Happy Days

‘What a game, eh!’ He joined me on the seat, a white carnation in his buttonhole and clutching a bottle of bubbly. ‘Like some?’

‘Not your wedding, is it?’ I asked, as they gathered noisily and happily outside the big gothic house in the park popular for such receptions.

‘Not this time,’ he chuckled. ‘You been married?’

I wiped the neck of the bottle. ‘Divorced.’ You can sometimes speak more easily with strangers than with friends. ‘It’s love affairs that kill you,’ I began.

‘Terry!’ A no-nonsense young lady with floral hat and black shiny handbag stood a little way down the path. ‘What you doin’ here?’ She beckoned impatiently. ‘Come on, it’s goin’ to pour in a minute.’

The sky had turned the colour of a deep and wounding bruise, and with it came that rare and passing fragrance as the first swollen raindrops soaked into warm dry ground.

Terry clambered to his feet, crushed out his cigarette.

‘What a game, eh!’