Carol knew that this would probably be their last family
holiday. The twins were going to be 16
later in the year. They kicked around with hands in pockets, refusing every
suggestion that their parents made.
Incessant bickering between all four of the family members pockmarked
every day of the fortnight.
She bought a postcard every day, sometimes two. She didn’t write on them or post them. She
tucked them away in the back pocket of her handbag, along with her emergency
tenner and her pills. No-one else in the
family noticed her little collection, but then, she doubted if they would
notice even if she carried half of the National Gallery around with her. That was her job, packhorse.
By the time that they boarded the ferry to leave the Isle,
Carol had collected 24 postcards in all.
They remained in the zippered back pocket of her handbag throughout the
journey back to Surrey . The following Monday, she saw her husband off
to work, and the twins off for their final year at school. She then took a
train to Waterloo and found
a place under the clock. She stared at
the continually disgorging hoards as they made their way across the concourse,
keeping her eye out for that familiar hat. She saw it, then the smile that she loved
beaming out from under the shadow of the brim.
After a brief squeeze of hands, they went to their usual café, where she
took the postcards from her handbag and placed them in his palms.
“What’s this?” he laughed as he went through each card in
turn. “They’re all blank!”
“Well, I couldn’t send them to you! So I waited until I could put them in your
hand and tell you what I wanted them to say.”
He laid them out on the table and began to count.
“There are 24” she cut in “One for each hour of every day
that I missed you. That’s all I wanted
to say.”
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