Page 89 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“Well, yes, I do. But, of course, Debbie still works in the café with me, and Amy comes after school for her tea.”
“Ah. It’s good that you still get to see so much of her.”
Kate felt a tug of sadness. Mike had never had the chance to have a grandchild of his own to bounce on his knee. He’d have made a lovely grandpa.
Music was playing softly, one of the waltzes they had danced to tonight, and she swayed her hands gently in time. “Left foot side, cross behind, side again, cross in front,” she recited, going through the movements.
Mike smiled across at her as he drew the car into the kerb outside the café. “You see? You’ll get it in no time.”
“I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come in for a cup of tea and we can practise it while it’s still fresh in my mind.”
As soon as she’d said it she felt a stab of panic. Would he take it the wrong way? Would he think she was being too forward? But he just smiled again.
“That’s a good idea.”
He turned off the engine and came round to open her door for her — always such a gentleman. She fumbled in her bag for her keys, managing to fit the right one into the lock without shaking too much, and led the way inside.
* * *
Mike followed Kate into the café. As always, it was spotless, the floor and tables were gleaming, the empty glass cabinet on the counter at the back sparkling as she turned on the light.
A door behind the counter led to the stairs up to her flat. He hadn’t been up here for several years — not since Sarah died. It hadn’t changed much. There were a few more framed photographs — Debbie’s wedding, little Amy’s first school portrait, with her looking proud as punch in her school uniform.
She was so lucky to have had that. He would have loved to have grandchildren.
“I’ll make the tea,” Kate suggested. “I . . . don’t have anything stronger.”
“Oh, no. Tea’s fine,” he assured her quickly. “I’m driving — even though it isn’t far.”
“Right. Of course.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, and he sat down on the sofa, trying to still the thoughts that were spinning in his brain. Nothing could be more inappropriate.
Kate appeared in the doorway again. “Why not put some music on?” she suggested.
“Good idea.”
She had a whole shelf of CDs, mostly stuff from the ’90s — Elton John, Bryan Adams, George Michael. And Pink Floyd. He smiled as he drew it from the shelf and slid it into the player.
“Hey, do you remember when we went to that Floyd concert. The one at Earl’s Court?”
“Of course I remember.” Her eyes were bright. “It was amazing.”
“It must have been . . . what? ’94, ’95?”
“October ’94.”
Oh, how young they’d been then. He and Sarah, and Kate with her Terry, bopping to the music, dazzled by the light show. Now Terry and Sarah were both gone, leaving him and Kate . . .
“Here we are.” Kate came back with two cups. “As you like it — milk, no sugar.”
“Thank you.”
He slid the CD into the player and the music started, the long slow psychedelic introduction. He sat down, sipping his tea. Had it really been so long ago when the four of them had driven up to London, so excited to see their favourite band? So many memories . . .
They listened to several tracks, then as the golden guitar solo on the third track faded away he smiled across at Kate.
“Do you have something we could waltz to?”
