Gladys,

I'm sorry for writing out of the blue like this, after all this time, but I don't have anyone, really, to talk to, and I thought you'd understand.

Today, from the other end of the street, I caught sight of a familiar head of hair, crossing the road in front of us. Involuntarily, I shrank back, heart beating triple time, pulling myself into the shadows of a shop window. Michael, oblivious, carried on a few steps then returned, a puzzled look on his face. Perhaps I should explain who Michael is. No, he's not one of my brothers – he's my fiancé, a young pastor at my father's new church. We met eight months ago now, after we moved up here away from the city. He is a good upstanding Christian man, and I know that I am lucky to have him. When we are together, he is a perfect gentleman, and is very attentive. His sermons and speeches are always well pitched, and draw lots of praise from the congregation and my father. I think that this must be love, for I have never been able to imagine myself anyone's wife before.

I had always imagined love to be wilder than this, less controlled, somehow. I watched all those films with you, and imagined love would set my blood on fire – that was the phrase I used – that it would be full of large gestures and declarations, that my heart would pound, I'd feel faint and giddy, that every moment apart would be agony. The closest I ever got I know, now, that that feeling is lust, and infatuation. I know with Michael, that I will be cared for, looked after, that I will never have to work again, even though I often sometimes miss our factory shifts. Is that how it is with you and James? Do I sound in love to you? I have never been in love before. I have had so little experience with this kind of thing, I doubt myself.

"Marion," he said, "is everything alright?" Marion's my name now. Well, it always was – Kate Andrews was a name from a book my mother read once. I still turn around when someone in the street calls out Kate – it's an odd feeling, like somehow I'm two separate people. That sounds mad, doesn't it? Sometimes, I think I must be – the things I imagine and dream are so strange.

I looked once again, and saw that she had gone. Linking my arm through Michael's, we set off once again down the street. "It's alright," I said, after a few yards, "I just thought I saw someone I used to know." He craned his head around, trying to spot who I meant. "Michael," I hissed. "Don't do that. It wasn't even her." And yet, even as I spoke, I knew, with certainty and conviction, that it had been. I'd know that profile, that strut and swing, anywhere. You understand, it's distinctive.

Michael frowned down at me, his handsome features pulled into a frown. "If you know her, why hide in the window display? Why not say hi?" His face moved as he talked, cringing as he described me hiding, waving on the hi. I can see why the congregation like him, I thought. Charming, expressive and handsome – half the girls there are in love with him. But, somehow, I'm the one he picked. We've gone steady now for as long as I was at the factory, and have been engaged for four whole months. The ring, his grandmother's, still weighs heavily on my hand, and sometimes, although I know I probably shouldn't say this, I take it off and leave it off, getting through my daily jobs without its golden burden. Once, I forgot to put it back on, and that caused a fuss at home. My father, surprisingly, is keen for the wedding. Perhaps he thinks it will relieve him of the responsibility for my sins. When I first got home, you know, he watched me so closely, to see the sins I had developed up close.

We walked gently home, me in quiet thought, and settled around the table for Sunday dinner. My mother had cooked lamb – an extravagance put on for Michael's benefit. As my father carved, after our devotions, Michael brought up my unexpected sighting.

"Marion spotted someone today, an old acquaintance. But do you know what she did? Instead of saying hullo, she actively hid!" He looked around him, surprised eyebrows raised high on his head, searching for support from my parents.

"Was it one of the Thornes?" my father asked, his voice light. "I know they're moving up this way soon." I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry, and my lack of answer stilled the knives in his hands as he looked at me expectantly. I shook my head.

"No, one of the factory girls." I would have been content to leave it there, but Michael, thinking it just sport, would not let it lie.

"That Gladys, I suppose," he said, "who we've all heard so much about." I shook my head, again.

"No. Her name's Betty." I saw, from the corner of my eye, my mother's eyes slip uncontrolled to my father, who continued to steadily carve. I drank my water, hoping that someone would change the subject, let my encounter drop. No-one spoke up, until Michael questioned me again on why I'd hidden instead of re-introducing myself. After all, he said, I could use more friends around here. "We didn't part on good terms," I told him. It's the truth, isn't it? I bet she hates me, still. I know that I have not forgiven, and I know too that she has not the moral imperative that I do. Does she hate me? Don't answer that.

Anyway. Enough of that train of thought. The conversation moved on, as these things do, and everybody but me forgot about it. It's been on my mind all night, and so I had to sit and get some of this stuff out of my head, and onto paper. What I want to know, Gladys, is why was she here, and not in Toronto?

I hope you're well. Please forgive my blots and scribblings out and terrible handwriting, this is a very old pen. Give my love to James and everyone,

Marion

(Kate)

-x-

Tell her I'm sorry