Silver Lining

'As often as you wish.'

Reluctantly she dressed in her now dry, but creased, blouse and skirt. She considered leaving her wrecked bra and panties in the waste bin but decided it would only be polite to take them with her and stuffed them into her pocket. In the lounge she found her briefcase and, using her mobile, Rowena phoned her workplace and informed them she would be late and might possibly not even make it before lunch. Ready at last she kissed him farewell.

'Until this evening. I hope,' she said. 'You must come to my apartment.'

Leaving she noted the number of the house and strolled, her muscles aching from the activities of the night, back across the park to her car. She was in luck, it appeared unvandalised. Climbing in she decided to test the battery before calling the garage so inserted the ignition key and turned it. With a roar the engine started. For the second time in twenty-four hours she used an expletive.

However, look at the good side she told herself, this was one dark cloud that had a siver lining. If the car had not acted up she wouldn't have met the Major. Smiling slightly she slid her hand under her skirt and massaged her furrow. That was worth any amount of trouble.

Cheerfully she drove home, checked the post and had a long, hot shower while reflecting on the events of the last fifteen hours. Finally, dressed in fresh clothes, she set off to drive to work. Perhaps she ought to drop the car in the garage and have it checked. Or perhaps not. As she reached the bottom of the park where the road forked she impulsively turned left to drive past his house.

It should be up here on the left. Three, five, then a gap and a block of new looking flats, then fifteen, seventeen - where was eleven? Mystified she drove to the end of the road, reversed back and parked by number fifteen.

She was in luck, coming down the road was a postman. If anybody could direct her he could.

He shook his head. 'You're five years too late. Used to be where that block is. The old Major owned numbers seven to thirteen, or 'twelve A' as they liked to call it. Nice man always good for a drink at Christmas. Then he died and some distant relative sold them to a developer who put up this eyesore.'

Major? It can't be her major. 'Do you remember his name?'

'Owen, no Bowen. That's it Major Bowen.'

Sounds like her major. He must have had a son. 'Oh, and what about his son?'

'Didn't have no son that I knew of. Told me once his biggest disappointment was he didn't have any children.'

'Oh, thank you then.' Thoroughly confused Rowena went back to her car.

She sat and tried to reason it out. Who could it have been? Did someone take his name? Where was the house? Had she gone back in time? She is a rational businesswoman who doesn't believe in the mystic. At last she shook herself and, thoroughly disturbed, returned to her apartment.

As she put the key in the door she could hear the music - quiet and gentle - Delius she thought. But she'd turned everything off before she left. Shutting the door behind her, she became aware of the smell of food. It reminded her, she was hungry.

She looked into the kitchen. There, her frilly apron over his old dressing gown, the Major was stirring something in a saucepan on the stove.

She felt a surge of relief and, moving stiffly, went to him.

'Are you able to stay?' She asked.

'If that is what you want.'

Taking his hand she drew him to her bedroom and showed him what she wanted.