“You bastard, George!”

She spat out the words as she leapt to her feet, ripping the paper apart. She threw it down again, kicking it viciously with her slippered foot as it hit the floor.

“You’re not going to spoil my day. Not today. Not after all these years. I won’t let you!”

She beat at the air with her fists, as she spoke, as though to drive away the past. But the ghosts of memories, long thought well laid, were beginning to stir restlessly, begging to be revived.

Her breathing was now rapid and shallow and her chest had developed a dull ache in its centre. She stood massaging it with a well-manicured hand, mentally chastising herself for getting worked up about things that had happened so long ago.

Idly, her gaze wandered to the grand piano which stood in the corner of the room between the bay window and the fireplace. On its top stood a large silver rose bowl filled with red roses, an exquisite antique silver urn and several silver-framed photographs. She walked slowly across the room to the piano as if drawn by a magnet.

Running her fingers around the edge of the nearest filigreed frame, she gazed at the picture. A happy couple smiled back at her. A couple on holiday, obviously enjoying each other’s company. An elderly, white-haired man with neat trimmed moustache, his arm draped affectionately over the shoulder of a still youthful-looking woman. A woman of indeterminate years with dark chestnut coloured hair. Pretty windmills in the background pin-pointed the location as Mykonos. She smiled, fondly remember-ing the moment.

Her gaze shifted to the next photograph. She gently pushed one bottom corner of the frame to angle it towards her. Her eyes lingered on the slightly built, dark haired man whose features bore a resemblance to those of the older man. He was in white coveralls and lounged casually against a sleek, silver racing car. Seated on its long bonnet was a happy, laughing woman. Carefully, almost reverently, she re-positioned the frame to its original angle before focusing on the next.

A black and white photograph of a middle-aged man. Handsome and of striking proportions. Dressed, somehow incongruously, in business suit and trilby. Tri-umphantly holding in both hands, above his head, a trophy. At his side, a smiling, nervous-looking young woman. She smiled wistfully as she patted the top of the frame before turning her attention to the last one, which she took up in her hands.

A lone horseman standing, arms akimbo, beside his mount. A young man, smiling broadly, his hair tousled, dark curls falling across his wide forehead. There was an unmistakable challenge in his eyes. From his looks and build he could have been the trophy holder at some earlier time. The casual riding garb better suited its wearer. She studied the photograph for a long time, tears filling her eyes. Before replacing the frame, she kissed a finger-tip and transferred it to the photograph.

She turned away, glancing at the clock as she did so. Two minutes to ten. Time to start getting ready, she decided. Without so much as a glance at the scattered newspaper and dirty coffee cup she left the room and, humming a sentimental old favourite to herself, made her way up the thick carpeted stairs to her bedroom.

PIMRC 2001