We had it good?
We had it good? “Batty? George? Is that you George Batterman?” The shock of recognition lifts his head skyward as he belly laughs. “Flipping Nora!” “Sarah Abbott?” We grasp each other’s arms and bounce on the spot. For five glorious minutes we are teenagers. We gabble and giggle oblivious of the staring commuters crammed in around us. “Damn, it’s my stop.” The spell is broken, he fumbles in his suit pocket for a business card, grabs his rucksack and squeezes himself through the crowd onto the platform. I stare through the sliding door window and see him mouth, “Call me.” 16.30 to Hastings I watch the Kent countryside stream past. Do I call him and tell him my truth? In that bubble we revisited a period of no fear, a lifetime ahead of no significance, each day lived in the moment. My imagination plays out in black and white. I recall the large oak tree overlooking the factory where most of the parents from the estate worked. I can feel the smooth bark ...