Susan King

Ebb and Flo

In a different setting you could have imagined him a spy – the trilby tilted forwards, the long belted mac. A shadowy figure creeping up and down our neighbour's front path.

We never knew his real name. Knew little enough of her – a sour, tight-lipped sort with a rarely seen daughter about my age. A war widow we thought until put right. A Polish airman . . . went home sharpish . . .

The time grew longer between ever more timid rat-a-tat-tats and the sound of the door unlocking.

wilting
on her doorstep
his last bouquet