Let's not say 'what if?' It echoed in his mind. And he dreamt all those dreams he'd long ago dreamt.
Back then he was a red-faced, smouldering youth. Smouldering – that was what they called his look then, not grumpy as they did now. And she was his wide-eyed gamine girl, just as red-faced as he. They had stood together, side-by-side, checking bashfully in to the country B and B. Their name? Ambrose-Smith, Mr and Mrs.
What if they had been Mr and Mrs back then? Married, moved in, had children.
Judith sprung to mind. She'd jokingly offered to call him Dad before. Some days, though he wouldn't dare admit it, he'd wish she did. But she was another man's daughter. She wasn't Judith Ambrose-Smith.
Jean would say they had three children – a son and two daughters. How had he managed it? Become a husband and father of three in his sixties.
Pop. That's what Alistair called him. He was not what he had imagined his son to be like. But he wouldn't make a change. Jean, Judy, Sandy and Alistair – they were his family.
What if? They might have had children, most likely in fact. But then there would be no Judy, no Sandy, no Alistair. There was no escaping it – he was a father of three. And Jean was his wife. It didn't matter the universe, parallel or not, Jean would always be his wife. He'd stand for it no other way.
His mind returned to that country B and B and picking bluebells. He daren't lean down to pick a bluebell now. His knee would probably lock, again. They had 'picked bluebells' – secretly kissing in the bluebell woods like the young lovers they were. Like a scene straight out of Shakespeare.
Kissing her face. Brushing away her little fringe. She still had her little fringe. He loved her little fringe, her smile. Her smile made him smile. He was proud of making her smile, his Pooh, with her honey in and on everything – tea, sandwiches, porridge, cakes, hot milk, toast... Always asking for extra honey. He'd learnt that early on – to ask for honey. That made her smile – the fact he remembered her honey.
That first morning after, he'd brought her breakfast in bed. Had snuck down and asked for breakfast on a tray; had said his wife wasn't feeling too well and if they could have breakfast in their room. The housekeeper had been understanding, had expressed a hope that Mrs Ambrose-Smith was feeling better soon. He'd asked for extra honey then. He awoke Jean with a tray of toast, honey and steaming tea. She had grinned, and kissed him with sweet, sticky honey kisses.
He was a dashing, broody second lieutenant, basking in the golden summer heat of first love. Still was. An old grump still in awe of his golden girl.