FIRST PLACE: Unconditional Love by Shirley Durrant

“I’ve got another four days and nights to ponder on my welcome, or lack of it.”

Dismissing the hauntingly repetitive thought he settled back in his reclining seat in the first class section of the Quantas Aircraft taking him back to England.

Alighting from the inter-city train into the dusty, dusky late summer twilight, Joe expected to feel a flood of emotion akin to when, at the airport, he had stepped back on U.K. soil for the first time in fourteen years; he did not. The environment felt strangely anonymous.

Threading his way between hurrying late commuters he left the railway station. Glancing at the taxis on the rank he discounted taking one to his destination.

“Too quick, I need time to think, to see what this last leg of the journey invokes in me.”

He headed towards the town’s bus station, at least in the direction it had been when he’d last used it, before considering the fact that it may no longer be in the same place. He stopped by an illuminated ‘You are here’ street map.

“I know where I am, what I need to know is where I am going.” He thought peering through the Perspex screen adorned with felt-tip graffiti that suggested in two words, one misspelled, where he should go.

Joe’s wry thought was, “I did that already, now I’m on my way back.”

He discovered the bus station was now situated close by on Millennium Way. There had been no such thoroughfare when Joe had last been in town. Studying the map by tracing the streets with his forefinger it seemed to him Millennium Way was the latterly and colloquially named Dodger’s Alley. He was right.

Joe arrived at the site of the former dark and dilapidated columns of bus stands that had been open to the elements, forming vacuum tunnels for the winds that swept the northern town, depositing litter in their wake. He was greeted now by a covered, ultra-modern brightly illuminated station, boasting an enquiry kiosk at the entrance. There was nothing familiar about it, apart from the signs all being in English it could have been any bus station in any modern town anywhere in the world.

He approached enquiries.

“I need to take a bus to Little Crampton, could you tell me the departure time and stand for the next one due to leave please?”

The man behind the desk consulted a chart then his watch and speaking with some urgency, said, “The last bus for Little Crampton is due out in one minute sir from platform C3. If you hurry you can make it.”

Coming from behind his desk and taking Joe by the arm he steered him hurriedly towards C3. “There it is,” he pointed. “You from Oz sir?” He called after Joe.

“I am.” Joe called back over his shoulder while at the same time thinking.“I left on the last bus of the day out of the village, now I am taking the last bus of the day back in, is that an omen I wonder?”

He sprinted to the waiting bus, checked the route indicator and gulped when he saw the name ‘Little Crampton’ glowing clearly back at him. His throat tightened, his pulse raced and his mind flooded with images. Joe was shaking as he fished in his pocked for the fare the driver requested.

He settled in a window-seat staring sightlessly out as they left the town behind, his thoughts turned back fourteen years.

The cause of the argument Joe had had with his parents had long been lost from memory.

“It can’t have been that important or I wouldn’t have forgotten what made me storm out, yet it seemed so at the time.”

He did remember his cruel parting shot to them “You’re a pair of old fuddy-duddies stuck in a time warp and I need to get out of here to breathe.” He had glanced back only briefly at the face of his younger brother watching from his bedroom window.

He’d ended up on London’s Kings Cross Station having got off the overnight Edinburgh to London Express.

Joe was stubborn and he knew it now, had recognised it long ago. On that first day in London he had picked up the telephone to call home several times but replaced the receiver without ever finishing dialling the number. On more than one occasion in that first few months of independence, or was it defiance? He had dialled the number and stayed silent when the call was answered, before eventually cutting off the call. Sometimes it was his mother’s voice he heard, filling him with bittersweet emotions; others it was his father’s bluff matter-of-fact voice reminding Joe what a selfish fool he’d been; sometimes his kid brother’s.

Joe felt he had to prove himself to them and him, and anyhow he was hardworking and diligent. Like his father, he had never expected that the world owed him a living. He took a variety of jobs in London to pay for shared accommodation and living costs, even doing two opposing shifts to make ends meet. And he saved. Squirreling away every penny he could to finance his hoped for eventual backpacking adventure to the Antipodes. He rang home anonymously on his mother’s birthday, his father’s, his brother’s, and on Mother’s Day, and at Christmas. Always staying silent, always cutting off the call after a minute or so. He even rang on his own birthday so that he could feel close to his loved ones. Somehow Joe convinced himself that they would know it was him, know he was safe and well; that assuaged his conscience somewhat.

He’d met and married Judy in Australia and attained dual Australian/UK citizenship. The I.T. Company he’d established flourished, life was sweet but there was always a void; certain ones to share the good news with were missing from his life.

The bus drove into the village square and came to a halt. He could see even in the half-light that Little Crampton hadn’t changed much.

Joe alighted from the bus and stood gazing around the scene of his innocently misspent youth. It was here he and his mates gathered of an evening to kick a ball around or simply hang out exchanging banter. Here where he had come dressed in clean jeans and T-shirt and whiffing strongly of his Dad’s aftershave to meet for a first date with the object of his crush, Diane Abbot; much to the derision of his mates who’d stood catcalling from the other side of the square. There was nothing unfamiliar or anonymous about Little Crampton Village Square. The memories came flooding back bring with them raw emotion.

One thing he knew hadn’t changed, the straggled gathering of young people emitting callow laughter. Another thing had. The shop in whose emitted light they gathered was no longer a chippie but a pizza place. He looked around once more; staring at the gait of an old man walking his dog; surely that’s Mr. Windsor? Should he stop? Should he speak?

“No,” he decided. Maybe there’s be time for that tomorrow.” He should go face the music. At that precise moment the old man paused in his unsteady step.

“Hello Joe lad.” Smilingly he acknowledged his boyhood friend’s grandson inclining his head sideways in polite friendly gesture. The way he always had. Joe nodded respectfully and appreciatively back. “Hello Mr. Windsor.”

He walked out of the square over the bridge to the riverside cottages. A light illuminated the front window of the end-row cottage; he could see the room was empty of people. Walking around to the back garden he knew by the aroma of Old Holburn meeting his nostrils that his Dad was in the garden, probably watering his beloved plants.

He stood with one hand on the gate observing his father tying up tendrils of the clematis climbing the back fence and his mother standing beside him holding the twine.

“Our Joe’s home Mam.”

She looked up and a slow smile spread across her dearly familiar features, though Joe was sure he saw tears glistening in her eyes.

“Good timing Joe, supper’s ready. I’ll go and put the kettle on.”

Joe knew supper would probably be something like cheese on toast rather than roast fatted calf but whatever it turned out to be would taste better than that ever could; because the welcome they were giving him was like he’d never been gone.