Chapter 3

The thought of meeting Lyn’s mother gave me just a slight feeling of apprehension. From what Lyn had told me, her mother was easy going and like any parent, just wanted what was best for her daughter. If that meant an older man, then so be it. However, it was the thought of meeting her daughter that terrified me. I had virtually no experience around children, and even in my own distant childhood, girls were a thing of mystery and best avoided.

I was also well aware that if I was to have any chance of a future with Lyn, then little Sarah had to be on board. I spent the whole two minutes it took to walk to her house considering and dismissing ideas of how I should best act. Finally, I decided that I would talk to her as I would an adult, at least at first, then play it by ear.

Lyn tried to put me at ease by saying, “Don’t worry John, Mum knows you quite a bit older than me. We talked a lot about you last night, after I got back.”

“And you still came with me today...” I said, making a rather lame attempt at a joke.

Lyn smiled. It was not a smile of humour, more of toleration. I was almost expecting a ‘yes dear!!’.

“What about your daughter?”

“No worries there,” she laughed, “to Sarah, I’m ancient, and that’s as old as it gets.”

“Hi! I’m home,” Lyn shouted, as she led me into the house.

A few seconds later a young girl came flying into the room, braking heavily when she saw me.

“Who are you?” She asked, not particularly pleasantly.

“This is John...” Lyn said, before I could answer.

“Why is he here?” Sarah asked, ignoring me.

“Because your mother brought him here,” said an older woman, as she entered the room, “and I’ll remind you to mind your manners, young lady. He is a guest, and will be treated accordingly.” She then looked at me, a genuine smile on her face, and said, “I’m Lyn’s mum, though I prefer Betty.”

I held my hand out, but was surprised when Betty ignored it, instead coming and giving me a firm hug. Instantly, I thought that hugs are extremely undervalued. All my fears, if not concerns, were swept away with that simple gesture.

“So, have you had a good time?”

“Great Mum, I never knew that taking a picture could be interesting ... or so complicated.” Lyn enthused. “I even enjoyed the male dominated railway site we went to. It reminded me so much of Dad, you know how he loved his trains.”

I saw Betty’s eyes mist over slightly, as she obviously thought about her husband. It was equally obvious that she had loved him dearly.

In the meantime, Lyn was explaining, mainly correctly, the photographic techniques I’d shown her.

“Why do all that? All you need to do is point and shoot.” Asked a bemused Sarah.

I then had to explain why pointing and shooting could, repeat could, produce excellent images, the odds were against it. Soon I was having a rather interesting discussion with the nine year old. She surprised me with some of her questions and it was clear that she understood most of what we talked about. More importantly, I felt that, when we’d done, she didn’t show as much animosity towards me.

“Do you think I’m pretty?” Sarah asked after a slight lull in the conversation, as she posed a la Shirley Temple.

To me, she was obviously fishing for compliments, but rather than comply, I risked saying with a grin. “Yes ... pretty gruesome.”

Both her mother and grandmother burst out laughing. Sarah looked as she was about to cry, leaving me wondering if the risk had backfired. The look was fake and she took me by surprise when she launched herself at me. Fortunately, she was giggling as she did so, as well as mumbling about what she was going to do to me.

She got a few good blows in before I discovered just how ticklish the nine year old was. Once I’d found that out, she was at my mercy. Naturally, and between bouts of hysterical laughter, she still attacked when she had the chance.

“Enough now, you two!” I heard Lyn say, leaving me uncertain whether I was relieved or disappointed.

When we did stop, Sarah was more than happy to sit on my lap and cuddle. I was now a friend, something I hoped would continue.

Betty then put all the questions that parents ask of suitors to their children. She was one of the very few that found no humour in the way that my wife had left me. She did sympathise at the lack of children and then asked about nieces and nephews.

“Nope, my only brother, Brian, has no desire for kids at all, much to the disgruntlement of my parents.” I explained.

That led to me telling Betty about their life in France, and how they loved it. Mentioning that rural France was like England in the fifties, but with all the mod-cons, had her green with envy.

“Oh, I wish we could return to those days,” She said, then laughed before adding, “keeping all my electric gadgets of course.”

She then went on to extol the virtues of living in the decade that I was born, very little of which I could remember.

Just before I left, Lyn arranged for her mother to babysit on Tuesday evening, a time I was already anticipating. A more than pleasant kiss goodbye left me in a better mood than I could ever recall. Roll on Tuesday, I thought, as I drove home.

I woke up on Tuesday morning feeling really excited. I had work to do and knew I needed to be focused on that, not my forthcoming date. The trip with Lyn to Cheddleton for the CVR had reminded me to call a prospective client who wanted a couple of shots of the nearby Flint Mill. I had, and she was keen for me to go ahead.

It was difficult, but I did manage to maintain concentration throughout the day, or at least for the parts that required it. The mill had been set up to supply the local pottery industry with one of its main raw materials. It sat alongside the Cauldon Canal, at the time the only efficient way of transporting bulky materials. {http://www.cheddletonflintmill.com/gallery.htm} Because Lyn had to be behind her desk first thing on Wednesday morning, we’d decided on an early meal at a local Thai restaurant, in nearby Newcastle-under-Lyme. I knew from experience that the food was great, and this time was no exception. I had a friend who was married to a Thai girl, and she had educated me in genuine Thai dishes. Since then, Thai has been my favourite cuisine.

Mind you, sitting opposite Lyn that evening, the meal could have been beans on toast, and I would have enjoyed it just the same. Somehow, we managed to talk solidly throughout the meal, only occasionally duplicating an anecdote or piece of our history.

“Let’s go back to your place.” Lyn suggested as we finished our coffee.