My diary entry: That’s not the sort I need…
“Anthony, get in here!” barked the foreman’s voice through the intercom. I knew a telling-off was coming. Deservedly so.
“Sit, Anthony. You’ve messed up again. Consider it a formal warning. And the quarterly bonus? Don’t expect it. How many times must I warn you? I promised your father. You’re letting me down, lad. Eh, Anthony Prescott!” Gregory Thompson, the factory manager, waved a dismissive hand. “Get out of my sight, for goodness sake! You’re a grown man. Think on, Anthony. Where’s your life headed? No family, no interests… what future is that?”
I rode the Tube home. Packed as always, hardly room to stand, let alone sit. Lads from the factory? They’d find wives waiting, a proper tea on the table. My flat? Empty. Just me. Lately, my only thought was a quick pint and bed. Used to be, after work, we’d go out, chatting up girls. Now? All married. Boring. Endless talk of kids and wives!
My stop. Barely squeezed off – an elderly woman, bags everywhere, blocking the gate. Impossible! Down in the underpass, everyone jostled, pushed. Rushing, rushing… but where to?
At twenty-five, I rushed too. Girls hung on my arm. Own flat, good wages at the factory. Bought myself a car, pre-owned, but mine! Mum urged, “Marry, son! Time flies. Wasting it on those painted things! My neighbour, Juliet? Lovely girl! Young, good homemaker. Helps her mother with everything, studying nursing. She’s noticed you, I can tell.” And me? “Don’t want that sort, Mum, your Juliet. Not my type!”
Well, I’d thrown it away. Bet your Juliet was home now, frying up sausage and mash, tossing a cucumber and tomato salad. Kids asking, “Mummy, when’s Daddy home?” While me? No one waits. Liked it that way once. Hard to pinpoint when things shifted—when the larks grew stale, and I was just stuck in the routine.
Reached my floor, pulled the keys. One jammed in the lock. What nonsense? Jiggled it… Suddenly, the door swung open from within. There stood… Mum! In her floral dressing gown, cheeks flushed. “Son! Decided to pop straight round? Couldn’t ring? Look exhausted, love. Your father and I were just sitting down. Come on, Anthony, get your coat off, wash your hands. Norman! Norman! Don’t just tinker, come greet your son!”
I just stared, rooted to the spot. Then Dad appeared. “Son! Thought you’d brought your young lady to meet us at last. Despairing of grandchildren! My fault, simpleton. Didn’t wed until past forty. Not a spring chicken myself, nor your mother. Don’t dawdle! Learn from your old man’s mistakes. Do things in their own time. Understood?”
“Understood, Dad,” I croaked, throat parched. “Dad… thanks. Both. For everything. I just… forgot something!” And I bolted—down the stairs, out the door, running without looking back.
Only when I was clear did I stop, gasping. Warily, slowly, I turned. How? Taken the wrong train? Deep in thought, my feet carried me on autopilot… to my parents’ house. Where I grew up. Mechanically climbing the steps, fiddling with the lock… but that wasn’t it. The thing was…
I looked around.
The old four-storey terrace? Gone. A small park stood in its place. Of course, demolished three years back. My parents. Gone five years now. Sold their place, cleared my mortgage, bought the car, paid for their headstones.
What just happened? Where *was* I? How had I stepped so vividly back into their home? Them… alive? Real? A waking dream?
Utterly staggered. Got home. Stared long in the mirror. Showered, pulled on a tracksuit and trainers, headed out. Their house gone, residents moved to new builds nearby. Ten minutes’ walk. Unlikely I’d see her. Juliet was probably long wed, though younger than me. Suddenly, I needed to know. Find her. Confirm she had a husband, kids, family… that I was too late. That nothing waited for me.
And if Juliet was free? That question? No answer yet.
From that evening, I walked past Juliet’s estate every night after work.
Pointless. Likely, she didn’t live there anymore. Married and moved on. Seeking news felt wrong. Not meant to be, then not meant to be.
Saturday, I bargained: one last walk towards her street. Mad idea anyway. Wholly the vision’s fault! I skirted the estate gardens. Mums played with kids on the swings. No sign of Juliet. Though, years change a person. Two women chatted near the slide. One with a child, the other gathering her things.
“Right, Maureen, will ring you!”
“Bye, Jules! Billy, wave ta-ta to Julie!”
I peered. Could that be her? Yes! Not tall, not slim, not leggy. Not one of those leggy blondes with long straight hair and pouts I used to fancy – all lookalikes now. Just… ordinary. Exactly right.
I stepped closer. “Juliet?”
She turned. Recognition dawned, warmth in her eyes. “Anthony? What brings you here?”
“Oh… live nearby. Passing through.” I decided to ask outright. “Busy? Rushing home to your husband?”
Juliet gave a dazzling smile, like a child hoping for sweets. “Not rushing anywhere. No husband yet. Why?” Her voice was bright, even challenging. She was glad. Very glad!
“Juliet… perhaps a walk together?” I looked at her and felt it too – a sudden anticipation of something joyful, wonderful. Like sunshine breaking through clouds. I wasn’t wrong.
Mum was right. Juliet was wonderful. Soon after, my bachelor days were numbered.
Anthony & Juliet
Before the wedding, I planned a trip to Mum and Dad’s grave. Arrange a memorial service, tidy the plot. Juliet insisted on coming. A neighbour, she remembered them.
Together, we cleaned the headstones, planted flowers. Then stood before the granite bearing Mum and Dad’s names: Norman Prescott and Helen Prescott.
“Well… Mum, Dad. This is my Juliet,” I said to their photo faces. They looked… pleased. “Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad. I’m getting married!” Flustered, I glanced at Juliet. She added softly, “Aunt Helen, Uncle Norman. Thank you for Anthony.”
Even work improved. “Knew you were your father’s son! No shame before Norman now. Well done, lad!” Gregory clapped my shoulder approvingly.
I flew home, wings on my feet. Juliet waited. Julie. Sweetheart. And a warm certainty within: Mum and Dad would wholeheartedly approve. Soon, a son will come. Greeting me with happy shouts.
I never forgot that strange afternoon. Sent from above, I reckon. To show me how to live. Seems life truly offers such wonders at crucial moments. Other miracles, perhaps? Who can say what form they’ll take? That’s the marvel – just being here, living in this world.
