A Date With The Past

She walked down the lane into town, then through the streets until she came to Sparrow Park, which was situated behind the Parish Church.

There was nobody there except for herself. She walked to the edge and looked down at the station below, at the people rushing to catch their trains, going about their busy lives. Her eyes followed the road up to the hills, the distant fields, the sparse woods that hadn’t changed with time, that were just like they used to be long ago, when she was little more than a girl, when she had stood in that very place, with him by her side.

One day long ago Lucy had whispered in her ear that they were being followed, and she had turned her head to see the loveliest person she had ever seen…………….a trembling mouth, thick fair hair, striking blue eyes. He was as perfect as a Greek god. She had loved him there and then. He was her destiny, her fate written in the Great Book of Life.

Another day, long ago, they had been standing there in Sparrow Park, and he was rambling, muttering, making strange remarks. She had been so angry she could barely look at him. She was growing into a fine young woman and he was beginning to fall apart. Their love wasn’t fun anymore.

The boy had taken hold of her arm and told her that, were he to go away, and were she to wish to see him, she was to go to Sparrow Park and wait for him right there exactly where she stood now.

She laughed at the thought of her crazy gorgeous boy, the true love of her innocence. Maybe she was going crazy too, waiting for him to magically appear from absolutely nowhere.

‘Hiya’ a voice said, a voice soft and quiet, a voice that was the only music her heart had ever known.

Turning slowly she came face to face with a man in his mid-thirties with short cropped blond hair. There were lines around the trembling mouth and stubble on his chin, and lines around the blue eyes too.

‘Hiya,’ she said, as coolly as she could manage.

‘You’re looking good,’ he said.

‘Thanks. You too…………you’re looking good too.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I wanted to see you,’ she said, ‘I wanted to know what might have been.’

‘But you’ve got everything you ever wanted. You’ve got money. You’ve got power. You’ve got respect. You are the Queen of the Normal People.’

‘That’s not what I really wanted,’ she said, ‘I wanted love, I wanted what other women have.’

The man shook his head sorrowfully, ‘Look here,’ he said, waving his arm like a magician, ‘This is the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. This is the room where they exhibit my paintings.’

‘You’ve painted an awful lot of pictures,’ she said, astounded. Amongst the many paintings she saw two that he had painted long, long, ago. One picture was a portrait of her as a young girl, wearing a white blouse, without make-up, her hair tied up. In the other picture her thick black hair was falling over her bare shoulders; lipstick, eyeliner and make-up emphasized her beauty, a ruby-encrusted choker adorned her slender neck.

‘They are the most famous paintings in the world,’ he said, ‘I won’t ever sell them. That would be like selling our love. I couldn’t do that.’

‘That’s sweet of you,’ she said.

‘And look here – this is where we live.’ She saw a perfect country cottage, thatched roof and roses around the door. Her two sons were playing on a swing hanging from the branch of an oak tree, and there she was……..her daughter! Her daughter and his, and the three of them were sitting on a wooden bench; their darling girl, blond curls and red ribbons, sat between them smiling and chattering happily.

Tears were falling down her cheeks. She lay her head upon the man’s shoulder and shut her eyes.

‘We could have had it all, and more,’ he said

‘We had it all,’ she said with a sob in her voice.

‘But you didn’t believe in me.’

She didn’t answer.

‘You wanted to be someone normal,’ he reproached her.

‘I am normal. I don’t want to be exceptional,’ she said, pulling away. ‘I want to be ordinary. I am ordinary.’

‘You couldn’t forgive me!’ he accused her, moving away.

‘I never forgive!’ she called out after him. ‘To forgive is to say that it doesn’t matter. To forgive you means that I don’t matter.’

He turned his back, shaking his head and he walked away, out of the park, and down the steps.

It was pointless saying any more.