Steps In Slowmotion

Anticipation

It has been two years since my husband died. I didn't love him. I never did. Not once in 30 odd years. He was there when I was most lonely, and he stuck. A bit like a band-aid that ails a tender sore and then won't let go of your finger once it's over. I think he loved me, though. Sometimes I felt ashamed to lead him on this way. On the other hand, he must have known. That there was another man in my life. A man I loved but who didn't love me. One I could not have. That man who left me after a brief glimpse at happiness. That was long ago. I thought it was the dog, but now I am not sure.

The blank piece of paper is staring me in the eye. It challenges me.

"Say something. Write something. I dare you!"

But I dare not. The audacity of writing this to him after so many years. This which I know is not reciprocated. If, indeed, it ever was. I have lost count of how many times I have put the pen to that ominous sheet of paper. A small blot has formed where the nib so many times touched the fibres. Ink trailing out into tiny filigrees, spiralling out from a fat, insatiable spider.

As if drawn in by an unseen force, the tip of the pen finally attaches itself to the surface. Starts moving. Once contact is made, it cannot stop. Starting ever so slowly, then faster. Words form. One word grabbing on to the next and forming sentences. Coherence. My emotions fixed; irrevocable. A life time of unrequited affection mirrored in Pelikan Royal Blue through overflowing eyes. Oh, God how I loved him then.

"...dearest Robert, I shall be at Cheltenham Station before tea. If I do not see you then, I will take the evening train back to London and never make another advance..."

I look at the envelope. I trace his name with my finger. Look at the muddy, half-tone picture in the newspaper. He looks content. Older. Serious. A chief constable, they write. Up for retirement. I didn't recognise him from the photograph. It was his name that caught my attention. Anniversaries and Special Occasions the title said. I read the short article again. I try to imagine my life entwined with those merits. To have been there. Rejoiced with him. Cried with him. Retiring with him.

"I would like a ticket to Cheltenham, please."

"Certainly, ma'am. Return or one-way?"

For one second, the demons show their horrid faces. Drag at me. Pull at my uncertainties. My failures.

"Er... re... one-way, please."

Practically a stutter.

"Very well, ma'am. That will be £1 and tuppence."

He handed me the minute piece of stiff, brown paper. Imagine. This tiny thing would propel me across time. To another world. To my doom? To bliss?

Look at me. Here I am. An ageing lady in my new, blue summer dress, revisiting my long-past youth. Buying the ticket has somehow lifted me up. This is it. I feel light as a feather. I am a young girl. I look at the other passengers standing on the platform. The anticipation shows in the glow. The magnificence of the train approaching. The sun mildly shining down upon us. I breathe. I live. Again.