A Tale

Once upon a time they said a phoney goodbye. An undercover kiss as an adieu. Really just a close-knit au revoir.

He said it with bemusement, disbelieving; she with wishful thinking and good intent. They were all at once fond and grateful and desperately disheartened, and the weather was awfully changeable that spring.

Afterwards he would write every day. He wrote sleeve notes for vinyl records and she would buy them on her way home from the factory and play them as she fingered the overwrought words.

Sometimes she fancied he thought of her as he wrote and that the praise of a melody was somehow his way of longing for her. His way of sending her notes as he had once sent her letters.

And, of course, it was entirely true. His bitten nails attested to his restlessness. He would think about smoking cigarettes during late nights beside the gramophone. Mostly he did not even hear the music; he wrote about his lost love and pictured scenarios of bumping into her at the train station, sometimes becoming aware of a particularly pleasing tune just as he imagined a tentative kiss or tender embrace.

There was a change of government and the workers went on strike. A well-to-do lady caused somewhat of a scandal and ran away with an American. It was a singularly cold and damp autumn.

One day, on arriving for work a little late and very wet, she was handed an envelope by the supervisor and eyed suspiciously. His moustache was unkempt. She blushed and hurried to the water closet. Somehow, before she even opened it, she knew who it was from.

The note read:

Dear Elsie,

I hope you still work at the factory and receive this in good health. I lost my job at the record company and am doing shifts in the yard instead. I think of you always, especially that day in the park with the summer fête. You looked so pretty that day in your new dress. I don't know why we said goodbye; I miss you terribly. Please write back. My only wish is to know that you're happy. I didn't know love until I met you. I wonder if you would have a cup of tea with me?

Yours always,
Bert

She screwed up the letter without realising what she was doing. Her heart was in her mouth and there were tears on her cheeks but she didn't know why.

That morning he fixed a loose floorboard and thought about the tea shop. It was expensive but he didn't care. He was picturing her face when he hit his thumb with the hammer and it hardly hurt at all.