In “What Pegman Saw” last Saturday, I wrote a 150 word story “Evergreen Memories”. Several friends were kind enough to say they wanted to read more about the young couple in the story, so I’ve written a continuation that fills in their past, and hints at their future. It’s about 600 words long.
College Green was our special place, wasn’t it, Peter? We often met here between morning lectures and afternoon practical classes. We sat on the grass and watched the gulls hover, soar, dive, brilliant white against the blue sky. We shared our lunch, our stories, our laughter; especially our laughter. We laughed a lot, at people, at things that happened, but mostly simply for joy at being alive and together.
Then one day you weren’t there. Nor the next day, nor the one after. You weren’t in classes either. You’d never told me your home address or phone number. I asked the University what had happened. “He left us voluntarily,” was all they would tell me. No address, no phone number; I wasn’t part of your family.
I still come and sit here occasionally, and remember, quietly.
A shadow falls on me.
“Annie?” The old man’s voice is tentative, disbelieving.
We stare at each other, then I laugh and pat the bench beside me. Peter smiles and sits down.
“You can’t imagine how flattered I feel that you recognised me, Peter!”
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you sitting there. I go this way every few months and I’ve always looked out for you – just in case.”
“How very romantic!”
The young Peter would have recognised my teasing; this Peter looks hurt. I take hold of his hand.
“I don’t live very far away, Peter, and I think of you every time I cross College Green. I like to remember the fun we had together.”
“You wear a ring,” he observes.
“I’m a widow.” A little bit of the sunshine dies; I’d been so happy with Frank.
“I’m sorry. Tactless of me.”
“Would I be equally tactless if I were to ask what happened to you all those years ago?”
“All those years ago. 1972. I had a phone call from my Mum; Dad was seriously ill in hospital. I raced back to London just in time to be with him as he died. He was only young, only thirty-nine. He’d never thought about dying, and he wasn’t insured. Mum had a breakdown.”
He paused. He looked away from me, his face full of pain. I pressed his hand gently.
“I tried to care for her, and find work to pay the bills, but all I could get were menial jobs that wouldn’t even pay the rent. Luckily for us, family stepped in.”
“I understand, Peter. It must have been awful for you. I’m not surprised you didn’t have time to make contact.”
“Well it was very difficult, but the real difficulty was that all my family are South African; Mum only came over to England because she married an Englishman. Before I knew where I was, I was on the plane to Jo’burg. I tried so hard to contact you before I left.”
He shook his head – and then he smiled.
“And before you ask, I’m divorced.”
“So lunch wouldn’t be out of the question then?”
“I’d forgotten how impulsive you were. It was one of the things I loved about you.”
“Did you love me then, Peter? Did you?”
“Oh, Annie, how can you ask? I doted on you; I adored you; I worshipped the ground under your feet. Here, look – I wasn’t going to show you this, but…”
It was a rich man’s wallet that he pulled out, fine leather holding platinum credit cards – and there, protected by a transparent plastic cover, was a photograph of me, aged twenty, laughing.
“I remember you taking that photograph!” I exclaim with delight.
Peter rises, and, still holding his hand, I rise too.
“Where’s the best place for lunch?” he says.