Antony recalled how his troubles began one drizzly afternoon at the Birmingham foundry. “Edwards, get in here!” boomed the direct line from his boss. Antony knew a scolding lay ahead, and rightly so.
He entered the cluttered office. “Sit down, Antony. You’ve bungled it again,” Gregory Williamson, the production manager, leaned back heavily. “Another reprimand. And the quarterly bonus is gone. I warned you! What’s gotten into you? Promised your dad I’d look out for you, and this is how you repay me? Tch!” Gregory waved dismissively. “Get out of my sight, man! You’re grown! Think on it, Antony! Where are you heading? No wife, no interests! What sort of life is that?”
The commuter train back to Leeds was jammed, as always. Not a seat free; everyone stood packed tight. His workmates? They’d find wives and hot suppers waiting. Antony returned to an empty flat, his sole desire lately being a pint and oblivion. Once, after work, he’d stroll with mates, popular with the girls. Now they were all wedded, dulled by monotonous cares – wives and children!
Sometimes Anthony imagined their wives frying sausages and mash, while families inquired, “Mum, when’s Dad home?” No one waited for him. That had pleased him once. He couldn’t pinpoint when the moment crept upon him – when the solitary life grew stale, yet habit kept him chained.
Reaching his stop, Antony wrestled his way out past an obstinately positioned granny with bags in the vestibule. The pedestrian underpass teemed with folk jostling and hurrying – scrambling nowhere, it seemed.
Back then, at twenty-five, Antony had hurried too. Girls flocked around him. Why not? He owned his Leeds flat, earned decent brass at the foundry. Bought himself a car, mind, even if second-hand! His own mother urged him: “Wed, son! Time flies! You’re wasting it on those painted trollops! Take my neighbour’s Emily – such a lovely girl! Young, domesticated! Helps her mam, training to nurse. I see she glances your way.” But he’d scoff, “Don’t need that sort, your Emily. Not my type.” He’d thrown away his chance. Now doubtless Emily fried her husband bangers and mash and sliced tomato salad. Her children cried, “Mum, when’s Dad home?” No one awaited him, a state that once amused him. He hadn’t noticed when the shift occurred – when the carousing palled, yet he plodded on.
Reaching his landing, Antony fumbled for his key. It jammed in the lock. Absurd! He jiggled it… then, suddenly, the door swung open from within. His mother stood there, rosy-cheeked, in a floral housecoat. “Son! Come straight from work? Should’ve rung! You look knackered. Your dad and I were just sitting down to tea. Come on, Ant, get that coat off, wash your hands! Edmund!” she called over her shoulder, “Where are you? Come greet your lad, you old slowcoach!”
Antony stood frozen. His father, Edmund Edwards, appeared. “Son! Thought you might be bringing a lass to meet us! Doubt we’ll see grandkids now! My fault, the old fool – didn’t wed ’til past forty. Your mother wasn’t a spring chicken either. Don’t tarry! Learn from your dad’s mistakes. Time and tide, lad!” “Y-yes, Dad,” Antony croaked, his throat tight. “Dad and Mam… ta. Forgot… something!” And he bolted down the stairs, fleeing the building without a backwards glance.
He halted some distance away, catching his breath. Slowly, fearfully, he turned. How had he strayed? Wandered off the train the wrong way? Lost in thought, his feet, by ingrained habit, carried him to his parents’ council house, his childhood home until he’d flown the nest. He’d climbed automatically, tried the key… No. That wasn’t it. Antony turned again.
The five-storey block was gone.
In its place lay a tidy square… Naturally. It had been demolished three years prior. His parents had been gone five years. He’d sold their flat, settled his Leeds mortgage, bought a car, commissioned headstones back in his hometown of York. What had happened? How had he stood so vividly within those vanished walls? And they – alive? Had it been a waking dream? Antony was thunderstruck.
He returned to his flat, stared long in the mirror. Showered, donned tracksuit and trainers, and stepped out. Their block was razed, tenants moved to new builds nearby – a ten-minute walk. Unlikely he’d see her; doubtless Emily was long since wed, though younger than he. But a fierce urge seized him: seek her out, confirm she had husband, children, a family – proof he was too late. That nothing awaited him. And if Emily had no one? That question lacked an answer.
From that evening, Antony walked daily past Emily’s old neighbourhood. Futile. Likely she no longer lived there. Married and moved away. He wouldn’t pry further. Not destiny? Then not.
One Saturday, he vowed a final walk past her street. The whole scheme was daft – born of that phantasm! He skirted the block. Mothers pushed prams in the play park, but no Emily. Years might well have altered her. Two young women chatted near the swings. One held a child; the other prepared to leave. “Right then, Marlene. Ring you!” “Bye, Em! Wave bye-bye to Aunty Em, love!” Antony peered closer. Could it be? Yes. She wasn’t tall, neither skinny nor long-legged. No platinum blonde with a pout and poker-straight locks, the sort he once favoured. Now they seemed clones. She was ordinary. Ordinary was essential. Antony stepped closer. “Emily?” She turned, uncomprehending at first, then her eyes warmed. “Antony? Whatever are you doing here?” “Oh… just live nearby. Passing. Yourself? Busy? Rushing home to the hubby?” Antony resolved to cut to the chase. Emily beamed, a child anticipating wonder. “No rush. No hubby yet. Why?” Her voice was bright, almost challenging. Antony knew she was glad. Immensely glad! “Em… Fancy a stroll?” He looked at her, suddenly sensing a promise of something splendid and happy. Like sunshine breaking through clouds.
He wasn’t wrong. His mother had been right; Emily was tremendous. Soon Antony knew his bachelor days were numbered.
Antony & Emily
Before the wedding, Antony resolved to visit his parents’ York graveside, arrange the church service, tidy the plot. Emily insisted on coming; she’d been a neighbour, remembered his mam and dad. Together they cleaned the headstones and planted flowers. Then Antony and Emily stood before the memorial to Edmund and Gladys Edwards. “Well, Dad, Mam… this is my Emily,” Antony gazed at their photographs and fancied they looked mightily pleased. “Thanks, Mam. Thanks, Dad. I’m getting wed!” Antony glanced shyly at Emily. She added softly, “Auntie Gladys, Uncle Edmund… thank you for Antony.”
At the foundry, things also turned around. “There’s
And as Anthony held his newborn son for the first time, gazing into those trusting eyes beneath the grey London sky, he finally grasped that the truest miracles were woven not from fleeting visions, but from the steadfast love now cradled in his arms—a legacy his parents would forever cherish from across the veil of time.
