Number 13

‘Friday the thirteenth! Hardly the date for a party,’ Sharon said.
     ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I said.  ‘If you’re born on the 13th, your birthday’s bound to fall on a Friday some years.’
      She shuddered.  ‘But it’s so unlucky.’
      Pat laughed.  ‘Surely you’re not superstitious!’
      Jacky was unnaturally quiet.  I was her birthday.
      ‘Anyway, I don’t believe it’s unlucky,’ I put in.  ‘Both my grandparents lived in houses number 13, and I’m still alive.’
     ‘Both sets?’
     ‘My paternal grandad built his house in West Wickham and called it No 2.  Someone built a house at the end of the road and numbered that 2. A third family built at the other end of the road and numbered that 2 as well. Then the whole road was built up and the council renumbered.  My grandad’s house was between No 11 and No 15.  It wasn’t actually numbered 13 until he sold up after  grandma died.  
      And my maternal grandparents lived in 13 Whitworth Road, South Norwood - admittedly that was after my parents were married, so Mum never lived there.’
     ‘Maybe,’ Jacky said.  ‘But I’ve always been unlucky.  If I’d been born two minutes earlier my birthday would be the 12th. I was always bullied at school.’
     ‘But not for your birthday!’
     ‘Well, no.  It was my red hair. But  I’ve never won anything.  The nearest  was a lottery ticket when I missed the big prize by two digits.’
     ‘Anybody can do that,’ Sharon said.   ‘I’ve never won on the lottery either.’
     Pat laughed.  ‘I think 13’s a lucky number.’
     ‘How come?’
     ‘Well,’ she said slowly.  ‘It was some time ago on Friday the 13th.  I was on a number 13 bus going to West Croydon.  We drew up at stop 13 and the most gorgeous man got on.’  She paused to let us imagine our ideal.
     ‘Tall, dark, handsome and well dressed in an electric blue suit, which was all the rage in those days.  He sauntered down the bus, casting his eyes over the talent.  When he got to me he looked me up and down, and took the seat beside me.’  She slowly drew in her breath.
     ‘The seats weren’t very wide so his thigh pressed against mine.  And I was burning.  I could smell his aftershave, sexy and spicy.  My breath caught in my throat.’  She paused again, playing the story for all it was worth.
     ‘Then he asked, ‘do you know where the best coffee bar is?’  His voice was rich and velvety. ‘Yes, I said and told him.  ‘Would you care to show me and perhaps let me buy you a coffee?
      ‘Naturally I agreed.  We went to the coffee bar and talked for hours.  It was heaven! ‘May I see you again? he asked.  I couldn’t believe my luck.  That was the first of many dates.  He took me to all the best places.’
     She looked from one to another of us, watching for our envy.  ‘We went out for some months.’ She sighed. ‘Those were the days.’
     ‘What luck,’ Sharon said.  ‘To be picked up by a gorgeous hunk like that.’
      Jacky smiled.  ‘Well, I guess 13 was your lucky number.’
     ‘Good  story,’ I said.
     Pat frowned.  ‘You don’t believe me.’
     ‘Not really.’
     ‘Why not?’ she asked indignantly.
      I looked her straight in the eye.  ‘The number 13 bus doesn’t go to  West Croydon.’
Janice Robinson