Kissed a Sad Goodbye

The children scattered, but as Lewis turned up Seyssel Street his feet slowed. He was suddenly aware of the sounds of the Island—the constant clangs, creaks, and whistles from the docks, and from the river the hoots of the tugs and the low thrumming of the ships’ engines. How could there be a war, when nothing had changed?

He thought of the Penang again, being fitted out for her return journey to Australia. He’d stow away, start a new life in the Outback, not be parceled off to some strange family in the country like a piece of stray baggage. Almost eleven was old enough for a job, he was big for his age, and strong—surely someone would have him.

Turning into the top of Stebondale Street, he saw his father’s old bicycle propped neatly against the front door of their house. His mother’s lace curtains, fragile from so many washings, fluttered in the open front window.

He knew then that he couldn’t run away, because he couldn’t bear the thought of his mother’s tears or his dad’s gentle disappointment.

Lewis kicked hard at the bike and it toppled with a satisfying crash. He left it lying in a heap as he went through to the kitchen, and when he saw his parents’ faces he knew that the news had come before him.

GEORGE BRENT SWUNG HIS ARMS AS much as the dog’s lead allowed and picked up his pace a bit. He needed the exercise as much as Sheba these days, for even in this heat he ached when he got out of bed most mornings. He pushed away the fleeting thought of coping with the cold and damp of winter. No point whinging about something that couldn’t be helped, and in the meantime it was a gloriously hot, summer day. Winter was months away, and his worst worry was the possibility of sunburn on his bald head.

Sheba trotted ahead of him, muzzle low in search of scent, her small black body quivering with energy. As they passed the Indian restaurant on Manchester Road, she raised her nose in a long sniff. The spicy smells emanating from its kitchen were as familiar to George now as the odor of cabbage and sausage had been in his childhood, but he’d never quite made up his mind to try the stuff—though he conceded that the urgings of Mrs. Singh might one day tip the scale.

He lifted his hand to Mrs. Jenkins in the dry cleaner next door to the restaurant, then quickened his pace yet again. He was late this morning, on account of helping Mrs. Singh with her telly, and most likely he’d missed his mates who gathered for coffee at the ASDA supermarket. But it was only fair, wasn’t it, doing a good turn for a neighbor? Especially as good a neighbor as Mrs. Singh.

Smiling at the thought of what his daughters would say if they knew what he got up to with the widow next door, he turned the corner into Glenarnock. They thought he was past it, but he still had a bit of lead in his pencil. And it was hard to expect a man to go without after so many years of having it regular. He meant no disrespect to their mum’s memory, after all.

As they came into Stebondale Street, Sheba tugged against the lead, sensing the nearness of the park, but George slowed as they reached the terraced houses across from the entrance to the Rope Walk. They made him think of the program on the Blitz he’d heard on the radio the evening before. As he’d sat snug in his kitchen with his evening cup of tea, it had brought the memories flooding unexpectedly back—the sound the planes made as they came in for a bombing run, the sirens, the devastation afterwards.

Coming to a halt, he told Sheba to sit. He took the houses for granted now, passed them every day without a thought, but this one short block of half a dozen homes was all that had survived of Stebondale as he’d known it before the war. The rest had been destroyed, like so much of the Island, like the house he had grown up in.