Miss Johnson (of Lyminster) part
Again @mercurygray , not quite a 'date' but another OC decided to step further out of the shadows- thanks to @paulinedorchester for the little nudge She needed. Everyone, meet Miss Adelaide Johnson of Lyminster.
I rise up from sleep to near-wakefulness. I am partially aware of the different light, the different bed. Good-morning Martin I say, in my thoughts– as I have said, aloud or otherwise, every morning for twenty-eight years. Today I do not speak aloud to his photograph, for I am not in Lyminster but in Hastings instead- as so sweetly requested by Miss Samantha. It would not have been right to bring him with me, although he never really leaves.
Ah, Miss Samantha.
I remember the first time I really met her, although I had seen her as a babe in her mother's arms and at church, of course.
She must have been, oh, about four, her hair in a riot of orange curls about her head, brought along by Reverend Stewart on one of his parish visitations. She'd sat patientlyon the too large chair for a little while, no doubt an eternity for a bored child, her eyes roving about as much as she dared. But she had begun to fidget, and her father had turned an eye to her.
“Samantha, sit quietly please while we are talking.”
She had stilled, but with a dark light in her eye. Reverend Stewart had continued his discussion, I forget now what was being talked of.
“Please Miss Johnson”... The words dropped into small patch of silence as her father stopped talking to drink his tea
I turned to her, I must admit, slightly relieved for the interruption “Yes, Miss Samantha?”
She looked at me with very bright, curious eyes. “Why does that picture have a black band in the corner, and why is the watch sitting on the mantelpiece under it rather than in your pocket?”
I turned my head to follow her gaze, not that I needed to. The summer picture of the two of us, taken when he joined up, and his watch, laying with it's chain curled like a tail at the base of the frame. Almost all I had left of Martin.
Her father gave a little chiding cough. But I rose from my chair and took down the photograph, taking it to her. She looked at it carefully, folding her hands demurely in a sweet effort not to touch it
“You see this man?” - She nodded solemnly - “This was Martin Roberts, he was the young man I intended to marry when I was younger.”
“Is that you?” She asked, studying the young woman with her pinned up hair and her white dress, it was slightly sprigged, but that doesn't notice in the photograph.
“Yes.” Not even ten years ago, that photograph was taken.
She looked at it for a moment longer “You were very pretty, and he, he has nice eyes.” She tilted her head, the way a crow might and spoke with a decided tone “He looks smiley.”
Oh child – I swallowed, and the words came with a huskiness “He was.”
“Samantha.” Her father's voice was firm, one that scolded, He walked over to us and looked hard at his daughter “I believe we talked about this.”
“But all I said was...”
Samantha”
She bowed her head, fingers knitting, then turns her head up to me “I'm sorry for upsetting you, Miss Johnson, and asking about Mr Roberts.” The tone is that of formality, of recitation.
The vicar gave an approving nod, Samantha, go and put your coat on.”
She nodded and slipped off the chair. He turned to me hen turned to me “I add my apologies too Miss Johnson. She is only young after all-.”
“It's alright,” and surprisingly it is, it still hurt -and yet... her childish innocence, her utter decision, her presentness, was easier than other comments weighted in kindness, but tinged with the Loss of Martin.
