Forthlye Church

She stopped, just a few steps in front of the open gate. It had been years since she’d been here. She hesitantly followed its path to the far end and sat on the low wall facing the old church bracing the cool breeze as the sun cast a shadow. For a moment she closed her eyes and could hear her friend’s voices, voices of the past. So familiar, so happy yet almost forgotten.

A fluttering sound disturbed her memories, movement caught her eye as a bird flapped its wings and soared across the high arched window, she smiled, the haunted tower, it had been empty for so long. The stairway up had fallen down and only half remained, a sloping uneven block of crumbling stone. When they were younger they would climb them, Maud clambering unladylike, got into trouble for ripping her dress. The memory took her breath away, Maud’s gone now, buried in the far corner of the churchyard, amongst the new rows of graves. Her brother Gerald is further along, died in a motorcycle accident, a long time ago, he died before he had chance to sign up but she could still remember him.

Nothing has changed much since she’d been away. Except the trees have grown taller; a limb from one of the taller trees stretches up against the pale sky and bows down shading the resting place of her best friend.

She thrust her hands down on the stone seat and lifted herself forward sinking both feet in the thickness of the damp grass. She brushed the back of her skirt and smoothed the long fabric.

It was time to go, she’d waited longer than she’d intended. She had dreamed of basking in the sun, lying on freshly cut grass cradled in his loving arms. What a stupid dream she thought, it isn’t even summer, it’s a dream that could never come true.

She slipped the piece of paper from her pocket and stared at the faint inked letter in her hand. She’d read it over and over, now its creases worn. It was the last letter she received from him. He never received hers. She wrote to him every day, telling him how much she missed him and how she longed for them to be together. She didn’t tell him about her day, the awful chemical fumes she breathed in the factory, how red her hands had become from turning the blackened lead barrels. She didn’t tell him how numb she felt when the sirens whirled and about the horrific silence just before the engine of the plane could be heard.

She never looked at another man. She waited patiently, just in case they’d made a mistake and he came home. She lived with her mother for many years, a woman who changed from a smiling caring mother before the war, to a sad grieving widow after it. She knew the resemblance between her mother and herself was now at it’s highest.

Even though it was many years ago she could remember every sound, every smell as if it was yesterday. She felt the same but her complexion was pale, she was more fragile than before and any sparkle of youth had now gone.

Tender thoughts of her mother suddenly came flooding back filling her eyes with tears, she was standing in the garden, a red rose in her hand and one in her hair. She had reached up and taken the flower from her hand, its perfume sweet, she could smell it now, the aroma was pulling her towards the bottom of the crumbled steps. She could hear a soft voice calling her name.
“Moira” the voice called.

She looked up into the arched window and saw a ghostly figure in the darkened haze. She clutched her chest to ease the excruciating pain. He’d come back. Eagerly she began to climb the steps, the strength of her youth returning enabling her to reach him, the steps now reaching the top, as they embraced the faded letter slipped from her hand. It laid where it fell, next to an old lady, neither, she nor him noticed as they climbed excitedly like two young children into the arched window.