Wait for Me
Thomas stepped off the train onto the platform and drew a deep breath. The air in his hometown was unlike any other place on earth. He’d been to many cities and countries, yet something always pulled him back here.
He walked the familiar streets, noticing every small change. There it was—his courtyard, nestled between four brick five-storey blocks: two long ones with five stairwells each, and two shorter ones with just two entrances. The yard was spacious, split in two—a children’s playground with a brightly coloured slide, a sandpit, and a few simple pull-up bars. Years ago, there had been swings and a rusted metal dome they called the “spiderweb.” A scar above his eyebrow still marked the day he’d fallen from it.
The other half of the yard held a fenced-in football pitch with goals and a lone basketball hoop. In winter, they flooded it for skating. That early morning, the yard was empty. Had there been a ball, Thomas would’ve kicked it straight at the goal, just like old times.
Those were happy days. Simon had gone off somewhere up north, married now, with two kids. And Johnny? Serving his second stint in prison. Life had scattered them all.
A man with a dog stepped out of the stairwell, and Thomas called out, asking him not to shut the door. The dim bulb inside was hardly any use. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. No matter how often they tried brighter bulbs, someone always switched them back to these feeble ones. It had always been that way. A miracle no one had broken their neck on those dark, narrow stairs.
Thomas climbed to the second floor and stopped at the steel door on the right. This was where Elizabeth used to live. Not Liz, not Lizzie—Elizabeth. That’s what she’d insisted on. His first love, desperate and unrequited.
Back then, he’d often rung her bell and dashed up to his own flat on the third floor, waiting there until she opened her door. For a moment, he considered doing it again—but he wasn’t as quick on the stairs these days. And a grown man shouldn’t act the fool. Besides, he wasn’t even sure she still lived here.
He gave a wry smile and continued up to his own floor. There it was—his front door. His mother had always been the one to answer, even when his father was alive. He’d passed two years ago. Thomas had been at sea then, unable to make it back for the funeral.
He pressed the doorbell. A click, then the door cracked open. Seeing him, his mother swung it wide and stepped forward.
“Tom!” They embraced right there on the threshold. She pulled back. “Let me look at you.” Then she hugged him again.
When his father was alive, she’d dyed her hair, styled it neatly. Now a broad streak of silver ran through the part.
“You appeared in my dream just last night. I knew you’d come. How long are you staying? Oh, what are we doing in the doorway—come in, come in.” She closed the door and embraced him once more.
The first flurry of joy settled. Thomas kicked off his shoes, retrieving his slippers from the rack. They’d always been there, waiting. His father’s old pair, though, had vanished.
“Here, Mum.” He handed her a bag of gifts.
“You’re gift enough for me,” she said, though she peeked inside anyway. “I’ll put the kettle on. Or are you hungry?” She bustled into the kitchen, setting the table.
“Silly me—forgot the bread. I’ll just pop down—” She stopped mid-step, blinking helplessly. “The shops won’t be open yet.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll go later. Sit down.” Thomas guided her gently.
The kitchen felt impossibly small. His ship’s cabin was bigger. How did she keep it so tidy?
“How’ve you been?” He rested a hand over hers, rough from years of work.
“Getting by. And you? Still not married?” Her eyes dimmed slightly.
“Not many women fancy waiting half a year for a sailor.”
After breakfast, she set to making his favourite beef stew, and Thomas went out for bread. On the stairs, he hesitated again at Elizabeth’s door.
It took him days to finally press the bell. The lock clicked, the door opened a fraction, and there she was. His heart slammed against his ribs, as if trying to leap out and greet her. She’d hardly changed—fuller in figure, but it suited her.
“Can I help you?” Her gaze flicked over him.
“Sorry.” Thomas retreated toward the stairs.
“Thomas? Is that you?” Her voice halted him.
She remembered him. His heart leapt.
***
“You let in a goal! We lost because of you!” Simon’s voice cracked with fury, his nose sniffling.
“Who cares? We’ll win next time,” Tom hurried to soothe him, guilt gnawing at his gut.
“Yeah, right.” Simon stalked off the pitch. “If you can’t play, don’t bother.”
“Me? You let Lenny waltz right past you! Si, wait!” Tom caught his arm.
“Piss off!” Simon shoved him.
“Piss off yourself.” Tom shoved back.
They scuffled, tumbling onto the grass, rolling and swinging until a sharp voice cut through.
“Oi, pack it in!”
They froze, looking up at a striking girl. Panting, they scrambled up. Simon dusted himself off and left. Tom just stood, staring after her. Then he followed. At her door, she turned.
“Why’re you following me?”
“I’m not. I live here.”
“So we’re neighbours? You look a state. Ripped your shirt.”
“Where?” He tugged at the fabric.
“Come on, I’ll fix it.”
Up on the second floor, she unlocked her door.
“Thought an old lady lived here. You her granddaughter?”
“Piss off. She passed. I rent it now. Shoes off, shirt too.”
Tom obeyed, left in just his jeans. Thank God it was the shirt and not his trousers.
She eyed him appreciatively.
“How old are you, footballer?”
“Fourteen,” he croaked.
“You’re well-built for it. You’ll be handsome one day.”
Heat flooded his face.
“Well? Don’t just stand there. Wash up.”
He scrubbed his hands, eyeing the pink satin robe on the hook. He dried off, fingers brushing the smooth fabric.
She sat by the window, stitching his shirt. Sensing his stare, she turned.
“Tea’s not making itself.”
He obeyed, finding the kitchen as cramped as his own. He lit the stove under the kettle.
“Here.” She tossed him the mended shirt. “Thanks. You live alone?”
“Planning to rob me? Cups are above the sink, genius.”
She left, returning with a box of chocolates.
“Sit down, stop looming.”
She poured the tea, sitting across from him. Tom fidgeted, too nervous to meet her eyes. He sipped—too fast—and scalded his tongue. The cup clattered, tea sloshing onto his hand. He shook it, wincing. She didn’t laugh, just took his hand and blew softly. A jolt shot down his spine. He bolted up.
“I should go—” He fled.
“Breathless? Someone chase you?” his mother asked.
“Football.”
“Wash up. Dinner’s nearly ready.”
After that, he saw her often in the courtyard. And every time, he froze.
“Oi, lost your tongue? Smitten?” Johnny jeered, spitting neatly.
Tom envied that—he could never spit like that.
“Bugger off.” He turned toward home, laughter at his back.
Upstairs, he rang her bell—and didn’t run.
“What d’you want?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why’re you here?” Her gaze bored into him.
He faltered.
“Come in. I’m Elizabeth. Not Liz. Remember?”
“Tom.”
“Fighting over football or just showing off?”
“I cost us the game.”
“Going pro?”
“Nah. Captain, like my grandad.”
Her eyes lit up. “Impressive. Shoes off, then.”
Inside, a closet door hung open, a sliver of white fabric peeking out. He nudged it—a wedding dress. Guilt prickled.
“I’m getting married,” she said behind him. He jumped. She shut the door. “Not sure I want to.”
They stood eye to eye. He noticed the downy hair at her nape, fought the urge to press his lips there. She spun around.
“Why’d you come?”
“No reason. You’re not happy about the wedding?”
“Why d’you say that?”
“You sounded sad.”
Silence.
“You wouldn’t understand. Time to go.” Then, suddenly, she kissed his cheek—not a peck, but lingering.
Upstairs, he pressed a hand to the spot. Now he thought ofBut when he returned from his next voyage, her door remained closed, the flat empty, and the only trace of her was the faint scent of roses lingering on the stairwell.
