**Wait for Me**
Edward stepped off the train onto the platform and took a deep breath. The air in his hometown felt different—familiar, comforting—unlike anywhere else he’d been, and he’d travelled plenty. But nothing ever pulled him as strongly as this place.
He walked through streets he knew by heart, noting every small change. There was his old estate, nestled between four red-brick terraces—two long ones with five entrances each, two shorter ones with two. The courtyard stretched wide, split into two halves: a playground with a bright slide, a sandpit, and simple monkey bars. The swings and the rusty climbing frame—the one that left the scar above his eyebrow—were long gone.
The other side had a fenced-in football pitch with goalposts and a basketball hoop. In winter, they’d flood it for skating. Early morning, the place was empty. If he’d had a ball, he’d have booted it straight at the goal, just like old times.
Ah, those were the days. Mark had moved up to Scotland, married, had two kids. And Dave? Serving his second stint in prison. Life had scattered them all.
A man with a dog stepped out of the block, and Edward called out, telling him not to let the door shut. The weak bulb in the hall was barely any help. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light. No matter how many times they swapped the bulbs for brighter ones, someone always switched them back. How no one had broken their neck on these dark, narrow stairs was a miracle.
He paused on the second floor, outside the steel door on the right. This was where Vivienne used to live. Not Viv or Vivi—Vivienne. That’s what she’d told him to call her. His first love, hopeless and unreturned.
Back then, he’d press the buzzer and bolt up to his own flat on the third floor, waiting for her to answer. He almost did it again now—but he wasn’t as quick on the stairs these days, and grown men didn’t play silly games like that. Besides, he wasn’t even sure she still lived here.
He smirked and climbed to his own door. His mum always answered, even when his dad was alive. He’d passed two years back. Edward had been at sea when it happened—missed the funeral.
He pressed the buzzer. The lock clicked, and the door creaked open. His mum’s face lit up.
“Edward!” She pulled him into a hug right there in the doorway. Stepped back. “Let me look at you.” Then wrapped her arms around him again.
When his dad was alive, she’d dye her hair, style it neatly. Now, a wide streak of grey ran through the part.
“You were in my dream last night. I knew you’d come. How long are you—? Oh, standing in the doorway like this. Come in!” She shut the door and hugged him once more.
The first rush of joy settled. Edward toed off his shoes, slipped into the slippers still waiting for him on the rack. His dad’s old pair was gone.
“Here, Mum.” He handed her a bag of gifts.
“You’re the only gift I need,” she said, though she peeked inside anyway. “I’ll put the kettle on. Or are you hungry?” She flitted about the kitchen, setting the table.
“Stupid me. Forgot to buy bread. I’ll just pop to the—” She stopped, blinking helplessly. “Shops aren’t open yet.”
“It’s fine. I’ll go later. Sit down,” Edward said, gently steering her.
The kitchen felt tiny. His cabin at sea was bigger. How did she keep it so spotless?
“How’ve you been?” He brushed a hand over her work-worn fingers.
“Getting by. And you? Still not married?” Her smile faltered.
“Not many women want a sailor gone half the year.”
After breakfast, she started on his favorite stew while he went for bread. On the stairs, he hesitated at Vivienne’s door again.
Days later, he finally pressed the buzzer. The lock clicked, and the door opened a crack. Then he saw her. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted to leap straight into her arms. She’d hardly changed—filled out a little, but it suited her.
“Can I help you?” she asked, eyes flicking over him.
“Sorry.” Edward stepped back toward the stairs.
“Edward? Is that you?” Her voice stopped him.
*She remembers me.* His heart soared.
***
“You let the ball through! We lost because of you!” Mark’s voice cracked with anger, nose running, cheeks blotchy.
“So what? We’ll win next time,” Edward said, guilt twisting in his gut.
“Yeah, right.” Mark stormed off the pitch. “If you can’t play, don’t bother.”
“*I* can’t play? You let Lenny waltz past you!” Edward caught up, grabbed his arm.
“Piss off!” Mark shoved him.
Edward shoved back. They traded pushes, then tangled, rolling across the grass.
“Oi, pack it in!” A sharp voice cut through.
They froze, looking up at a girl glaring down at them. Panting, they scrambled up. Mark dusted himself off and left. Edward just stared after the girl. Then followed her. At her doorstep, she turned.
“Why’re you following me?”
“I’m not. I live here.”
“So we’re neighbors?” She eyed his torn shirt. “Nice look.”
“Where?” He tugged at the fabric.
“Come on. I’ll fix it.”
Upstairs, she unlocked her door.
“I thought an old lady lived here. You her granddaughter?”
“Cheeky. She passed. Now it’s mine. Shoes off, shirt too.”
Edward stripped to his jeans. At least it wasn’t his trousers torn.
She studied him.
“How old are you, footballer?”
“Fourteen,” he croaked.
“You’re built well for your age. Gonna be handsome.” His face burned.
“Well? Bathroom’s there.” She flicked the light on.
He washed his hands, eyeing the pink satin dressing gown hanging behind the door. Ran a finger over the silky fabric.
She sat by the window, sewing. Felt his stare and turned.
“Tea. Now.”
He obeyed. The kitchen was as cramped as his mum’s. Found the lighter, lit the hob under the kettle.
“Here.” She tossed him the mended shirt. “Thanks. You live alone?”
“What, planning a robbery?” She nodded at the cups. “Get those out.”
She returned with a box of chocolates.
“Sit down, clumsy.”
He sipped the tea, flinched at the heat, sloshed it. Scalded his hand. She took it, blew softly. Electricity shot up his spine. He bolted up.
“Gotta go.” He fled.
“What’s with the panting?” his mum asked.
“Football.”
“Wash up. Dinner’s soon.”
After that, he saw her often in the courtyard. Froze every time.
“Oi, love-struck much?” Dave laughed, spitting expertly through his teeth.
Edward walked away, fists clenched.
This time, he rang her bell and stayed.
“What do you want?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“Then why’re you here?” Her stare bored into him.
He shuffled.
“Come in. I’m Vivienne. Not Viv. Vivienne. Got it?”
“Edward.”
“Fighting over a girl?”
“I let a goal in. We lost.”
“Gonna be a footballer?”
“Nah. Captain. Like my grandad.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Shoes off. Inside.”
Her wardrobe door hung open, white fabric peeking out. He nudged it, saw the wedding dress. Felt like he’d spied something private.
“I’m getting married,” she said behind him. He jumped. She shut the door. “Not sure I want to,” she murmured, back to him.
They were the same height. The fine hair on her neck made his throat dry.
She spun. “Why’d you come?”
“No reason. You’re not happy about the wedding?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You sounded sad.”
They stood silent.
“Go on, then.” She kissed his cheek—not a peck, a proper kiss—lingering.
Upstairs, he pressed his hand where her lips had been. Now he thought of her constantly.
Once, he found her crying on the stairs. She let him in.
The wedding dress lay in shreds on the sofa.
“He’s gone. For good,” she said.
“Maybe he’ll come back.”
She laughed bitterly. “Go home.”
Later, he saw her with a man, arm in arm, smiling. Jealousy choked him.
Other girls seemed silly, immature. His heart was hers.
After school, Edward left for the merchant navy. During holidays, he rang her bell. A muscled bloke answered.
“Yeah?””Wait for me,” he whispered into the wind as the ship pulled away, knowing deep down that she would—no matter how many tides had to turn.
