Finding Our Way

There was only so long he could pretend things were fine – right now he had to act

What happened that Sunday morning was all down to Carol Kirkwood. She forecasted rain, and plenty of it, but she was wrong. I woke up to the brightest, clearest blue skies I’d seen in weeks.

My wife was away, visiting her sister. She’d gone by train so I could use her car while mine was in the garage having a new gearbox fitted.

Unable to resist the spring sunshine, I decided to take it for a spin. I hadn’t used Sheila’s car before; a run would help me to get used to driving it before I needed it for work on Monday.

I went through the options – Bridlington, Whitby or Scarborough? Living just outside Thirsk, those were all easy enough to get to. I tried to recall the last time we’d jumped into the car and simply gone for a drive. It had to be at least two years ago. We’d headed for the Yorkshire coast and ended up at the Scarborough Fair Museum. Before then, neither of us had known it existed.

I’ve never been a fan of museums. I’d expected the usual collection of dry, dusty relics, but it wasn’t like that at all. It turned out to be a wonderland of music and lights, fairground organs and rides. There were old cars, too, and motorbikes.

The moment my wife stepped inside, she turned back into a child, singing along to the fairground organs and going on all the rides. She even went on the ghost train. She’d wanted a second go on the carousel, but I was in a hurry to get back and talked her out of it.

A lump came to my throat. It had been a long time since I’d heard Sheila sing.

Scarborough, it was, followed by fish and chips on the seafront.

As I sat in my wife’s car, I felt so alone. Without her to share it with, my life felt empty.

All I could do was hope that going for a drive might help me to see things more clearly.