Work Text:
The courses of our lives can be redirected by events both large and small. One of each would nudge Cyril Robinson’s life in a new direction on the same day, though he would only recognise the perfectly obvious one to begin with.
In later years, he would see the subtler occurrence clearly, the moment when a passing acquaintance took the first step towards friendship. At the time it was significant only due to the tragedy that spurred it.
***
“Most of the time,” Nurse Clifford said softly, “I adore this job. But sometimes, I can’t bear it.”
The sorrow in her eyes—such an unusual shade of blue—had driven him to admit, “I am the same.”
They had exchanged a look of commiseration and sympathy before he entered Alison’s room to speak with her about the foster home to which she and her newborn son would soon go, and to her mother about the importance of ensuring that her husband, who had imposed himself on Alison in the most vile manner, have no contact with any of her children, even the two who were also his.
“Well of course he’s not getting anywhere near Rachel, even though she is his own daughter. He raised Alison from a wee thing and that didn’t stop him,” the mother fretted. “But Richard, don’t he need a father in his life?”
He’d been forced to explain to her that some people willing to interfere with a child didn’t limit themselves to only little girls or only little boys. She’d protested halfheartedly, then sobbed at the thought that the monster she married might be even worse than she’d learned today. She’d been making vague noises about having her brother ‘round more often when the foster mother the agency assigned came by for introductions. Mrs Neeley was a good woman, a widow whose children were grown and who took in girls who were best off in a household with no men. It was a circumstance which occurred too often. She took the mother’s resentment and Alison’s trembling anxiety in her stride.
It was late when the situation had been resolved—insofar as well-intentioned agents of the welfare state had the power to bring about a resolution, at least. Wearily, he climbed the stairs to his flat and let himself inside. Two pieces of mail had been slipped under the door, a notice of some sort from the council, and another that had travelled much farther.
He knew her handwriting instantly, before his mind registered the postmark, the stamps. Nigel was twining about his ankles, meowing for his delayed dinner, and Cyril set the letter aside to feed the cat. Settling into his armchair, he took the missive up once again, opening it with only modest hesitation.
The request itself did not come as a real surprise; he’d been half-expecting it for months now. The details were what opened fresh wounds in his battered heart.
There was a doctor at the hospital, a widower with two young children. He wanted to marry her; he was a good man. She would be a mother and wife to one who lived in her country rather than far away in England. Perhaps God might even bless her womb, once she had rectified the series of mistakes she had made beginning with leaving Jamaica in the first place. She still respected him, still carried affection in her heart for him, but surely he could see this was for the best. If he were willing to live with her in Jamaica, he would be there by now. They both needed to move on with their lives. She could file for divorce at the Commonwealth office in Kingston, of course, but if he were to do it in London, where the marriage had taken place, it would all go so much more quickly. Would he do that one last thing for her?
He could only shake his head over this. She was trying to be conciliatory, to present this as a mutual desire, a natural conclusion, but there was no escaping the fact that she seemed to blame him and England for her unhappiness, though she had chosen both him and England. He was not the one who had abandoned home and spouse together. Resentment was a banked fire glowing sullenly in his chest.
***
After services that Sunday, he met with Mrs Wallace. They sat at the kitchen table with cups of tea and he opened the discussion by saying simply, “Mrs Robinson has asked me for a divorce.”
Her eyebrows reached for her hairline but she did not immediately speak. She frowned and seemed to inspect him for a time, eyes narrowed. She sipped her tea and tilted her head and only then asked, “And what will you do?”
“I am of a mind to comply. With the new Divorce Reform Act in effect, the marriage may be dissolved after two years of separation if we both agree, or after five if we do not. It will be dissolved, so why should I fight it?”
Lucille had left in May of the previous year, almost eighteen months ago, and the implementation of the Act had created a backlog in the courts as couples who had been separated for years or even decades, now free of the need to allege and prove fault, rushed to claim legal freedom. It had been in all the papers at the time and he had more recent confirmation that it was still true. If he were to file now, the two-year mark would have passed by the time the case was heard.
“There is sense in what you say,” she agreed, though he could see in her posture and expression that she did not like it. “It is the law of the land now, whatever we may think of allowing marriages made by God to be ended by selfishness,” she sniffed. “Not that you have been guilty of that sin, to my knowledge. I speak of Mrs Robinson. If she were here before me, I should give her such a talking-to!”
“She does not intend to ever be in England again, Mrs Wallace, which is the problem. If I were to go to Jamaica and settle there, she might relent. But what would I do there? People are leaving Jamaica to find jobs, not the reverse. It is fine for Lucille—where there are people, there must be nurses—but Jamaica does not need another civil engineer or social worker. Should I once again leave my home to start over in a new place, and one with no opportunities awaiting me, because Lucille will not honour her commitments to me or to England?”
“No, of course not. I have said it before—this is our home now. You should not leave a place where you have friends and a job and a good church to go somewhere where you may not be able to find any of those things. I will support you, Pastor Robinson. This was not your doing. But others may not feel the same.”
“I know this,” he replied heavily. “It is why I wished to speak to you today. Nothing will happen for some months. I went to the courthouse on Friday to get the forms, and the clerk told me the court is at least eight months behind at present. Nothing will happen imminently, but if the congregation wishes that I should step down, I will go quietly.”
“Let us see how it goes. I will say nothing, but Poplar is very like a small town. I will not be surprised if it gets out long before the case is heard.”
“Filings are supposed to be private. Only the final decree is public record.”
“Supposed to be, yes,” she said, standing. “Good day, pastor. I will pray for your peace and healing. And Mrs Robinson’s, too, I suppose.”
***
At first, he thought he had been correct that nothing would be known until the judge’s decision was made public. He told no one else, only quietly filed the papers, and went on much as he had done previously through Halloween, Bonfire Night, Christmas, and the turn of the year. 1970 began promisingly enough, but only days after Twelfth Night he began to notice odd looks and whispers as he passed. The next week Mrs Wallace visited him in the evening.
“The word is out,” she announced. “Someone who works at the courthouse saw your filing, recognised one or both of you, and could not keep their tongue behind their teeth. I believe that was the source of the talk because because it is said that the papers mentioned that Mrs Robinson has no intention of returning to England. I assume you put that in your statement?”
“I did,” he allowed. “How is the congregation reacting?” He would be preaching in three days, unless they thought it best he did not.
“I have not seen everyone, and I doubt they all know yet, though that will soon change. Most of those I have spoken with are of my opinion: that it is not your fault, and that to fight the inevitable is a waste. Some are upset. We shall see, Pastor Robinson. All will be revealed in God’s time. But maybe you should think about preaching on judging not this week, hmm?”
That raised a chuckle from him where he would not have thought it possible. “Perhaps I will do that, Mrs Wallace. Perhaps I will. Or maybe on casting stones.”
The congregation he faced that Sunday was not much reduced from its usual numbers. On any other winter Sunday, he would have thought that there was illness in a few households, if he had remarked the decrease at all. Today, every missing face was fuel for doubt, every smile directed his way cause for rejoicing. He pretended not to notice the small, whispered gatherings in corners before the service.
Nurse Clifford, who had been attending once or twice a month since the autumn, came in just before he began to preach and sat in the back, as she always did. He assumed she was aware of his situation, for he had told Fred the morning after Mrs Wallace’s visit and asked him to let their friends at Nonnatus House know so that he would not have to repeat it over and over. Fred had been happy to relieve him of that burden, and Cyril suspected that Lucille’s friends had found it easier to hear the news from someone other than her discarded husband.
In the end, he had decided not to speak on judgement or the casting of stones. Instead, he spoke on a subject long dear to his heart—the bountiful love which flowed eternally from his God, who forgave all things and purified all willing hearts. Some in the congregation interjected hallelujahs and amens, and when he had spoken his piece they sang together about hope and glory. It was a good service, for all his private fears.
Nurse Clifford usually slipped away with the final note, but this time she did not. She waited until those who wished to speak to him had done so and left him in favour of tea and cakes. Then she approached and said, with an uncertain smile, “I enjoyed your sermon.”
“I am glad of it,” he replied honestly.
“I’ve been to some churches where they seem to think God’s forgiveness extends only to those they agree with.” She hesitated, then added, “I haven’t gone back to those. I don’t really know what I believe, but it’s definitely not in a God who bestows love only upon certain kinds of people.”
“That would be small, resentful god,” he agreed. “One who exists only in the minds of small, resentful people, perhaps. I would not wish to worship him, myself.”
“That’s why I like this church.”
“You are always welcome here,” he said firmly. He had been the only black man in the room too many times to misunderstand how out of place she might feel in this company, even if no one did anything particular to make her feel it.
She smiled. “Thank you. I think I may attend more often. I’m only on call one Sunday a month. But I should get back to Nonnatus House. I’m expected for lunch. I hope—” She broke off and bit her lip, then continued. “I hope you know that you are always welcome there.”
“I am glad to hear it. I had wondered.” He shrugged with a wry smile. “I thought the midwives would understand, but the nuns…”
She smiled more widely, deep blue eyes twinkling. “The sisters are saddened, of course—as were we all! But they are Anglicans, and the Church of England has allowed divorce for over 400 years, though not everyone has come around to the notion of divorce without fault. The predominant feeling, so far as I have seen, is concern for you. And for Mrs Robinson, among those who know her. Please, say you will come by sometime, and let them see that you are well enough. Or if you are not so well as you seem, allow your friends to be of use to you,” she entreated earnestly.
He could only agree. “I will do that,” he replied. “It will be pleasant to be surrounded by such good friends.”
***
He kept his word promptly, appearing at Nonnatus House a few days later when his work was complete at a reasonable hour and he was not expected at the soup kitchen. He was reassured by the warmth of his welcome there, and even more so by the fact that his visit was largely treated as an ordinary occurrence. There were a few discreet, murmured assurances of support, a few lines from a poem on the subject of hope and renewal from Sister Monica Joan, and no more was said of the looming matter of his divorce.
His life soon settled down into its previous pattern, more or less. The looks and whispers faded but did not entirely cease. Several families left his church, but a new one had joined already: a couple from Antigua who had been shunned by several other immigrant congregations because the wife had been divorced.
Early in February, he was called to investigate an allegation of neglect and abuse at one of the oldest remaining Council buildings in Poplar, home to some of its poorest families. There he found a familiar tale—wages spent at the pub by the man of the house, the five children thin and dirty. This was not a problem which could be mitigated by placing assistance directly in the hands of the mother, however. She was passed out on the sofa with a bottle of gin when he arrived.
The children had to be removed, and before they could be placed in a foster home—or more likely split among two or three—they needed to be cleaned and clothed, their hair de-loused and combed free of matts, their bruises and any hidden injuries addressed. A few telephone calls later and he had the use of the large bathroom at Nonnatus, an offer of assistance from one or more of the midwives there, and Dr Turner’s promise to look the children over and help him and the police document their condition.
He and an earnest young female police constable escorted the children to Nonnatus House, where they were met by Sister Julienne and Nurse Clifford. “Poor lambs,” he heard the nurse murmur as they chivied the youngsters up the stairs.
Inside the bathroom, the tub was full of warm water and Fred Buckle was busily using a bucket to fill an old copper washtub from the tap. Sister Julienne took on the task of reassuring the children. “You’re all going to have a lovely bath and get your hair combed out, then you’ll have new clean clothes. We’ll help you with all of it, and I promise that no one will shout or be rough with you. How does that sound?”
The eldest, eleven year old Davey, frowned mutinously and snapped, “I don’t believe you. If one of the little ‘uns splashes on your floor, you’ll yell and hit. That’s what grownups do.”
Sister Julienne crouched to his level and regarded him seriously. “That is what some grownups do, yes. But not the ones here. When children are hit, it’s the job of child protection workers like Mr Robinson there to take them away and bring them to others who behave better than that. He has brought you to us because he knows we will not harm you. But if you like, you may watch your sisters and brothers being bathed, and see for yourself that nothing bad is happening before you have your own bath.”
The lad considered her with open scepticism for a moment. “All right,” he said reluctantly. “But if you hurts ‘em, I’ll thwack ya.”
“There will be no thwacking,” she said firmly, standing. “Not by anyone.”
Davey watched, narrow-eyed, as the two youngest were stripped and washed and gently towelled dry. He was a little more relaxed as the next two got their turn, but maintained a real vigilance. He was old enough not to want strange women involved in his own bath, so Cyril supervised as he tended to himself, offering a few casual reminders about neglected areas.
The three boys’ hair had been kept reasonably, if unevenly, short, so it wasn’t too difficult to use the nit combs on them before dousing their scalps in olive oil and putting them in shower caps for the night. The girls’ longer hair, however, was terribly matted, and they were given the olive oil treatment without much in the way of combing beforehand, in hopes the oil would make that process easier the next day.
The children were taken to an emergency foster carer’s home for the night. First thing in the morning, Cyril went there to observe for his report. The carer, Miss Perkins, a motherly but no-nonsense lady retired from a career in teaching, reported that the children were timid and distrustful, with Davey wavering between timidity and the belligerence he had shown the day before.
Soon after his own arrival, Nurses Clifford and Highland appeared bearing combs and set about the final phase of the de-lousing procedure. The boys were quickly done and hustled off by Miss Perkins to wash the oil from their hair, but it took over an hour for the nurses to ease all the tangles and nits out of the two girls’ hair.
“That is a powerful lot of work,” he commented a good half hour into it.
Nurse Highland agreed with a smile and a shrug. Nurse Clifford said, “It’s not worth doing if you aren’t going to be careful about it. If we miss any today, they’ll all be crawling with nits again in a week or two, and wherever they’re staying, as well!”
Dr Turner arrived towards the end of the procedure and carefully examined each of the five children in turn, tutting over 2-year-old Mandy’s tender wrist.
“I’d like an x-ray on this,” he said. “I suspect a greenstick fracture. She’s certainly at the age where we tend to see them. The rest of them are hale enough, though—they just need good food, a clean environment, and kindness.”
Miss Perkins assured him, “They’ll get that here until you find a relative or a longer term placement.”
“I can see that they will,” he replied with a smile. Turning to Cyril, he added, “I’ll call ahead to St Cuthbert’s so they’ll be expecting Mandy.”
Nurse Highland announced that she had rounds to see to and left with the doctor. Mrs Perkins and Nurse Clifford vanished into the bathroom to wash the oil from the girls’ hair, while Cyril sat with the boys. He asked them a few casual questions about their parents and gleaned some new details for his report.
When Nurse Clifford offered to come to the hospital, he asked, “Do you not have rounds of your own to see to?”
“Oh, no, it’s my day off,” she announced cheerfully. “I didn’t have any particular plans and the rolls are heaving with mothers near term just now, so I volunteered to help out with these little ones today.”
“I would be glad of your assistance,” he admitted. He was comfortable with children old enough to speak intelligibly, and babies were easy enough in their way because one could move them about as one pleased, but toddlers—mobile but not yet able to express most things in words—were a bit of a mystery to him. An extra pair of hands and eyes could not come amiss.
They boarded the bus that would take them to St Cuthbert’s, Mandy happily burbling at a doll provided by Miss Perkins. Cyril noticed she only played with one hand, the other, the one at the end of the tender wrist, dangling quietly by her side as she sat on the nurse’s lap.
“Is that usual? To play only with the dominant hand at that age?” he asked quietly, though he was fairly sure it wasn’t.
Her confirmation of his suspicion was swift. “Not at all. Two-year-olds are little bundles of motion. Half the time you’re not yet sure if they’re left- or right-handed!” She smiled softly, though with a hint of melancholy, down at the little girl. “She’s a dear thing. So cheerful even when it’s clear she’s in more than a little discomfort. What will become of them all, do you think?”
“I wish I could tell you. We will look for relatives first, but you don’t often find anyone who can take on so many. The best case may be that they are split between two or three households who see each other frequently due to family ties. If we cannot find relatives to take all of them, the foster system will step in.”
“And in that case, the separation may be permanent, might it not?”
“Very likely, yes, Nurse Clifford.”
She nodded sadly but said only, “You can call me Rosalind, you know. I hope we’re friends by now?”
He smiled. “I am Cyril.”
***
Mandy did indeed have the kind of fracture Dr Turner had been concerned about, one which can occur in the lower arm when a child is roughly lifted and swung about by the hand or wrist. It was another potential sign of abuse which he duly reported.
He spent a great deal of time over the next several days contacting the many known relatives of both parents, who had come from typically large Poplar families. The siblings and cousins of the parents whom he was able to reach either had no ability to take the children on or would clearly be an inappropriate placement, such as the mother’s sister who sounded quite drunk when he managed to contact her in the middle of the day through a neighbour with a phone.
At last, over a week after the children were removed from the ‘care’ of their parents, Cyril managed to locate the father’s youngest brother in Southwark and explain the situation with the man’s nieces and nephews. Married for seven years with no children, he and his wife agreed to take them all, if the council could find them a larger home that wouldn’t put them too far from his job. Finding nothing to indicate that they were anything other than the ordinary, decent couple they appeared to be in public records and a personal interview, Cyril spent far too much time on the phone to the Southwark Housing Office before happening upon someone there who was both willing and able to make things happen. A month after the case was opened, he had a firm placement plan and a date only a few weeks distant on which the children’s uncle and aunt could move into a home large enough to receive them.
He brought the news to Nonnatus House on his way home from work that evening, and found himself surprisingly disappointed that to find that Nurse Clifford—Rosalind—was not there to hear it directly from him.
***
Winter rolled on into spring, and Cyril was now visiting Nonnatus House several times a week. Sister Veronica once told him, in her cheerfully blunt way, “It’s good that you aren’t sitting alone in your flat so much anymore. One mustn’t dwell, you know. Activity and companionship! That’s what’s needed in difficult times.” She then beamed upon him as though she had just delivered a shining nugget of great wisdom, patted him on the arm, and bustled away.
Perhaps she wasn’t entirely wrong. He did feel more cheerful lately, though whether that was because he was spending more time with his friends or simply the passage of time dulling his heartache, he couldn’t say. It was quite possible that it was both.
April brought a letter from the courts; his case would be heard on the 28th of May. A Thursday. He chuckled at himself for his initial shock that such a momentous occasion should occur in the middle of the week. He wondered how he would feel when it was done. They had now been separated longer than they lived together as husband and wife. What would change, really?
On the appointed day, he presented himself at the courthouse and waited for several hours to be called before the judge. It transpired that Lucille had written to the court, stating that she did not object to the divorce. The judge allowed him to read the brief letter, and though her handwriting was still familiar, it felt as though he were reading the words of a stranger.
When he had affirmed that the information he gave in his filing was truthful, the judge asked, “And your separation dates to the 14th of May, 1968?”
“Yes, Your Honour. That is the date she flew to Jamaica. I have the receipt for the ticket with me, if you would like to see it.”
“And you have not lived together since?”
“I visited her in Jamaica in October of that year,” he replied. “I hoped to persuade her to return to England with me, but she would not come. I stayed at her parents’ house with her.”
“Hm.” The judge regarded him sternly over the top of his spectacles. “Some would consider that a period of cohabitation, but I assume there was no other place you might have stayed, in a country not your own?”
“There was not, Your Honour, and a hotel was beyond my means. The flights alone were a great expense. I went there in an attempt to convince Lucille to return to England and to me, but I was unsuccessful.”
“Very well.” His Honour’s gaze flicked over the paperwork one last time. “It is clear that the marriage has broken down irretrievably. The petition is granted.”
***
He encountered Fred as he was returning to his flat afterwards. “All done, then?” Fred asked.
“All done. I am a divorced man. It may not be fully recorded for a few days, but the judge has made his decision.”
Fred smiled sympathetically and clapped Cyril on the shoulder. “Well, you can get on with things now. Must have felt a bit like living in limbo, eh?” Another hearty clap on the shoulder. “Come to dinner tonight, won’t you? It’s Vi’s big ordering day, so I’ll be getting us some fish and chips once I close the newsagent’s. No trouble at all to get more.” He looked as though Cyril would be doing him a favour by agreeing, even though it was the other way around.
“I would like that, Fred, thank you.”
“Come by at 6, then.”
The Buckles didn’t mention the day’s big event when he had dinner with them, though Violet did squeeze his hand longer than usual as she greeted him. No, it was all cheerful talk of the haberdashery, the newsagent’s, a ribbon-cutting Violet would be attending next week as Tower Hamlets’ mayor, and their anticipation of Reggie’s planned summer visit.
Back in his own flat, belly pleasantly full of fried fish and potatoes and a bit of cake Violet conjured up for them, Cyril’s head was once again full of all that has happened and all that needed to be done. He would have to tell Mrs Wallace, and possibly make an announcement to the congregation. Some members might change their minds about remaining when possibility became reality. When he received confirmation from the court that the divorce had been duly certified and recorded, he thought he should write to Lucille. She would receive the same notice, but it seemed only right to acknowledge the end of all that had been between them. He did not expect that they would ever have reason to communicate with each other again.
Funny, he thought as he lay in his bed later, Nigel a warm weight against his hip, how little pain there had been at the legal dissolution of the marriage he had entered thinking it would form the foundation of the rest of his life. There had been plenty when he had first admitted that she was not coming back and that there was nothing he could do to change that, however. He had mourned the loss of those dreams already. Only the paperwork had remained, and now that, too, was done.
He opened the little drawer on the nightstand and dropped his wedding ring inside.
***
He endured a week or two of well-meant commiseration, and a few less friendly lectures, as word spread. Eventually, everyone’s thoughts drifted back to their own concerns, or at least to concerns other than Cyril’s. In that time, he received the expected notification from the court and dispatched his own letter to Jamaica. He rearranged the flat, dispelling the faint ghost of his marriage that still lingered there. His thoughts began to tend more towards the future than the past.
Tuesdays were Rosalind’s usual day off. Tuesdays, and every Sunday but the third of the month. Armed with this knowledge, he dressed with particular care on an otherwise ordinary Tuesday several weeks after his divorce was finalised. He went to work and applied himself diligently to his open cases, but when the clock passed five he finished typing up his notes on the previous day’s visit to the Burneys of Cotton Street and left the office, turning his steps to the market.
He dithered uncharacteristically over the offerings at the flower-seller’s stall for a quarter of an hour, eventually deciding on a pretty arrangement of blue and yellow flowers with a bit of greenery mixed in. He wanted to laugh at himself—he was going courting, not deciding the fate of the world!—but he was too nervous to find humour in it.
A few streets farther along he stopped, hearing his name called. Nurse Crane had pulled over just ahead of him and rolled her motor’s window down. “Heading to Nonnatus House?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Hop in, then.”
He thanked her and climbed into the passenger seat, settling the flowers on his lap. Once they were on their way, she fixed him with a knowing look and said, “I’ve a fair idea who those are for, I believe.”
He ducked his head. “Have I been so obvious?”
“No, not at all,” she hastened to reassure him. “I’ve just seen nearly everything at this point in my life. And I’ve been paying particular attention to you these last few months, because I’ve been worried about you.”
“I appreciate that, but I am fine. Truly.”
“Yes, I observed that, too. I suppose you’ve had a good deal of time to come to terms with what’s happened, and you’re not the sort to fold under the weight of things, are you?” she added approvingly. “You weren’t here for the war, but ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ has always been your way.”
He smiled. “I suppose it has. Perhaps that is why I took to living in England so well.”
“I hope you don’t think Lucille’s friends will begrudge you moving on. For myself, I can only wish you every happiness. Nurse Clifford is a good sort of girl, and as different as you may seem on the surface, I have noticed a certain similarity in the turn of your minds.”
“We both see terrible things regularly, yet abide in hope.” That was what had drawn him to her. Oh, he’d noticed how pretty she was; he was a man and still breathing. But there were a lot of pretty girls around, and she was the only one he thought about when she wasn’t in front of him.
“Abide in hope,” Phyllis mused. “That’s something poor Lucille wasn’t able to do.”
“No. I blamed her for it, for a while,” he said reflectively. “But no longer. Depression robbed her of hope, and distance robbed me of love. We were neither of us as steadfast as we meant to be when we made our promises to each other.”
“I expect it would have been worse if only one of you had been,” she said briskly as they pulled up in front of Nonnatus House. “That’s a flavour of heartbreak I wouldn’t wish on anyone, much less a friend. Better all around that you were both able to let go.” She cut the engine, pulled the key, and turned to him with a look of friendly conspiracy. “Shall I send her out? You don’t need half of Nonnatus House lurking in the stairwell for this.”
He smiled at her. “Thank you, Phyllis, I would appreciate that very much.”
She waved him off as she clambered out of the car. “Just trying to ensure your success. You might not think it, given how I’ve lived my own life, but I take a keen interest in the romances of those around me. Better than a novel, I say.”
He laughed as she trotted up into the house, then settled in to wait, leaning against one of the wide brick pillars at the base of the stairs. The few minutes before the front door opened again seemed like an eternity, but all thoughts of the strange, subjective nature of time fled as it swung wide and there she was, smiling down at him. “Hello, Cyril.”
He couldn’t have suppressed his answering smile if he’d tried. At last, his heart whispered when she took the first step down towards him. “Good evening, Rosalind.” He extended the paper-wrapped bouquet.
Coming to a stop before him, she accepted the flowers with uncertain hands. “For me?” Her voice was small, and she was no longer looking at him, but she was still smiling, and that gave him courage.
“For you,” he affirmed, watching with fascination as her smile deepened and her cheeks grew rosy.
“I’ve never had flowers before, except from my parents when I finished school.”
“Well, now I can be sure that you will never forget me,” he teased.
Her gaze moved shyly up to meet his. “I never could anyway.”
That answer made him wish more than anything that he could simply bend down and kiss her right then, on the street for all to see. Instead, he said lightly, “I am of a mind to introduce you to more new things. Tell me, have you ever had dinner at that new Indian restaurant on East Ferry Road with a pastor?”
She laughed. “I can’t say that I have.”
He grew serious then. It was important that she understand he wasn’t here on a whim. “And would you like to? Because I have never taken you on a date, and that is a new thing I am very eager to try.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, her customary forthright manner returning. “Yes to the restaurant, and to new things, and most of all, yes to you.” She blushed, but her gaze did not waver from his as she added, “I’ve been hoping you’d ask.”
“I’ve been waiting to be certain I could come to you with a whole and unburdened heart,” he admitted. “You deserve that.”
She beamed up at him, a ray of sunshine through that cloudy day. “We’ll have to toast to new beginnings over our curry, then.”
“We certainly will.”