were born in a different part of the world. However after all her travels and her inclination to remain single, she finally met her man. It started as a chance meeting in the park, continued with occasional dates for lunch or dinner, and finally developed into a love relationship with marriage in mind. They had set their date on the last Saturday in June.  She was convinced that he was, kind, gentle, unselfish and reliable.

Seven years had passed since both Julie and Tonette had last seen each other. They met again by chance, through facebook on the internet. “That must be the Julie Johnson I know,” thought Tonette when she saw her page. She was, and they were both happy to have made contact again after so many years. They had decided to meet at Hugo’s Café situated in the main street of the Isle where Julie happened to have a scheduled meeting with an accountancy firm there. They hugged and kissed when they met. Their exclamations of “Oohs” and “Aahs” showed their joy at seeing each other after so many years. Then they sat down and, while sipping their coffee, described their life and adventures during their separation. They talked about their careers, their families and their friends. There was so much to catch up on. Then they recalled their childhood and school exploits. “Do you remember when Miss Adams caught us smoking during the break?” “Do you recall when she asked us why our essays were always on the same lines? ‘Do your brains think the same!’ she had said.” “Do you remember when the maths teacher caught you drooling over that Elvis Presley photo?” “Have you met any of our teachers since?”

Tonette told Julie that she had made some bad judgments in her life, but she hoped that she had now learned from them. At this point Julie felt the need to console her friend. “You are not alone there Tonette. We all have our faults, we all make mistakes. I know that I’ve made a good few of them myself in my time and they would not be the last I’m sure. But I don’t think that we’re bad. It just means that we are weak. And that’s something we all have to pay for, one way or another.”
“I wish I was a Catholic like you Julie,” said Tonette. “I envy you. You can get up to all sorts of mischief and then just go to church, confess and get your slate wiped clean there and then!” “Oh no. It’s not as simple as that really,” replied Julie.

Then they came back to the present. They spoke about their loves and their heartaches – Julie about her marriage and divorce, and Tonette about her travels and impending marriage. They talked, as girls do, about the men in their lives. Julie described her ex-husband, how her marriage had failed just two years after tying the knot. She did not know whose fault it really was, maybe they both were to blame or maybe they realized that they were not meant for each other. Whatever the cause, Julie reasoned, she had obtained her divorce now and therefore was again ‘a free bird’.

Tonette described her fiancé, who she will be marrying in a few weeks time. She will be settling down only because she believed to have finally found the man of her dreams. She extolled his virtues, described his handsome features and enthused about his gentle character. They sipped their coffee and ordered another cup. There was so much to catch up on. Tonette continued speaking about the man who will be her husband in a few weeks time. It seemed to Julie that nothing but marriage would satisfy her friend’s passion. “Mark and I”, Tonette said, “feel strongly about each other. We are so much in love; we must have been made for each other.”

“Your Mark,” interrupted Julie. “Tell me more about him”. And Tonette lost no time in continuing her description of the man of her dreams. “He’s tall, dark, brown eyes, an architect by profession, lives in Chichester, 33 years in December, name of Collins.”
Julie could not believe it! Her old school friend was to be married to her ex-husband! She smiled directly at her and said. “We did everything together Tonette. Shared everything for so many years but I could never have thought that we would also share the same man!”  

George Hurley and his petite blonde wife Rebecca never saw eye to eye. They had been married for ten years but their union was always turbulent. They quarreled practically every day and neighbours heard their shouts and accusations even during the night. George and Rebecca Hurley’s marriage was definitely not a happy affair.

They had two children; a boy and girl, now five and six respectively. Neighbours wondered how they found time to make love. “Probably”, some said ironically, “they must have been drunk at the time!” Others said that maybe both children were the result of Rebecca’s many extra-marital affairs.

It was undeniably true that while George was at work, Rebecca was entertaining other men. This was no secret as practically everybody in town knew of her exploits. As also did her husband, of course. She did not hide what she was doing and did not care a penny who knew of her love affairs.

One day Rebecca was reported missing. She was not seen for a whole week while her husband continued as if nothing had happened. She was reported missing not by her husband but by the neighbours. When questioned by the Police, George told them that it was not the first time that she walked out of the house and returned some days later. He also told them that he was glad to have got rid of her. But the Police were not convinced. They continued with their investigations to see what had happened to Rebecca Hurley. They discovered that George had told his children, when they had asked him about their mummy, that she has gone away and maybe would not return back.

Neighbours reported to the Police that George had made a large bonfire in his back-garden where they saw him burn Rebecca’s clothes. Furthermore, the Police also learned that someone with a detailed knowledge of the missing woman’s bank accounts had forged her signature and took everything out of her savings accounts. The Police found that George had tapped the telephone at home to record conversations between Rebecca and her lovers. The Police inspector questioned him thoroughly. They told him that they knew that his wife had a string of lovers and was a bad wife. “We can understand that sometimes pressure like that can drive a man to murder,” he told George. But he denied murder or that he knew what happened to his wife.

George Hurley, who had a history of poor health and heart ailments, never faltered once during the long sessions of interrogations. Although they pressed him, the Police did not want to use excessive pressure because of his health condition. The Police dug out his garden and searched his bungalow and surroundings in an attempt to find the body but they did not find any clues whatsoever. They knew that circumstantial evidence pointed directly at him – the frequent quarrels; the fact that he did not report her missing; that he told his children that their mother would not return; that he burned her clothes in the garden; that his wife’s bank accounts were withdrawn by an unknown person with intimate knowledge of her particulars.

But where was the body? Unless the Police found the body and examined it for clues like fingerprints, they would have difficulty in putting up a case of murder against him. But they did not lose heart. They went to the bungalow again. They ripped the floorboard, probed the brickwork for hidden cavities, scanned the gardens around the house using tracker dogs and plugged lakes, streams and ponds in the vicinity. They interrogated him repeatedly hoping that he would finally break down and admit to the murder. But they did not find anything and he did not admit. George had told the Police that she had walked out of the house and he did not know where she was. In the circumstances, the Police through newspapers, television and radio, issued calls for her or for people who might have seen her, to contact them immediately. But they failed to produce any response either from the missing woman or from people who might have seen her. The Police were therefore convinced that she was murdered and her body was hidden somewhere. 

After three months, George Hurley could not stand it any longer. He was under continuous pressure from the Police and shunned by his neighbours. Everybody was convinced that he had murdered Rebecca. No, he did not admit to the murder but he died of a heart attack. The murder inquiry on Rebecca Hurley was closed, the Police case file was marked ‘suspect deceased’.

George Burley’s funeral after the ceremony was carried out in a quiet chapel outside the town. The police saw no useful purpose to attend. They never saw the wreath besides his coffin with the strange message – “Have a nice flight to Paradise George – R.”
When the funeral service was over, the last prayers said, the earth sprinkled on top of the coffin, the stone slabs laid down and the grave closed and sealed, none of the few people present noticed the petite blonde woman across the road who, with a broad smile on her face, turned and went away.

Anne and William grew up together. Their families were neighbours in a well-knit community in Santa Clara, California. Anne fell in love with William at the age of 5! He would hold her hand as he accompanied her to infant school and carried her satchel. Her crush on him continued through her teens. But she did not tell him that she loved him as she was afraid that her declaration might lose her his friendship. She wanted to remain as close to him as possible.

Then William had to leave town to attend college elsewhere. Anne cried alone in her room. She would not see him for a long time now. And she had not even told him yet that she loved him. How would she bear this separation? On the day of his departure, they met at the train station to say goodbye. “I want to tell you something!” she said. “I also want to tell you something” he replied. She felt terribly excited that William, at last, would be expressing his love for her. “You first”, she said. “No, you first”, he replied. But then neither of them said anything, both thinking that maybe it was not the right time yet. And so they parted and both went their separate ways. Each now had priorities of their own. She thought that love can wait but it would not fade.

Anne, by now a student nurse, had to care for her grandparents who were unwell and needed her. William continued his studies away from his home town where he was following the architectural course at University. Although it pained her, they cut communication with each other.

Anne never dated another boy. None could hold a candle to him. In her mind she was sure that he will, one day, return to her. Time is of no importance, she will wait for him as necessary. As the years rolled by, there were no letters and no phone calls between them. His parents seldom mentioned him to her or in her presence. But she waited and waited. She was steadfast in her belief that one day William will return to her and say the words she wanted so much to hear; the words he nearly told her at the station prior to his departure for College.

One day, out of the blue, she heard the message on her mobile voicemail. “It’s me, William. I‘ll be coming home on Friday. Can I see you at the airport at 6 pm? There’s someone I want you so much to meet .Hope you be there.”
She was crashed. She thought that all that waiting had been in vain; He has found another girl; maybe he has already married her; a girlfriend or a wife. He wanted her to meet her. He had been so far away from her for so long. As she heard again the voice on her mobile phone she cried. That night, in her room, she could not sleep.

On the day of his home-coming, Anne went to the hairdresser, dressed her best, made her face and then went to the airport full of anticipation. It had been years since she last saw him. She now wanted so much to see him. She also wanted to see the new girl in his life. If only things had turned out differently. She wanted them – William and his new girl – to see her at her very best. The plane had landed and she waited anxiously at the arrival lounge. Suddenly a beautiful girl came up to her. “You’re Anne, William’s friend, is that so?” “Yes, yes” she replied. Anne was mesmerized. No wonder that William had forgotten her. She was definitely no match for his new girl.

Then the lovely girl offered her hand. She took it and held hers very tightly. “It’s me, William. I hope you’ll accept me as I am. I tried but did not have the courage to tell you before. I hope however that you remain my best friend!”

How can I forget that day? It was the 1st of July, a Friday. I was returning back from work with the wage packet in my handbag. I was having a ‘cappuccino’ at Café Nero in the town square. It was then that I saw him – coffee cup in hand, coming over to my table. He was a hunk of a man with film star looks. “May I?” he said. “You’re welcome” I replied.

“It’s my first time here, the place is full,” he said. “I’ve never been here myself,” I replied. First impressions are important and my first impression of Jim, there in that crowded coffee shop, was wonderful and absorbing, both at the same time.
We were two persons finding ourselves around one small table. We could not but strike a conversation. I studied him between words and sips of coffee. He had startling green eyes set wide apart, curly black hair, an aristocratic high-bridged nose, a beautifully modeled mouth and lovely artistic hands with long tapering fingers. I was hooked at first sight.

From that day on we met regularly and got to know each other – our likes and dislikes, our jobs and work habits, our expectations from life, our exhilarations and disappointments. We had so much in common. Our education had been the same; we both had the same propensity for talking our heads off about anything and nothing. It seemed that after we finished chatting, the world was a better place to live in, in theory of course!

As days, weeks and months rolled by, our friendship grew into love and our love into a romantic roller coaster which left us breathless. Isn’t strange, the way two people manage to find each other out of all the other men and women in the world? Somehow, someway, they get thrown together and that’s it, there will never be anyone else. Isn’t that how real love works? If I had to pick out a word to describe the first months of my relationship with Jim, it would be ‘gasping’. That’s the romantic word for it anyway.
“You’re the person I thought I’d never find. Now I’m afraid I might lose you,” he said. “But you won’t lose me. I’ll always be by your side,” I replied. He cupped my face in his hands. “I hope not, but hope seems a little flimsy sometimes. Hope is not so reliable.”

I had, by then, moved to his apartment. It made more sense in our torrid relationship. We were engaged, promised to each other. We were sure of our love but thought it wiser to get married when our financial position would get better. One day in the dusk evening of a cold February, I came home to see Jim sitting in the dark on the sofa. “Why are you so early?” I asked while switching on the lampshade by his side. He buried his hands and slowly shook his head. “What’s happened? What is it? Did someone you know die?” I asked once again. “No, No,” he replied. “What? What then?” I pressed seeking an answer. I saw tears running down his face. “I’ve been going to the hospital lately. I’ve been tested. They gave me the result today. I’m HIV positive!”

Suddenly, a lump of dread lodged stubbornly in my throat. “You’re what??” “It’s the virus that causes AIDS. I have it!” he said resignedly. I felt like reeling, feeling as if I was falling from a high place, as if the earth had been pulled out from beneath me, sending me into a freefall with no probability of stopping. “No!” I cried. “It cannot be true.” “You need to get tested”, he said. “Me? You mean ………..” I responded angrily. He looked sad. “I was informed by the hospital that any partner I had needed to be tested”. His eyes filled with tears and he shook his head. “My life would be ended if I infected you.” “You don’t think that I ………..?” I exclaimed. “I don’t know”, he said while he took my hands in his. He began to cry – “I love you”. I was silent, weeping, as we stood clinging tightly to one another.

Jim kept going to hospital for treatment but it was evident that his health was deteriorating fast. I was, by then, practically living in his hospital room. I remembered our promise – to love each other for ever. But forever does not exist for any of us. It’s infinity, it’s intangible and it’s unreachable. Forever sounds a long time but in reality it is such a short time. We can only live one second at a time. Take what we can from life. We cannot live in the time that passed or in the time that’s ahead. I recalled Dolly Parton’s song, “One day at a Time” which we both loved to listen to. But even with his illness, Jim was a pillar of strength. It was I who was weakening. “Dying is not as bad as everyone thinks”, he told me. “After a while you accept it. The worst part is realizing that you’ll be leaving everyone and everything you love. It is then when you realize that you’ll be slipping into the unknown.”

Jim was always theorizing, trying to understand what cannot be understood. “But then that passes and you get a little curious,” he continued. “People spend their lives pondering what’s out there beyond death – heaven, hell or nothing at all! But I’ll now know.” A smile covered his face. There, by his hospital bed, I let tears slide freely, slipping over the bridge of my nose, down the side of my face and into the pillow I held in my hands. I wondered then, how many tears that hospital pillow’s life had already seen and how many more yet it would see. I don’t know exactly when it changed from morning to night. I didn’t turn on the lights and I didn’t note the time. I moved my mouth against his cheek and kissed him. I put my lips to his ear and whispered –“Jim. I love you. I love you. I need you.” I took hold of his hands and caressed his fingers.

I prayed for a miracle to happen. But there were no miracles. Jesus had used them all up in Galilee. My Jim died as the early morning light began to filter through the half-opened window. Ten days after the funeral, the phone rang. “Hello” I said. “This is Dr. Helen Marsden from St. Barth’s Hospital,” was the reply from the other end. “Are you Ms Olivia Jones?” she continued. “Yes. Yes.” I answered. “I understand that you had to call the hospital for tests,” said the stern voice. I had completely forgotten that Jim had asked me to get tested. He must have given them my name and phone number. He had said that if diagnosed early and treatment started immediately, the HIV sufferer may not necessarily become an AIDS victim.

The day after, I called at the hospital, asked for Dr Marsden, made the necessary blood tests and was requested to call for the result the following week. These were seven nightmare days for me. I was nervous; afraid; panic gripped me; I did not know what I was doing. Am I positive or negative? That question was on my mind all the time. I could not sleep. The nights, when your mind is at its most fertile, were terrible. After the week passed, I went to the hospital early in the morning. I must have been the first one there until people started coming in and sat in chairs besides me. I looked around and saw people waiting, like me, for their results. The handsome young man next to me – was he ………..? The blonde girl facing me on the chair opposite, so young and beautiful – was she …………? The mother holding her ten year old son by her side – who …………?

Then the nurse called me. I stood up and followed her through the corridor. She ushered me into a small room where another woman in a blue uniform was seated behind a desk. As she looked directly at me, I knew that my life would forever be measured against the moment I was told this result – the before and after. “Good morning Ms Jones. I’m Dr Helen Marsden. We spoke last week on the phone,” she said. “Yes, yes,” I replied timidly. “I’m here to give you the results of your tests,” she said. “Yes, yes”, I replied once again, words failing me. “Why did you feel that you wanted to do this test?” “Because my boyfriend had been diagnosed with AIDS.” “Do you know what HIV means?” “Yes.” “Do you know what a positive or negative result means?”
“AIDS,” I stammered. “Not exactly, it depends” said Dr Marsden. “Positive means that a person is infected with the virus that causes AIDS; negative means ……………” My world was silent after these words. It was also crumbling. I must be HIV positive .My life was over; declared so by simple blood test. “Are you listening to what I’m saying,” she said.

I started to stand up mechanically. “That’s it,” I murmured. “But just because you’re not infected does not mean that you should not …………” said the doctor in front of me. “Not? Not infected you said?” I replied. “You are not infected, I just told you. Are you OK?” “I’m negative? I’m negative?” “Yes. Negative. Look, here are the results of your blood test.” Suddenly everything was beautiful and colourful. Time was suddenly a gift. It made me feel generous. I wanted to sing, hug someone, dance and tell the whole world. I closed my eyes briefly, bringing my hands together, my fingers pointing upward under my chin, and mumbled – “Thank you God, thank you so much!” Dr. Marsden stood up; looked at me, puzzled; then she smiled and opened the door indicating that my appointment was over. I looked around. There were others waiting for their results. And hoping.