There are some things in this chapter that I've taken from my own experiences so I hope they read truthfully.

Thank you all of you for reading and reviewing, and to all the 'guests' who leave me such lovely comments but I'm not able to individually reply to. x R

Sunday 14th February

Sharing a room over the weekend means he's learned so much more about her. How she hangs her clothes before bed, for instance, or meticulously applies nightcream and then struggles to screw the silly lid back on. That she has one of those fancy electric toothbrushes, in purple, and it buzzes like a kid's toy and bleeps when its time to change angle. He's eyed it up whilst shaving and is actually considering getting one.

He knows that she hums in pleasure following an orgasm, sometimes giggles, her head back against the pillow, eyes closed and the most wonderful, serene smile on her face.

That she sleeps on her left side, legs slightly curled, and that at some point in the night she'll turn over and into him, her knees bumping his legs as she finds a comfortable position.

She sings in the shower. Her voice isn't half bad. And he lies in bed that Sunday morning listening to her, fiddling with the remote for the television, there's a button that says 'radio' but he's still confused as to how to find Radio 3.

When Elsie comes out to him, wearing her hotel robe and with a damp towel wrapped around her hair, he is waving the remote in mid-air as he conducts, proud of himself for solving the problem and finding his station.

"Well, good morning, have I unearthed a talent?"

"I wish, years of invites to recitals though, I have a polished love of classical, especially the cello."

" I can see that," she says, taking her hair down from the towel and brushing out the wet strands with her fingers. "It has a deep resonance," she says in an elaborately deep voice. "Like you."

"So, if I was an instrument I'd be…?"

"A cello? Perhaps, let me think on it." She leans across the bed, kissing his lips, "Happy Valentine's Day."

"Oh, I'd forgotten, what an arse."

She laughs, "I won't take offence."

As he sits up, plumping the pillows behind him, he watches Elsie take a package out of one of her drawers, wrapped in bright pink paper and topped with a white bow.

"What's this?"

"For Valentine's of course. I did pretty well hiding it away, didn't I?"

He feels his cheeks burn as he watches her; he hasn't gotten her a thing.

She places it on his lap, sensing the awkwardness radiate from him. "I didn't expect for you to take me away for the weekend and give you nothing in return."

"Elsie…" he stutters, fingers fiddling with the bow on top of the gift, "I may have forgotten to."

She clasps his arm, chuckling, "It's nothing grand Charles, more of a joke. I didn't expect a gift from you and I wasn't going to get you anything, but I saw this when I was out on Thursday and it made me laugh."

Relieved, he peels off the wrapping, revealing a large glass jar, the shape of an old sweet jar like the ones that used to stand in the corner shop when he was a boy. Inside are layers of heart shaped sweets; those red jelly ones with a white marshmallow back; pink, red and white jelly beans; love hearts; little chocolate hearts wrapped in gold foil. And on the front of the jar, cursive lettering, 'Charles' jar of hearts.'

"Ha, I shall enjoy these."

"I know you have a sweet tooth, I thought it cute."

"It is. Very." He sits forward, moving to kiss her, "Thank you. And Happy Valentine's in return."

"It's a lovely morning, shall we go for a walk before breakfast?"

"If you'd like to," he rested his hand on her knee, squeezing gently. "What time is it?"

"Just after eight, I doubt anyone will be down yet, given how late the party was last night, and how much alcohol was put away." She glanced down at his hand, "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he grinned, his hand sliding up her thigh.

"Nothing, doesn't feel like nothing, Mr. Carson," she smiled lightly; there had been a slight apprehension, when she'd woken that morning, that things would be different following her revelations the previous night. Sometimes words are whispered in the darkness only to be regretted when the sun rises. Thankfully, Charles seemed as comfortable with her as ever.

"Do you mind?"

"Not in the slightest," she bent down to meet his mouth. "Shall we get dressed, go take some photos as it warms up out there?"

"Sure."

Reluctantly, Charles got out of bed, slipped on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and a sweater, and set to fastening his laces as he watched Elsie dry her hair and tie it up messily on top of her head.

She noted him staring and grinned at him through the mirror, "Pretty cute, right?"

"Cute…" he chuckled, "…I have never used that word in my life."

"Ah, so I'm going to be good for your vocabulary too."

He shot her one of his 'Carson' looks and she giggled in return.

Elsie waited by the fence as Charles took a few pictures, wandering along the walkway and gazing up at the trees. There were oaks, sycamores, silver birch – she remembered from her Grandfather, he taught her the names, how to recognise the leaves. At present, in mid-February, they were just beginning to breathe again following the winter. She remembered autumn walks, stomping through the undergrowth, racing ahead of him and yelling as she kicked leaves with her sister.

"Hey," Charles said, his hand resting on her back. "You were daydreaming… you like trees?"

"Love them, a bit odd, some might say," she stepped forward placing her hands on the bark. "I have a weird need to touch them. But then, I am a bit odd."

"Just a bit…?" he smiled.

She turned, leaning back against the tree, "I do feel a little odd, actually," she admitted, "saying what I did last night."

"Ah," he tucked his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "There's no need to be, I'm glad you told me, glad you felt comfortable enough to."

She glanced above her at the sound of fluttering wings; the sky bluey grey, twenty odd birds passing overhead, swooping and cutting through the air with delicate gracefulness; a smooth, easy motion.

"How great," he said, looking up, shielding his eyes, recognising the birds immediately. "My Grandfather kept pigeons."

"Did he really?"

"Yes, every Saturday with him when I was young, racing them. Learning about them."

"They move so beautifully, I've never thought of pigeons being graceful, just annoying."

"I know, not a great reputation."

She stepped closer to him, standing side-by-side, watching the birds circle back and forth above them, perfectly in sync.

"Someone's been up early this morning tending to them," Charles said.

"What was your Grandfather's name?"

He grinned, glanced down at her, "Charles."

"Ah, how wonderful."

"Well, everyone called him Charlie, Grandpa Charlie to me."

"And your father?"

"William."

"Very traditional," she shuffled up against him, the smell of the wax jacket he wore deep and velvety.

"Well, of course we were a very traditional family, I am." He rested his arm over her shoulders, tugging her against him. "I've got a joke about pigeons."

"Go on then."

"My granddad races pigeons – I don't know why, he never beats them."

She sniggered despite the weakness of it, "That was a bit poor really."

"I've got plenty more like that, darling, don't you worry."

They set off back towards the house, their trouser hems damp from the wet grass.

"Indulge me."

"My dog only responds to commands in Spanish. He's Espanyol."

"That's rubbish," she smiled, "you don't even have a dog."

"Go on then, smarty pants."

"Hmm, how about… Oooh, I know." She almost hopped about, clinging to his arm as she remembered one, "How many wives has a vicar got? Nun!"

"Brilliant," he laughed, "I'm banking that one to use in the pub at some point. I've always been interested in jokes, right back from my cabaret days. Puns and homophones."

"And accent. And clichés and stereotypes."

"True. You're smart, you know." He elbowed her arm.

"I am." She grinned, "When I want to be. I can be stupid at times, especially with men."

"Mmm, that's a different kind of 'stupid'. Am I allowed to ask you some things?"

"Well, it's a beautiful crisp Valentine's morning, why the hell not?"

He tugged her closer to him, wrapping her hand in his as they walked. "At some point, I'm assuming, after the horror of those men treating you so badly."

"They aren't just to blame…"

"Well, maybe not but still, I'm giving them an 80% split."

She smiled, "Alright."

"At some point you must have made a decision to start dating again."

She sucked in a tight breath, "Yes, okay, I did. You must've done the same though, after Alice."

"Well, I kinda went on a bit of a 'I don't care, I can see who I want' thing."

"Are you telling me you slept around, Mr Carson?"

"I'd hardly say that, I'm not exactly Brad Pitt, they weren't queuing up."

"Oh, poor you," she patted his arm.

"I just didn't allow myself to get into anything serious."

"I'd say the same, the first guy I saw after all that wasn't until, God, two years after moving to York. And yes, I know you want to know this bit, he was younger. But he was fun and it was easy and I actually enjoyed just hanging out with him. Going to concerts, theme parks, having fun. It was with him that I realised I actually rather liked sex."

Charles laughed, "Lucky him."

"Ha, maybe. It didn't last long. Seven months maybe, maybe less, he was a student and we were living different lives but it was nice whilst it lasted and it made me realise I didn't have to coop myself up in my flat after work, that I didn't have to punish myself for the rest of my life."

"I ran away. Got my degree and left the country as soon as I could."

"I guess we both ran, then, to different places."

"I guess we did," he said softly; he hadn't really thought about that before.

She squeezed his hand as they neared the path that led around the building and to the back door they'd set out from, "I'm not running now though."

"Me neither…" he opened the door, holding it for her, "I'm too old to even break into a jog."

"Oh crap," Elsie huffed, scrunching the map in her hand and brushing back her hair that stuck to her face.

"What?" Charles asked, coming up the hill behind her.

"We're lost."

"We're not lost, we've just… wandered."

"We're lost and we're losing." She huffed, pushing her phone into her jacket pocket.

"How are we losing?"

"Tom's just texted me, he and Sybil are already on point number four. We've just passed two."

"Slow and steady wins the race," he assured her, resting his hand on her shoulder.

"Or gets left behind."

"You're moody when you're losing, remind me never to play Scrabble with you."

"I'm not moody," she snapped, then smiled when she turned and saw his expression. "I wanted to win."

"You don't even know what the prize is."

"Is it you?" She asked, sliding her hands around his waist.

"I'm not sure the rest of the guests would be happy with that."

She laughed, standing on her tiptoes and stretching up to kiss him, "Oh I don't know."

"Now I'm worried this will sink into some sort of wife-swapping weekend."

Her eyes widened.

"Girlfriend swapping!" He quickly amended.

"Lover swapping," she teased, pulling down the zip on his jacket and sliding her chilly hands inside.

"Do you really want to win?" He asked, kissing the top of her head as she snuggled against him.

"Yes," She pouted.

"Well, I happen to be a bit of a genius at map reading and clue solving. I was in the Scouts, remember."

Her head shot up, "Oh god yes, you were, I'd forgotten that."

"You, on the other hand, have many wonderful attributes Ms Hughes, but unfortunately map reading is not one of them."

She narrowed her eyes, "How so?"

"Wrong direction for the past twenty minutes."

"And you never said!"

He laughed at her outrage, "You seemed to be having fun. And you liked leading."

"How can losing ever be fun?"

"You're so feisty it's almost scary," he took the crumpled map from her hand, straightening it out. "Valentine's hunt indeed. Okay, so here," he pointed to the map, "you went North East and it should have been North West."

"Can we stick to left and right?"

"You're from a farming background!"

"Yes, top field, bottom field, the one near the McDougalls'!"

He turned her around, "Good job you got those walking boots though hey," he kissed her cheek. "Forward, Elsie, we're going forward for about ten minutes, seven if we up the pace."

"Wonderful, can we sing as we go to pass the time?"

"You sing away, which reminds me, how do you feel about chamber music?"

She shrugged, sliding her arm through his. "I'm not averse to it, why?"

"I mean you don't have to, but there's an event I attend every summer, outdoor performances, you sit on your blanket, eat your picnic, listen to live classical."

"That sounds rather lovely, actually. Isobel loves chamber music."

"I know, I wondered if they'd like to join us, make it a foursome, it's only Yorkshire so not far to drive there and back."

Elsie smiled, leaning in even closer to his warm arm, "I'll ask her." She breathed in the crisp air, feeling happier than she had in a very long time, before she started singing in a very delicate tone, "Two of us riding nowhere, spending someone's hard earned pay. You and me Sunday driving, not arriving…"

"On our way back home," he joined in, in a whispered, almost embarrassed voice.

Clutching the bouquet of flowers Elsie could hardly keep the smug expression from her face as Beryl entered, muddy and dishevelled, through the front door.

"You didn't bloody win!" Her oldest friend exclaimed.

"I bloody well did!" Elsie grinned, curtsying grandly.

"Show off," Beryl unravelled her tangled scarf from her neck, "there's no way you did it, you're rubbish at directions."

"It's all about team work, Beryl, if you haven't got the team you can't win the game, and don't forget, it is just a game!"

"Oh shut up, what did you win anyhow?"

"These, and some champagne and truffles I think, Charles took them to our room."

"And you just happened to hang around here waiting to greet people?"

"Tom's back, two minutes after we got here."

"Bet he's gutted."

"He didn't seem to care, besotted with this young lady as he is."

"And you're okay with that?" Beryl whispered, moving in close to her friend as other teams arrived back and recorded their time.

"I'm fine, really, I'm quite content."

"I kinda noticed that, 'our' room."

"Well, it is."

Beryl squeezed her friend's arm, "I'm going to shower before lunch, get the mud out of my hair."

"What the hell were you and Bill doing out there?"

"Now, don't you lecture me about rolling in the hay!"

"Harsh! Don't be long in the shower, Charles is starving."

"He's a big man, and I suspect you're wearing him out."

They were kissing inside the entrance to their room, both dressed for dinner and waiting for the gong to be rung. Her hands firmly on his shoulders, his looped around her back, fingers tracing up and down her spine. Endless kissing, fluid and easy, like the tide.

Her left hand shifted; nails tiptoeing up the back of his neck, into his hair, letting the thick strands slide between her fingers. Her mouth hungry on his, almost demanding, the subtle shift in her stomach signalling her desire for him. And she does desire him, more so as time goes on, it seems.

Most of the time when she's kissing a man she's very aware of her actions, knows what to do and when to draw him in and keep him interested. It used to bother her, that she couldn't let her mind go and just enjoy it, she must analyse it all instead. With Charles, her mind is starting to turn off when his hands are on her body.

"You'll make me forget wanting Sunday lunch," he says breathlessly.

"That's quite some claim."

He grips her tighter, one hand cupping her bottom, "I want to undress you all over again."

"Mmm," she steps back, deeper into the room, his body moving with hers. "It is Valentine's Day, they should have scheduled in time alone in the room."

"I'll mention it to Cora," his mouth moves to her neck; how can he say no to the promise of such pleasure? "How long before that gong goes?"

"You and that gong," she loosens his tie. "I swear you'd get one in your flat if you could."

He's almost on his knees, hands on her hips, mouth against her stomach, feeling her through the material of her skirt. "They're a wonderful piece of history."

She presses hard on his shoulders, gasping at his touch, "I don't want dinner."

"Me neither…" He's just pushing up the hem of her skirt, past her knees, exposing her stocking-clad thighs, when his phone rings, and the gong goes simulatenously.

Surprised, he falls back, and she giggles at his predicament, pushing her skirt down and sitting back on the edge of the bed.

Charles fumbles in his trouser pocket for his phone, giving in to gravity and lying back on the thick rug. From his position he has a great view up of Elsie, and her flowers (the bouquet he won for her) smell glorious on the bedside table beside him.

"Hello," he says, happier than he could ever imagine being.

His face darkens slightly and Elsie is immediately worried as he tries to sit; she gets to her feet, grabs his hand and helps him forward.

There are snippets of conversation; he asks questions, nods, mentally records the information. Then he's on his feet, the call ended and he's pulling his travel bag from the bottom of the wardrobe and lying it open on the bed.

"What's happened?" She asks, their passionate embrace from only sixty seconds before gone.

"It's my mum, I need to go see her."

"She's ill?"

"Having… one of her turns. They want me to go up there."

"Is it far?"

"From here? An hour or so."

She takes his shaking hands in hers, forcing him to stop, "You're worried…"

He breathes a little deeper; if he looks at her he thinks he might crumble in her arms and he doesn't have time for that, he isn't that man.

"She makes things up. Says things, makes claims, accusing strangers of God knows what. They've warned me that if it goes on she'll have to find a new place and I…" he shrugs, at a loss. "It took me long enough to find this one."

"I'll drive." She states simply, her heart aching for him.

"Elsie, you stay here, go have dinner with the others, enjoy the rest of the day."

"I'll be worrying about you," she lets go of his hands, "you're shaking, I'll drive."

Before he can stop her she's packing her little suitcase, putting her makeup away and clearing her toiletries from the bathroom.

"I hate rushing," he says as he checks the drawers in the room.

"Me too, call Robert, explain what's happening and we'll sneak out."

"Yes, right, I should."

"Do you want me to?"

"No, I can. I'll do it now."

"Okay, I'm just going to nip to the loo before we go."

Somehow, her very normal statement brings the situation some levity. "Thank you," he says, sitting back on the sofa, looking around the now decluttered room, free of their belongings, at her flowers still standing in the vase. "I liked this room."

"Me too. We can come back, it isn't going anywhere." She assures him kindly, shouting from the bathroom, hoping that her words mean even more – she isn't going anywhere.

"What shall we do with your flowers?"

"Take them your mother, of course. For Valentine's."

They chat very little during the drive; Elsie is concentrating on the sat-nav and driving an unfamiliar car, Charles is distracted and taking in the view, it feels slightly odd to him to be a passenger.

"There was a girl at school who used to really bother me," she suddenly says, and he's surprised by the sudden topic.

"Oh?"

"Used to follow me about, try to be like me – the way she dressed and the things she was interested in. It was unnerving."

"You had your own stalker."

"Apparently so, of course I was twelves years old, I didn't know what that meant. She just bugged me, used to turn up at the farm on a weekend wanting to hang around with me. My mother always invited her in for cake and she'd end up mucking out with us, it really annoyed me, I kept thinking 'who's the girl to push herself into my life?' You know? I felt aggrieved that I didn't have a say in it, she was just forcing herself into every situation."

"I almost feel sorry for her."

"That's because you're kind." She turned to smile at him. "Anyhow, I started to be really cold towards her, not nasty, I just avoided her at school when I could, avoided working with her in groups in science class or P.E. That kind of thing. And because I wouldn't be her best friend she turned, complete 360. Instead she became my enemy, which confused me even more. I'd never been the type for best friends, I don't do all that ass kissing and point scoring. I am who I am, I think I've always had that stubborn, independent streak. I don't mind being on my own, I never have."

"Me neither. Though I grew up a solitary child. I wouldn't have half minded a stalker!"

She laughed, glad she'd distracted him.

"What happened?" He asked, one hand gripping the corner of his seat – Elsie took corners at some speed.

"Not much. I heard rumours of things she'd said about me, girls gossiping, people who you thought were your friends suddenly joining in… my Gran always told me they were jealous, that was all. And I believed her. And I figured I didn't need that or them. But it's lonely at times…"

"Always being right?"

"Yes," she bit her lip, smiling, "I am often right."

"I won't disagree with that," he smirked, turning his attention back to the road ahead. "I have been lonely, though, I think I hide it well. Or I pretend to myself I don't feel lonely, I just get on with life and usually it's so fast and stressed that I don't even notice. I come home, have dinner, shower, collapse. There's no time to dwell on being lonely." He admitted, feeling oddly melancholy all of a sudden, and after such a wonderful couple of days. "Why are you telling me about the girl?"

"Because you make me want to be honest, that's why." She pulled heavily on the handbrake at the lights, and looked up at him expectantly.

"I appreciate that." He licked his lips, "Maybe it's not being lonely, per se, maybe it's being alone."

"Is there a difference?"

"I think so, a subtle one." He held her gaze, feeling somehow that her eyes were able to probe his inner most thoughts. "How you going to get home?" He suddenly asked without thinking as they pulled into a parking space.

"Sorry?"

"Well…"

"…I was going to come in."

He sucked in a tight breath, hands flat on his knees.

"Oh I see, so sharing a bed for a weekend is okay but sharing the real aspects of your life…"

"Elsie, I didn't mean that," he cut her off. "It isn't going to be nice."

"Don't piss me off Charles," she's already taken off her seatbelt and is reaching into the back for her handbag. "In a roundabout way I just tried to tell you neither of us is alone anymore, so, get out of the car and show me inside." She opened her car door and when he didn't move she shot back over her shoulder at him. "Let's go."

Elsie tried to make herself as inconsequential as she could. It was clear, when they'd arrived, that whatever fracas had taken place had dulled, but the matron who ran the place was in no mood and Charles' mother had been escorted back to her room with strict instructions not to leave it.

And that's where they were now; Charles discussing the incident with the matron, Elsie standing by the fire trying not to listen in whilst avoiding the piercing gaze of Mrs Margaret Carson.

"I have that skirt," Margaret suddenly said, her voice as sharp as ice-cold water.

Elsie looked across to the see the older woman pointing a slightly crooked finger towards her.

"That's my skirt."

Charles noticed the interaction and turned slightly from the matron talking to him, "It isn't yours mother."

"It damn well is," she moved to get to her feet, struggling in the slightly sunken chair. "It's mine, you've…"

Quickly, Elsie bent before her, "I'm very sorry, Margaret, I didn't realise. I promise I'll get it cleaned for you and return it."

"Mmm," she settled back in her seat, taking in Elsie's face, "see that you do."

Glancing around, Elsie spotted the footrest and shifted it closer to Margaret's chair, perching on it. "I bet you look better in it anyhow."

"I did," she smiled, suddenly grasping Elsie's hand. "I was quite the catch, you know."

"I can believe that."

"Nobody ever comes now, not one of them. I sit here, day in, day out, staring at that box, wasting away. Nobody cares, they leave me to these vultures."

"Mother, that isn't true," Charles insisted, still trying to hold a conversation with Miss Smyth whilst keeping an eye on the interaction between his mother and his… girlfriend, "I'm here several days a week."

"She took my purse!" The old woman snapped, pointing at the matron. "She came in when I was asleep and took my purse. Course they're all at it, sex and drugs, that young un who does the nails, she spent it on her drugs."

"Mrs Carson, you can't go making accusations." Miss Smyth said, her voice shrill with frustration.

"Mother please," Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"What shoes did you wear with the skirt?" Elsie jumped in, the older woman's hand still gripping hers. "I find it difficult to decide."

Again Margaret's face changed, her eyes softened, "It's versatile, that's the key. I always liked the flowers."

"So do I, what are your favourites?"

"Mother likes seasonal flowers," Charles said.

"I've got a tongue!"

Charles rolled his eyes, whispered to the matron and shut the door after her as she left them alone.

"Daffodils this time of year, of course. Hyacinths. Primula. There's plenty out there. Used to love spring, picking the flowers, spying lambs, newborns. Once saw one born, you ever seen a lamb born?"

"Yes, more than once actually."

"Hark at you, la di da."

"Mum…"

"Oh stop mumming me, I'm joking, she knows that," She smiled at Elsie. "Make some tea, be useful boy."

Elsie cast him a sly look, "Make mine strong."

He saluted behind his mother's back.

"Do I know you?"

"No. I'm Elsie, Charles' friend."

"Used to know an Elsie, worked at the Dry Cleaners up Springer street with Doris."

"Not me, I'm afraid."

"Course it isn't. She was Liverpudlian, bit rough, you're clearly a Scottish lass."

Elsie laughed, despite herself. "I grew up on a farm there."

"Why on earth you moved to York, not for Charles?"

"No. I only just met him, actually, on New Year's Eve."

"Bout time he had a girl, his Dad thought he was on the other team for a while."

"Let's not go into that," Charles said, putting the tray down. "Now, mother, we need to talk about what happened today."

"I'm not discussing that woman. She lies."

"Mum, please, help me out here. We talked about this the other week, if you don't toe the line they'll want you out."

She waved her hand, "Let em throw me into the street, see if I care." She dropped Elsie's hand, shuffled forward in her seat, suddenly animated as she pointed at the television. "I've seen it on there, these old uns thrown out of care homes, they get payouts, it's all about that. Money."

She sat back, seemingly exhausted in her efforts and Charles, used to such outbursts, placed a teacup gently in her hand.

"I'm moving, anyhow," She whispered, raising her eyebrows at Elsie. "I'll be off soon. We're moving to the seaside. Scarborough. We always wanted to. Used to take Charles as a lad, paddling about in his nappy, got the bloody thing wet, clumsy sod he was as a toddler. Broke no end of vases. Me mother wouldn't let him near her china cabinet."

Elsie laughed again, "Hard to imagine him being clumsy, doing the job he does."

"William taught him all that, you know. Countless bloody hours with a teatray and my cups all missing. Used to serve us coffee after dinner by the time he got to nine. We'd only have Shepherd's Pie and he'd be there, playing like I was the Queen."

"That's sweet. Who are you moving to Scarborough with, Margaret?"

"William of course," she sipped her tea and Charles looked sadly towards Elsie. "Are you sleeping with him then?" Margaret suddenly asked and Elsie coughed on her drink.

"Mum, you can't ask that."

"Well something's put a spring in your step, no point pretending, everyone's at it. Even here. That many cars out there of an evening," she raised her eyebrows again, "orgies." She whispered.

"Mother!" Charles snapped.

"It happens."

"Not here."

"Of course, why ever not? You're such a prude."

"They're all in their eighties."

"So!"

Elsie laughed, "If they can manage an orgy in their eighties good luck to them."

"Don't encourage this," Charles said exasperated and Margaret laughed.

"He never did like anything crude, William," she patted his leg. "Always was a gent, weren't you darling?" She yawned and her teacup wobbled in her plate.

"You're tired, mum, want me to help you into bed?"

"Mmm, get that girl, young lass, does the nails. She gets me ready for bed." Her eyes were already closing and Elsie thought how quickly old people can drop to sleep, like babies.

"I think she'll have gone home mum, it's Sunday night." He got to his feet, moving their tea things away. "I'll do it mum."

"Get my night gown outta top drawer."

"I know," he said gently.

"I'll go wait in reception," Elsie said, getting to her feet and softly pressing her hand to his back, a fleeting touch but just enough.

"I'll bring the skirt next time I visit, Margaret."

"Don't be silly dear, I've never worn skirts."

"What?" She said, sitting sideways in her seat to look at him.

"What, what?"

"You have a look on your face, what is it?"

"I don't know, what do you think it is?"

She smiled, biting on her bottom lip, "I think it's a look that says, 'Oh Ms Hughes, I'm so sorry the weekend's ending.' It's that look."

"Ms Hughes?" He asked, chuckling.

She slapped his arm.

"Hey, I'm driving."

"Tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"What's the look for?"

He cast her a quick look, frowning exaggeratedly, "The weekend's over."

"I knew that was the look."

"I'm not sure which of us is the most childish."

"Definitely you," she patted his hand where it rested on the gear stick. "Want to get something to eat?"

"It's getting late for a Sunday…"

"You want to just drop me off home and be done with me? Not see me until next Friday?"

"That seems a rather depressing thought."

"There's a pub coming up on the right, they have homemade chips."

"Oh but you already know me so well."

"And local ale," she whispered.

"Lord above we're soulmates." He teased, indicating at the sight of the pub lights in the distance.

She leant into him as he pulled into a space, the handbrake digging into her hip as she kissed him, slowly and deeply.

"That was rather nice," he breathed, his eyes still closed, enjoying the feel of her against him.

"Mmm, well, be nice to me I may kiss you again." She tapped his chin with her index finger. "And you deserved it."

"Thank you for coming with me. And for being good with her."

"She's beautiful."

He reflected on that; he hadn't thought of her as beautiful for many years, but then he hadn't recognised her for many years.

"It makes me want to cry," he admitted, "she isn't who she was. But sometimes, when we're quiet and just sitting and her eyes, she's got the palest blue eyes, almost crystal clear."

"I noticed."

"I was mesmorised by them as a child and they're just the same and she's in there, somewhere, and I miss her."

"I can understand that." She squeezed his hand in hers. "She isn't gone yet though, Charles. Not at all."

He nodded, staring at their hands, "No. Not completely."

Kissing him again she pulled her hands away and opened the car door, reaching into the back for her bag.

"This is all very easy at the moment," He said, as he watched her get out of the car.

"At the moment?" She queried, waiting for him to catch her up on the car park.

"I didn't mean that."

She hooked her arm through his as he got closer to her, "You're expecting things to go wrong already?"

"No, I didn't mean that neither, I meant it's all so easy now."

"After our unconventional starting point?"

"I like how it is, how it feels."

"We're having fun, I'm sure we'll clash at some point."

"Over?"

"Something so inconsequential and small we can't even think of it now, like you buying the wrong tea bags."

"Or you talking over Andrew Marr's Sunday show."

She laughed heartily at that, "Sacrilege."

"I'm suddenly starving."

"We haven't eaten since breakfast."

"Good chips you say?"

"Very good, and fish too."

"That's my order sorted."

"And mine. Just a small for me, their servings are huge."

"I'm double your size."

"You make me sound a doll."

He held open the door for her and she preceeded him inside; the pub warm and alive with the faint buzz of Sunday evening diners.

"You go get a seat, I'll order. You want a G&T?"

"Yes please, and get some water too."

"Will do."

He found her five minutes later, scanning the table looking flustered.

"Table 15," she smiled.

"Right, won't be a sec."

When he returned, with two large gin and tonics and a cutlery basket under his arm, he looked tired and red faced.

"You need this," she said as he took a drink.

"Too right. Sorry, by the way, for ruining the weekend."

"Nothing's ruined, I do need to ask though."

"Go on…"

"You in a nappy falling in the sea, was that bit true?"

"Yes. If the sun came out Dad would drive us there, they used to go for longer when he retired. Never travelled far."

"Kinda sweet, though, and I so hope she has pictures of you tripping in the surf."

"I think I have them, I kept all the albums when I moved her out of her house. I sometimes worry that escalated it, leaving what she knew."

"I think, as with all these things, you did what was right, even if it wasn't easy." She took a sip of her drink. "So, do you ever take her?"

"Take her where?"

"Scarborough."

He shook his head, "We don't always get on, as you saw."

"That's just frustration, I think, and you're the only person she can really take it out on. We should take her for the day, I think."

"We?"

"Yes, unless I'm intruding."

"No."

"Well then, brisk walk by the sea, fish and chips, bingo. We only need go for a few hours."

"She's not very steady on her feet."

"Then we'll take a wheelchair."

"You'd really want to do that?"

"Unless you think I'm moving too fast."

He smiled shyly – right now, this seemed to be the perfect speed.

Charles reached across for her hand, "Friday seems a long way off."

"A-ha, but this date isn't over yet."

"Oh yes, dating. Is it my turn to plan?"

"Mine I think. Don't worry, I'll think of something good." She sat back, putting her napkin in her lap as their dinner arrived. "Oh and yes, to the outdoor music thing, rock concert…" she teased.

"Chamber music."

"Yes, that. Book the tickets, but best get six, Beryl will feel left out otherwise."

"Alright." He stared at her, his cutlery held in mid-air.

"Aren't you eating?"

"Are we a couple now?"

She swallowed, a smile at the edges of her lips, "I thought we'd already agreed to that."