This is the ninth part of a fiction serial, in 724 words.
When it was time for Connie to leave, Diane toyed with the idea of asking her to stay and share the ham salad she was having for dinner that evening. However, that might mean her cycling home in the dark, and there were no lights on the old bicycle. Instead, she called to the girl as she got on the bike. “I will send you a postcard from Yorkshire!”
The drive north was very pleasant in her shiny green car. She had washed and polished it before the trip, making sure to check the oil and water when filling up at the garage in Fordham. With her small case secure in the boot, she took the scenic route, not arriving at the bed and breakfast until very late in the afternoon. It was not the first time she had been to Haworth, or that same bed and breakfast, and it felt familiar as she walked up the driveway carrying her case.
At a gift shop the next morning, she found a nice postcard of the Bronte’s house, and a paperback copy of Wuthering Heights. Both were intended for Connie, though it suddenly dawned on Diane that although she knew where the girl lived, she didn’t actually know the postal address. They would have to wait until she returned home to Essex. In a tiny bookshop, she was delighted to find a postcard with a reproduction of The Lady Of Shallot on it, and she tucked that inside the copy of Wuthering Heights for Connie to use as a bookmark.
Arriving home four days later, Diane thought about driving to Connie’s house to deliver the gifts. But she had no idea how long her mother would be away, and that woman might have not thought it appropriate for a teacher to visit the house. Probably best to leave it until school resumed in September.
She didn’t have to wait until September.
The knock on the door startled her as she was reading. The post had already come, and she was expecting no visitors. Connie was propping the bicycle against the front hedge as she opened it. “I came by each day to see if your car was back in the lane, Diane. My mum came home yesterday, but she doesn’t start back at the pub until Friday evening”.
Perhaps she should have asked why the girl had come every day. Perhaps she should have told her she was busy, and she would see her at school soon. But she didn’t.
“Oh, do come in, I have a gift for you”.
Handing over the book and the two postcards, Diane seemed flustered and awkward. By contrast, Connie looked confident and assured, radiant in a simple pink dress, her hair fragrant and flowing. “Silly me, I forgot to get your address, so I brought the postcard home. There’s another one inside the book for you to use as a bookmark, I think you will see why I chose it”. The girl looked like she might burst into tears. “I have never had such a thoughtful gift. I will treasure the cards and book always, I promise you”.
Putting the book down on the coffee table, Connie stepped forward and kissed Diane full on the lips. It was a kiss that was neither too brief, nor too long. And it was a kiss that sent a delicious shudder up Diane’s back. She stepped back quickly, resisting the urge to follow up with a kiss of her own. “Let’s have a cold drink. Look at the book, I have written inside the cover”. In the kitchen, Diane was trembling, and she held on to the old stone sink lest she fall over. With her heart racing, and her head spinning, she had to stand and regain her composure before going back with the drinks.
Connie was sitting with the book on her lap, open at the blank page where Diane had written on it.
‘To my dearest Connie, a girl with the brightest of futures. Diane. XX’
Choosing to sit opposite the sofa on a ladderback chair, Diane knew she could not trust herself to sit next to the girl, close enough to feel the warmth of her body.
Once Connie had left, a wave of relief swept over her, and she poured herself a large glass of wine.