I walked quietly behind her, reach under her arm, and put my hand on her breast. For a brief second I could feel its firmness, and its curve. And then she turned and slapped me!
“Don’t ever do that again or you will really regret it!” she said vehemently, staring at me.
“I…..I…I just came to tell you we are all going back for lunch….” I stammered.
“Do that one more time, and you will never eat lunch again.” was her response as she stormed off. She probably never heard my mumbled apology.
And I never did it again. Fortunately she didn’t ignore me for the rest of the holiday, and I left to go back to the South and college afterwards, but the feel of that warm firm breast stayed with me, especially alone in my bed.
Years passed, and my grab of her was never mentioned. She married the lead singer, then divorced him, remarried, and had a son. And in that time, following college and my training, I too married and had two kids, and then moved my family to Canada. During the years before we left the country, Pauline and I visited each other’s families, and my wife and I knew her second husband quite well before he acted like a fool and she divorced him. Just before she divorced him was when my family moved to Canada. She, of course, continued to have men in tow, some married, some not, according to my Mum. And through those years that clumsy grab of mine was never mentioned, but every time I saw her, the image of her up against that railing in the sun-dress came immediately to mind, and the crush continued.
A couple years after moving to Canada, when I was 38, my father died suddenly. Mum really wanted me to come home for the funeral and offered to pay my fare, so with the help of our corporate secretary a round-trip compassionate grounds ticket was acquired and off home I went. I took the underground from Heathrow to King’s Cross and the train to Yorkshire. Pauline met me off it, with a hug and a chaste kiss, and drove me to my Mum’s. That was Thursday afternoon, and the funeral was to be Tuesday, so I was actively involved in planning the service, making phone calls, and seeing Dad — with Mum and my brother — before they closed the coffin. Generously, my brother and his wife lent me her car, so at least I was mobile.
Funerals bring all sorts of people out of the past woodwork of your life, and Dad’s was no different, but me having come back from Canada made me the focus of a lot of the conversation. The reception was held at home — sandwiches courtesy of the ladies of the church, of course. Eventually everyone left and there was just Pauline, Mum and I. Because of the sandwiches, Mum didn’t want any supper; Pauline had been too busy being the hostess to get much to eat, and I had talked to so many people I never got chance to put food in my mouth. Mum suggested Pauline and I should go out for dinner.
Pauline jumped at it, pointing out that what had been her elementary school, and our joint Sunday School, was now an Italian Restaurant, and of course she knew the owners! So we agreed to take a couple of hours break to freshen up and meet at the restaurant around 7.