The day that we crossed the bridge, I carried you over in my heart.
You were the precious and priceless jewel that had shone through the years we enjoyed together, the most special days of the past.
Our days on the island were the best days of my life but thoughts of you never left my mind.
The island was always full of intrigue, mystery and excitement, almost like exuberance in time that stood still. We were always onlookers, witnesses and visitors to the world of culture, glamour and hidden disdain.
The bridge was the only way into the fascinating garden of milling lives. Musicians, and people of splendour, that brought laughter, colour and tales of today. Tomorrows however were often damp and distracted, as sodden as the mist that shrouded the bank.
I decided to recluse my life in the changing seasons of the island, and it was then that I began to observe the stolen footsteps that crossed the bridge.
I always knew that I was special; unfortunately no-one else seemed to take notice or pay attention.
As the youngest of three children, I was the one who didn’t fit in, the ugly duckling, the no brainer, the “one who lived in her shell”. Always the quiet one, the one who was a nuisance and with Sissy attached to Daddy and big brother attached to Mummy, the one who was unplanned and unwanted. I was reminded of this often by my parents.
You meant everything to me, my life’s love and my mind was never far away from you.
In the first days of my arrival, everything was quiet but proper. I was humble and subservient as a visitor should be in this world. I decided to keep a low profile as I did not want to be asked to leave this idyllic place. How could I be so lucky?
So despite being the third sibling that shouldn’t exist, I was now the one who was privileged, quite amusing and ironic, I couldn’t stop a wry smile from creasing my face.
No one knew where I was except you. Let them find me if they ever wanted to. If they eventually noticed that I wasn’t sitting around when they felt driven by family duty to call me. To exchange the usual cold, polite greetings, empty birthday wishes and painful occasional visits. The idea of escaping to my unknown new life made me smile, smile and laugh out aloud.
A sudden rustle of leaves dragged me back to the present, as I sat very still; I saw shadows through the trailing hedgerow. Through the prickly gaps in the untrained hawthorn, I observed two figures.
I recognised the elegant posture of Lady Greswell but who was her foreboding companion?
Lord and Lady Greswell were accepted into the local circle of upper class aristocracy. They both descended from a long line of wealth. I was told this by Nick who introduced me to them, but I knew little else. It had taken Nick several attempts to convince them that I was “suitable”, but after our second meeting, they seemed to mellow for a moment, and they agreed that I could live in the boathouse, just for a few months.
In return, I was appointed as general assistant to Nick, which basically meant that I was expected to do anything, for very little recompense.
This was no sacrifice for me, I was a hard worker and I needed very little to keep me in comfort.
Thank God that I had met Nick.
© Copyright 2016 George Wishart Young. All rights reserved.
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