A Flash in the Pan (6 page)

Until then, my only love, I remain

Yours forever,

Catherine.

She read the letter through and kissed it before folding it and putting it into the envelope. It would now join the others in the box under the bed
–
one letter per week for the last three years;
one hundred and fifty
in total. She smiled as she looked at them.

“He’ll have a lot of reading to do when he gets here.”

20. A Shot in the Dark

“It’s coming home, it’s coming home, it’s coming …” The crowd sings in unison. “Football’s coming home!”

They’re all behind us, willing us onward. Nothing can beat that feeling of knowing
twenty thousand
people have forked out their hard-earned cash to travel thousands of miles for ninety minutes of hope and they really believe we can make their dream come true. It’s no wonder we feel almost godlike as we stand in line while the National Anthems are played. I must get round to learning the words some day. I kind of get lost after “Send her victorious …” Well, it’s such a dirge, isn’t it? We should really get a more rousing one
–
like the French. Now there’s an anthem to get your blood flowing! What’s it called? La Mayonnaise, or something like that? Anyway, you know the one I mean. But no
–
we’re stuck with ‘God save the Queen’
.

I wo
nder what she needs saving from.
Can’t be the Devil, she’s head of the Church of England, so she ought to be pretty safe. I don’t even think she likes football, she never shows up at the mat
ches. I wonder who she supports.
I know Prince William’s an Aston Villa fan, which is a bit confusing really. You’d think a bloke brought up in London would’ve supported Chelsea or Arsenal instead of a Brummie club. Oh well, there’s no accounting for taste, is there? His poor mother had no taste either or she’d never have married his dad! Oh – there’s the whistle, we’re on our way!

Thirty minutes in and it’s still nil-nil. I keep trying to count their players. I’m sure they’ve got more than us! Everywhere I look there’s
a
crowd of blue shirts.

Hey, Ref! Did you check how many of them there are? I know it’s hard to count them because they never stop moving!

Bloody cheats they are, and selfish too; trying to keep the ball to themselves. They won’t let us get anywhere near it. Roll on half-time; I could use a bit of a break and a leak if it comes to that. I shouldn’t have drunk so much water before the kick-off. The ball’s coming my way! It’s high – I’ll have to go for a header. Now, which way’s the goal? Ouch! That hurt! I guess I must have missed, there’s no cheering.

The second half’s a repetition of the first, and now there
are
only five minutes left before we have to go for extra time. My legs are screaming, but I’ve got the ball and I’m running and running and …

He kicked me, Ref! He made me lose the ball! He made me fall down!

It’s a penalty. The crowd’s singing again as I place the ball on the spot. I kiss the three lions on my shirt and take a few paces back, preparing for my run up.

In the split-second before my left foot connects with the ball, the world goes black as the floodlights fail.

The ball leaves the spot, I sink to my knees and the emergency lighting kicks in. My name is being chanted by rapturous fans and I realise that the ball is sitting firmly in the corner of the net. The fans have declared it a goal. Unfortunately, the referee sees it differently. He deems it unfair that the goalkeeper couldn’t see it coming, so I have to shoot again. Of course, I miss the second time.

The game goes to extra-time and we lose one-nil. The opposition’s supporters are singing now. “You’re going home, you’re going home, you’re going
–
England’s going home!”

Still, at least I’ve learned a lesson. It’s not worth taking a shot in the dark!

21. Sensible Shoes

I lay back on Gail’s bed, laughing with delight as I raised my legs to get a better look at my new shoes.

“Aren’t they wonderful?”

Gail shook her head in disbelief.

“When are you ever going to wear them? I mean, they’re so high you’ll fall over, and so pointy they’ll squash your toes. That’s before you even think of the impression people will get when you hobble around in leopard print stilettos! I give it two weeks and they’ll be in the box on top of the wardrobe and never see the light of day again.”

“Nonsense. These are dead sophisticated and I’ll love them forever!”

That was thirty years ago, when we were students and I had legs to die for and no inhibitions. How times have changed! Last week, I had a call from Gail, the first in thirty yea
rs, and it all came back to me –
Gail, with her common
sense attitude to life and her ‘
Women’s Institute Committee Sh
oes’
. We arranged to meet for dinner tonight.

I got to the restaurant first; I’ve always been a stickler for punctuality. I was glad to sit down. The bus stop was half a block away and my feet were killing me. Nowadays, I suffer from arthritis in my toes and the damp weather makes it worse. Besides, I’d insisted on getting ‘those’ shoes out of the box to wear for old times’ sake. After all, I’d only ever worn them three times. They’d been in the box since the night I ‘got it together’ with Tony, but that’s another story. Anyway, I’d broken my ankle by losing my balance when we were kissing goodnight and he wasn’t impressed, so it was farewell to the love of my life and hello to sensible shoes from then on.

What a waste! I’d been after him for six months and when I eventually got my wicked way, the damned shoes wrecked it all.

I didn’t recognise Gail until she sat down opposite me. It seems a strange thing to say, but middle-age suits some people and Gail has been blessed that way. The features that made her a rather plain young woman have transformed with the years into the kind of beauty and elegance that’s going to last. I was a pretty teenager, but prettiness doesn’t last and now the kindest thing that can be said is that I am fair, fat and heading for fifty faster than I care to think. So we ordered dinner and made small talk.

“So, Gail, why now?” I was halfway through a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and feeling relaxed enough to ask the question that had been on my mind all night.

“Well, I thought it was about time we cleared the air.” She was avoiding my eyes.

“It was all so long ago.” I tried a smile, but it didn’t feel quite right
;
Lord knows what it looked like. My stomach was churning.

“I feel as if I owe you an apology or something.” She finally met my gaze and I thought I could detect the trace of a tear.

“Ah, maybe you did once. But we were kids and it’s all behind us. Let’s say no more about it.” I was impressed with how magnanimous I sounded as I refilled her glass.

So we said no more about it. We finished dinner and the bottle of wine. As I got up to go to the ladies’ room, she took my hand.

“Tony left me last week. I thought you should know.” Her speech was slurred.

Suddenly my head felt light. I stared at her, feeling a mixture of anger and remorse.

“I … I … have to go.” I managed at last.

On the way out I spoke to the waiter.

“You’d better call an ambulance for my friend. She’s very depressed and I’m sure I saw her putting something into her wine glass a while ago.”

22. A Royal Wedding

I - The Preparation

Ethel was ‘handy with a needle’. She’d always been able to make pretty things. Her speciality was recycling old clothes and turning them into something beautiful. Such talents are rare in these disposable times, but Ethel was proud of her skills. She would unpick the stitching, wash and press the fabric and spread it out on her sewing table to examine its potential. The Muse would descend on her and then her nimble fingers would fly around with scissors, needles, thread and finally her trusty sewing machine, until a brand new item lay before her, ready to be gift-wrapped and presented to the lucky recipient.

Over breakfast, one day in November, the newscaster informed her there was to be a royal wedding the following spring.

“How romantic!” she cried, scooping up another spoonful of porridge. “This calls for a celebration. I shall make a gift for the bride.”

Abandoning her meal, she went to the old chest where she stored her materials. After a good old rummage, she found nothing suitable to recycle into a gift fit for royalty so she pulled on her winter boots and parka and headed out to the Oxfam shop on the High Street. An hour later, she examined her purchases.

“Two quid for a few metres of old curtain! Daylight robbery! It’s a good job we don’t have royal weddings every year.”

Throughout the winter, Ethel worked on the gift, snipping and sewing away. Her sitting-room walls became a shrine to the bride-to-be as she covered them with newspaper cuttings and photographs about the impending nuptials. She spent another five pounds on buttons and embroidery silks.

“Thank the Lord I didn’t need to use all my winter fuel allowance this year,” she muttered as she sewed the last button in place and surveyed her handiwork with satisfaction. It was the first day of March and there were still several weeks to go before the wedding. Ethel folded and wrapped the gift with great care. At the post office, the clerk raised an eyebrow as he weighed the parcel and affixed the appropriate stamps.

“No post code, Madam?”

“I think the Royal Mail will find Buckingham Palace without the aid of a post code, don’t you?”

“You’re probably right.” Suitably chastened, the clerk placed the package in the mail sack as Ethel turned away from the counter.

A week later, the letter arrived. The postman grinned as he handed it to her.

“Buckingham Palace, Mrs. Cook? I didn’t know you had friends in high places.”

“You don’t know much of anything, do you?” Ethel closed the door and took the letter through to the kitchen where she stared at it for half-an-hour. Eventually, she sat at the table with a cup of tea and attended to her royal correspondence.

II - The Wedding Day

(From the local paper)

A local woman, found dead in her kitchen last night has been identified as Mrs. Ethel Cook, aged 73. Early indications are that she suffered a heart attack sometime in the last week. Mystery still surrounds the fact that an invitation to today’s royal wedding took pride of place on the widow’
s mantelpiece. Attempts by the ‘Chronicle’
to establish how Mrs. Cook came to receive such an invitation have so far proved fruitless as the Palace are clearly preoccupied with today’s events. We will endeavour to update our readers in the near future.

(From BBC news)

“It appears that no-one can obtain the name of the designer of the royal wedding dress which has taken the world by storm today. The bride dismissed her original designers six weeks ago and everyone at the Palace has remained tight-lipped about their replacement. An announcement was expected today, but has not been forthcoming. Whoever created it
–
the gown can only be described as exquisite, surely the most beautiful of all gowns ...

III – The Wedding Night

In the royal suite, the bride adjusted her negligée and sat before the mirror to remove her make
-
up. She smiled at her husband’s reflection as he placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of her head.

“You looked beautiful today, darling. I hope the dressmaker enjoyed her day. It was right to invite her.”

“I wonder if she actually got there. I didn’t get a reply. Shall we have a drink sent up before we turn in?”

The butler brought
in a silver tray with
a bottle of white wine
and two glasses
. He placed the tray on a coffee table and handed the new princess an envelope.

“Begging your pardon, Madam, this arrived earlier. A country policeman brought it.”

“How strange, thank you, Jordan.”

The envelope contained two letters.

Your Royal Highness,

The enclosed note, addressed to you was found at the home of Mrs. Ethel Cook. It seems she passed away whilst writing it. I have therefore taken it upon myself to deliver it, in honour of an old lady’s last wishes.

Yours,

George Withers