Chapter 1

Helen died two days before my fortieth birthday, a shadow of the plump, extrovert, delightful, vigorous, life-filled woman I married. It was one of those obscure, aggressive cancers that doctors don't see very often and for which there's as yet no cure, so most of the last couple of weeks I spent at her bedside at Saint Luke's Hospice, holding her hand and doing what I could to help the nurses to look after her.

"Promise me," she whispered, just before she drifted into her final coma, "I know you'll grieve ... I know you ... but promise me you'll find someone else to love. Promise me, Gerry."

"I can't promise that, but I promise I'll try, Sweetheart." I don't think she saw the tears trickling down my cheeks, as her eyes were closed; they stayed closed, in fact, until the end.

You know the 'my word is my bond' thing? If she hadn't made me promise, I think I'd have retreated into depression.

We'd bought a house, Victorian, with a large garden, fifteen minutes' walk from the centre of the city, just one of a number of similar properties which had once housed the better-off, upper-middle or professional classes, but now a little run down. The house was my responsibility, the garden Helen's. We'd both been employed, professionals; the house was paid for and the children we'd planned for never came along. In order to be with Helen at the last, I'd left my position, taking with me a substantial 'golden handshake'. With occasional fees from consultancy, I was ... okay, financially.

I soon found that the garden, which appeared to be in a state of careless disorder (I really did know better), actually needed a fair amount of attention, along with feeders and bird-boxes. Also, of course, I had to try to keep the house fairly tidy. Like most men, I guess, I wasn't much bothered about dusting, and only put the vac over the rooms I actually used maybe once a week.

Helen and I had a very active physical relationship, at least, up to the last couple of months, then after she died I didn't really want sex for a few months. However, after those few months the ... pressure ... began to build, and I remembered my promise.

With not being in regular employment, I didn't have to worry about possible conflicts inherent in an office romance, but on the other hand, I didn't get the contact with potential partners. I had no intention of picking up a prospect in a bar either, but I did seriously consider taking up ballroom dancing. In the end, I decided to try evening classes, starting with a life-drawing one. That might have worked; I had one date which was quite enjoyable, but I just couldn't bring myself to pursue a relationship. I kissed her goodnight and politely declined her invitation to go in to her flat 'for a coffee to round off the evening'.

I've never had a problem striking up a conversation with people ... in a queue, or while travelling ... and that netted me a couple of possibles. Again, I ran up against an obstacle in my ... subconscious, I suppose ... and neither came to anything.

What was wrong with me? I was looking for ... what (or who)? Well, a woman, certainly. Of a similar age to myself, I thought. Was I bothered about appearance? Not really, as long as she wasn't grossly over or under weight. Beauty? Give me character any time. Of course, I'd thought Helen as lovely as the famous one, though she always thought that funny. She'd have to be interested in the same sort of things as me, and have similar standards. In fact, the willingness of my previous dates to, potentially, end up in bed with me on our first date was, I thought, part of what put me off.

Georgia Taggart came close to fitting the bill; she was a senior manager for one of the companies I did some consultation for. We made it through three dates and a moderately successful bedroom encounter. Very good ... until, as we lay, post-orgasmic, she started suggesting ways of capitalising on my skills and experience. That seemed to indicate, shall we say, a substantial difference in our approach to life. I certainly didn't want to be thinking about my career (or lack of it) in bed after making love to my partner.

I hang my head as I admit I tried internet dating. At least, I signed up and swapped a few messages. At least I had some chance of seeing what the lady in question was after ... assuming, of course, that she was being up-front and honest about it. Myself, I was open to a range of options including but not solely marriage. I didn't set age or shape limits, either, because I really didn't mind as long as the lady I settled on had a mind and a personality that fitted with mine.

Well ... I got no-where. I probably don't need to go into the pitfalls involved in online dating if you've ever tried it, and if you haven't you probably wouldn't believe some of them. I think I experienced most of them, and after six months or so I'd about given up. Not only on the online thing, either.

Then I got one of those ... I call them 'scatter-gun' ... messages. Usually they just annoy me, especially when my reply is blocked. But this one was intriguing.

"I know this is cheeky, but is anyone interested in some housework during the summer holiday?"

It was from a twenty-something art student, Lilac (who calls their daughter Lilac?) Lawrence. Not that I had the full name at the time. I thought about it, then thought, 'What the Hell, she can only turn me down.' My reply was as follows;

"Hi, Lilac. Perhaps cheeky, but certainly enterprising. I can't really afford to pay you, but if you're willing to do a few hours work a week you can have board and lodging (your own room), and perhaps some friends and neighbours might be glad of a few hours work."

I didn't expect a response, but what I got was, "Yes, please. Perhaps you'll show me something of the countryside while I'm there."

I need to put in here that there was no photo, just a brief description of the young lady concerned. But we made arrangements and I was in to greet her on the day she was expected. I would have met her at the station, but she insisted she would make her way to my house.

Well.

The door-bell rang and I went to answer it. To be greeted by the sight of...

A very pale ... Goth ... female ... with black hair swept up in spikes in a row front to back, dark purple lipstick, ditto eye-shadow, black sweat-shirt with the legend in white, 'Goths Do It', and artistically ripped black jeans. Oh, and Doc Martens, of course.

Not what I had expected.

You understand, I didn't have any specific expectations, but if I had, what I saw would not have appeared in the list.

I was gobsmacked. As we say here in Yorkshire.

"Um..." a very feminine, very tentative voice broke my stasis. "Er, hi? I'm ... Lilac?

"Oh! Er ... yes. Come in ... Lilac..." She did as she was told and stood looking round the kitchen, with its stone floor, Aga stove, and scruffy, though large, table. "Cup of tea? Coffee? Soft drink?"

"I, um ... don't suppose you have redbush, do you?"

"I do ... I also have chamomile, and a selection of other fruit and herbal teas."

"Oh ... then some redbush would be good, thanks."

"While the kettle's boiling, I'll show you your room."

"My room?" I wondered why the surprise in her voice.

"You didn't think I was going to put you on the settee, or in a tent in the garden, did you?"

After a lengthy pause, she hesitantly said, "Well, no..."

"There you go then." I finished filling the kettle; it would take a while to boil on the Aga, but I didn't think there was a hurry. I led the way upstairs, pointing out the bathroom, w.c., and airing cupboard, and opened the door into the small guest-room. "Have you got a laptop? Anything like that?"

"Just a Kindle."

"Okay ... I was going to say there's an Ethernet port ... there ... and there's WI-FI if you want to use that – I'll give you an access key."

"Oh..." she spoke again, seeming puzzled. "Thanks..."

Back in the kitchen as I made her Rooibos tea and my coffee she was silent until I put the mug in front of her.

"You aren't what I expected," she said.

"It's mutual, then," I chuckled.

She sipped her tea. "So what am I to do, then?"

"Well ... we need to agree how much time you need to work in return for your bed and food. Then I have a list of things to do; spring-cleaning types of things. Do you like gardening?"

Her face lit up. "I love plants and gardens. I don't know a lot about them, but I'd love to learn. Apart from that, I'll clean, cook, if you like. I'd work for seven pounds an hour, normally. What do you think the bed and food is worth?"

"I'm not a commercial Bed and Breakfast," I shrugged, "and this whole idea is new to me. Suppose we say, an hour a day?"

"I think you're being too generous. Let's see if you think I'm worth it after a day or two."

I nodded. Looking at her. Triangular face – know what I mean? Pointed chin and nose; brilliant blue eyes. She only needed pointed ears to be an elf, or a pixie. I wondered what the rest of her would look like...

We did supper, she helped me prepare vegetables and dice chicken for a stir-fry, and a frozen home-made apple pie went in the oven.

"I need a shower – is that okay?"

"Sure – help yourself."

"And I'm pretty washed out, so I'll go straight to bed after."

She had an odd expression that I didn't understand, but I just smiled and said, "That's fine. I'll see you in the morning."

In the morning, a rather different Lilac appeared. The black hair was just brushed back and lips and eyes were unenhanced; her face did not appear quite so pale. I didn't comment.

Over the next few days, she made a start on the things I usually didn't have time for; dusting, and cleaning out cupboards (not all day, she went out for walks or into town, too). One morning she wanted to do some work in the garden, but I stopped her. "I think you've built up some credit, Lilac. Why don't you take the day off?"

"Oh, okay. I think you said something about showing me some of the country round about?"

I'd nothing else planned. "Got shoes for walking? Can you climb a hill?"

"Yes, and yes."

We rode the bus out to Castleton and walked up to Hollins Cross, then along the ridge, climbing still, to Mam Tor. We stood there and she gazed out at the country round about as I watched her; there was a ... softness ... about her at odds with the image she presented on day one. But then we had to make our way back to the village. We did that by continuing along the path, descending to the car-park by the pass bisecting the ridge, then a trek along footpaths and the steep descent through Winnats Pass.

I don't know how far we walked; perhaps three or four miles at the most, with a climb of maybe a thousand feet, on visible footpaths. With conversation and pauses to look around, it took us almost three hours. In that time we ate a couple of cereal bars and drank water, so by the time we got back to the village, mid afternoon, we were hungry and the sight of the Rose Cottage Café was welcome; a hot meal and a pot of tea made a perfect end to the walk. Lilac seemed to enjoy the ride back, too – looking out at the countryside from a seat at the front of the top deck of the bus we had a good view.

We ended the day with sandwiches and tea, while she trounced me soundly at chess, then, as I was about to make my way to bed she surprised me with a soft kiss on the cheek. "Thank you for a lovely day, Gerry," she said. "I'll see you in the morning." I sat thinking for quite a while, and was late to bed.

In the morning I overslept, not that I really needed to be up at any particular time. When I got to the kitchen, Lilac was already there, eating cereal with one hand and holding a book in the other. "Morning, Lilac ... what-cha got there?"

She held up the book. "Hope you don't mind – I raided your shelves." It was a Robert Heinlein – 'Friday'. "I haven't read this one before."

"No ... feel free. That one ... I don't think it's one of his better-known books."

"I like the others I've read. You've got a lot of sci-fi..."

"Yes, I have. But then, I've got a lot of books."

"I looked at some of the others, too. History? You like history?"

"Those who forget the lessons of the past are doomed to repeat them."

She thought about that as I collected my breakfast and started the coffee machine. "We do, don't we? That's pretty profound."

"Sadly, it wasn't me that said that originally. A guy ... philosopher, of course ... Santayana. Probably been said by others, too. But yes, it's true. Mankind has been repeating our mistakes for millennia."

"Can we be a little more cheerful? How about telling me what you want done in the garden?"

So we talked as I ate my breakfast and had my first morning fix of the elixir of life. Then we went out to have a look at what needed doing. She wore slacks of a thin material, a blouse that from time to time with the light in the right position was almost transparent, and a broad-brimmed hat. I couldn't help noticing, from time to time, the outline of smallish breasts; no bra was apparent. I surreptitiously adjusted myself for comfort.

Time passed; the house was cleaner and tidier than it had been and the more vigorous shrubs and plants were tamed somewhat. To my surprise, the only time Lilac went anywhere was with me, so we visited museums and art galleries, and explored the country round about.

I mentioned art galleries. I like art, but I like art that's recognisably ... something. So Lilac and I had vigorous discussions about abstraction, surrealism, cubism and all the other 'isms' that meant something to her. We'd stand in front of a square of canvas, solid colour, and she'd try to explain to me how that meant something. We stood and gazed at some of the more artistic graffiti, and she tried to explain why (a) it was art and (b) the artist did it that way without expectation of monetary reward.

The two weeks I'd expected her to stay came and passed and there was no suggestion of her leaving. I certainly wasn't going to bring it up. I reflected that we had a very comfortable relationship, considering the twenty years, give or take, between us.

We didn't even kiss, though I was very conscious of little touches from time to time. She started that, a touch on my forearm or hand to emphasise a point, or to commiserate when I spoke briefly of Helen's illness and death, controlling my emotion with difficulty. I found myself touching her hand, or the small of her back as I paused to let her pass through a door first, that sort of thing.

But September came around. She'd been with me nearly two months, but it was time for her to return to her studies. Again, she wouldn't let me accompany her to the station. I stood at the door and she hesitated, then kissed my cheek.

"Thanks, Gerry. It's been a lovely summer..." she hesitated again, then touched her lips to mine, just for a moment.

"I've enjoyed your company, Lilac. I hope you'll come again..."

"In that case, I will."

The house felt very empty without her.

I was surprised to get an email that very evening. "Did you mean what you said? That you would like me to come again? I'm missing you already."

To which I replied, "Of course. Whenever you like for as long as you like."

I suppose ... after a couple of weeks ... I got used to being alone again. Emails helped, as Lilac shared the trials and tribulations of her Art degree course. She didn't mention boyfriends, anything like that. I gave up on trying to find a partner to share my life; it just didn't seem worth the trouble. But I did think, once or twice, about a slight, twenty-something Goth who could hold a conversation and who was softer and more feminine than you'd expect on first encounter.

Then, in December, I got a phone call. "Gerry, you said I could come..." Lilac's voice was full of emotion, though I couldn't identify what.

"Yes, and I meant it."

"Can I come for the Christmas vac?"

"Sure, Sweetie. Of course you can. Don't you want to go home?"

"I am home. That's why I want to come and see you."

"What's the matter?"

"I ... I'll tell you when I get there, okay?"

It was almost eleven that night when the door-bell rang. I opened it and saw ... not exactly the same person I'd seen in July. I saw a slim young woman with medium-length fair hair, just a shade darker than blonde. Pink face, lips a natural, slightly darker pink. "Well, come in, Lilac."

She did, and suddenly I had my arms full of sobbing girl, jaw pressed against my collar-bone. "Hey, hey ... come on, lass..." I let go with one arm long enough to close the door, then wrapped her up again and just held her. I don't know how long we stood there like that; it might have been as much as ten minutes. But then she relaxed a little and I thought I could release her safely. "How about some cocoa?" I suggested.

"Perfect!" she replied.

I made cocoa, with hot milk, and we sat and sipped at it in the kitchen, nibbling chocolate biscuits with it. She didn't say why she'd been so upset, instead telling me about her last term and a project she'd been involved in, which had been very rewarding and had attracted a lot of attention. Around midnight, she retired to bed, to the room she'd had in the summer, which I'd prepared for her.

The next morning, I was up at my usual time, but feeling rather rough from lack of sleep. I was on my second cup of coffee when Lilac shuffled in, head down and subdued.

"Hi, Lilac – coffee?"

"Thanks, Gerry."

I made fresh, thinking I would probably want another cup anyway. I placed a mugful in front of her with a jug of milk. I remembered that she didn't take sugar, but that the milk was on again, off again. She glanced up at me. "Thanks, Gerry."

"Breakfast?"

"Not right hungry, Gerry, thanks."