Yes, I know its getting dark, and I know its getting cold, but just come over here for a minute. It wont take much of your time. There's something I want to show you, someone I'd like you to meet.
Come on. Humor an old man who needs to tell his secret.
It's just there, behind the church. Yes, in the older graveyard. You're not afraid are you? I promise, there's nothing here that would ever hurt you.
Not you.
Watch out for the moss on the stones. Some of the slimier varieties can get embedded in your clothes, and it's murder trying to get it out.
Just about there is usually the best spot. Stand quietly now - let your eyes get adjusted to the dark. You'll soon see why I brought you here.
There she is.
Do you see her? She's standing right there. Look - in front of the large grey angel, just to the left of the patch of moonlight, almost underneath the old elm. Yes, there, beside the largest headstone.
My beautiful Sarah. Forever young, forever twenty.
See how the red of her hair glows like a burning firebrand, a halo around the white perfection of her face. And look - she's wearing the dress. The one I bought her for the dance, the last dance of our youth.
Three pounds two and sixpence that dress cost me - more than a week's wages in those days. Times have changed, haven't they? My mother told me that I was mad, spending all that money on a slip of a girl who was no better than she should be. But I knew that she was worth every penny.
I was drunk with the delight that danced in her eyes when she tried it on, swaying her hips to get the full effect from the long flowing pleats. I can still remember even now, fifty odd years and many strangers' kisses later, the sweet honeyed taste of her lips as she thanked me, the pressure of her
hands on my back as we embraced.
I wish she would touch me now. Just one touch, to bring us together at the end. If only she could see me. I have so much that I've never told her.
How still she is, how composed. The wind refuses to ruffle her, the rain refuses to dampen her, the earth refuses to cling to her. Yet there's something more.
Look closer. She breathes; she blinks; her lips part and then connect, but there's no steam. Not like you and I, standing here puffing at each other. It may be almost winter here, but for her it's late summer, always summer.
Those lips. How deep and red and enticing they were that night, glistening moistly as she looked up at me. Smiling, dancing, laughing, we moved across the dance floor. We were young; the war had barely touched us, and I was in love for the very first time. The night held the prospect of many new pleasures.
And then he arrived.
I knew he was going to be trouble. Right from the start I could see what he was. American, charming, arrogant and different. Hello excitement, goodbye dependability. In the space of a minute I'd lost her forever.
Shall I tell you how it happened?
He butted in on our dance. Just barged right in, excused himself, and then off they went, whirling round the floor in a flurry of legs and feet and arms. I tried to stop him as they came round again, but he had all the advantages - height, weight, diet, composure and training - while I merely had my rage.
Afterwards, as I lay there on the floor, my tongue counting teeth as my handkerchief vainly tried to soak up blood, I heard a laugh. Looking up through eyes which had already begun to puff up, I saw her. Only six feet away, but already distant, clinging to the conqueror. Her hair made a red
