deep chest of drawers; a long settle against the fireplace, where he would sit of an evening and dream of a life he would never have.
Then there was the bed. Square and sturdy enough to take a man’s weight, it was a handsome thing. Covered in a wine-coloured eiderdown, it was roomy enough for two. After all, he could dream …
Beside the bed stood a narrow wardrobe, not spacious by any standards, but enough to hold his most cherished possessions.
To use the bath and washbasin he would carry bucketfuls of water from the stream, and there was an earth closet in a separate little shack.
If he got hungry there was always a supply of tinned food in the larder, and titbits to be gathered in the woods, depending on the time of year. Running wild in those idyllic childhood holidays had been excellent training for cabin life.
Now, with the fire crackling and spitting, he was ever mindful of the falling sparks, any one of which could burn the cabin to the ground; which was why he had built the deep stone hearth. He had also fashioned a makeshift wire cage, which he now placed in front of the leaping flames.
Having placed the guard before the now crackling fire, he went to the wardrobe. He took out the canvas and easel and carried them to the corner of the room. He did not uncover the painting. Instead he held it for a moment, his thoughts going to a cosy little café in the centre of Blackburn. That was another part of his secret life. Then he set the frame on the easel.
From the chest he took out a pile of clothes and draped them over the wire cage of the fire guard to warm and air, while he stripped off his suit, shirt and tie.
When he was dressed again the businessman was gone and in his place was an ordinary workman, dressed casually in brown cords, green check shirt and heavy black boots. The uniform of duty was discarded, and he was now a man at ease with himself.
Now was the moment he’d anticipated with pleasure since his last visit. With great care he slipped the cover from the painting.
When it was laid bare he gazed at it for a long, wondrous moment, his dark, smiling eyes roving its every feature.
Smiling back at him, the young woman with the tumble of hazel hair seemed almost alive. Her laughing eyes, blue as the darkest sapphire, were painted in such a way as to be looking at him wherever he went in the room. Her pretty, slightly parted lips seemed so real he felt she would suddenly talk to him. But she never did, except in his dreams. She probably never would.
Yet he knew her well, that small, vibrant woman who had invaded his thoughts. A special part of his Tuesday life, she hardly knew of his existence.
Returning to the wardrobe he collected his paints and brushes. A few moments later he was stroking the tip of the brush over the curling ends of her brown hair. ‘You don’t know me,’ he murmured fondly, ‘but I feel I know you. I’ve seen how you light up a room when you walk into it …’ Images of her came into his mind – going about her own Tuesday life, laughing with her friend – making him smile. ‘And I know you have a wonderful sense of humour.’
Changing his brush, he worked on her cheekbones. ‘You can’t imagine how much I’ve been looking forward to seeing you.’
He paused, his thoughts going back to the house and the woman who waited there. ‘Maybe it’s just as well you don’t even notice me,’ he sighed. ‘You see, Amy … a man might dream and hope, but dreams are not real, and life can drag you down. I do my best, but I’m hopelessly trapped. If only I can find a way to change how things are.’
That night as he sat on his veranda watching the stars twinkle and dance, a glass of wine in his hand and a great loneliness in his heart, he had no way of knowing how Amy was watching those same stars, and that in her heart were the same impossible dreams, and sense of awful loneliness.
Leaning on the windowsill, arms folded, her gaze raised to the skies, she wondered where Don was, and whether he ever thought of her. She did not wonder whether he might come back, because his parting words had been that she would never see him again. And although for many months after he’d gone, she had prayed he might change his mind and come back, he never had. Now the pain had settled to a sense of loss and disappointment with the acceptance that what he had said was true. Earlier, when he had asked her to marry him, she had been filled with such joy; not knowing that it would end in her heart being broken. There had been weeks of planning and excitement when the date was set and the church booked. The bridesmaids were chosen, the bridal gown ordered and even the honeymoon arranged, before he confessed to her that he had never really wanted family or responsibilities.
Sometimes she wondered if that had been a kind excuse – a way of letting her down gently. He had been so handsome and such fun. Maybe she hadn’t been good enough for him …
Amy had been devastated when he left, and even now the love she had felt for him still lingered.
Pressing her nose to the window she recalled the happy times they had shared.
‘I don’t hate you, Don,’ she murmured. ‘I could never hate you.’
She remembered his smile and the way he would hold her in his arms, and her heart was heavy. But she no longer fooled herself. It was over.
‘Good night, Amy.’ That was her mammy on the landing.
‘Good night, Mam.’
‘Don’t forget we’ve an early start in the morning.’
‘I won’t.’
The sound of passing footsteps, then the closing of a door, and the house was quiet again.
Leaving the curtains open so she could see the stars, Amy went softly across the room and slid into bed.
She closed her eyes, shut out the memories and was quickly asleep.
‘DON’T LOOK NOW, but our mystery man is here again!’
Having seen her come up the street, the young waitress flung open the door, grabbed Amy by the arm and yanked her inside the café.
‘It’s driving me crazy, not knowing who he is!’ She stole a glance at the far table. ‘He’s been here half an hour,’ she whispered, drawing Amy to the back of the café, ‘and I still don’t know any more about him than I did three months ago.’
‘For God’s sake, Daisy! Let me get my coat off.’ Amy had already noticed the man as she passed the window and, as always, her own curiosity was aroused – though she would never admit it to Daisy. ‘It’s bitter cold out there and, if you don’t mind, I need to sit down.’
Loaded with shopping bags and a face bright pink from the biting wind, she resisted Daisy’s pushing and shoving. ‘Get off!’
Daisy stepped back a pace. ‘He hasn’t said a word, except to order bacon and eggs.’ She dropped her voice until it was almost inaudible. ‘I’d say he were a film star … God knows, he’s handsome enough.’ She sighed. ‘But you can tell he’s not, because of his clothes. I reckon he must work in a factory, wearing them boots and with a flat cap.’
‘Honestly, Daisy, you’re becoming obsessed with the poor fella,’ Amy groaned. ‘Why don’t you leave him alone to get on with his breakfast, instead of gawping at him every two minutes?’
Sliding her bags onto the nearest table, she dropped her weary self into the chair. ‘God, my feet are aching.’ Slipping off her shoes, she wiggled her toes. ‘These new shoes don’t help either! I knew I should have worn them round the bedroom a few times before going out in them.’
Daisy was incredulous. ‘Listen to you, lass! Talking about shopping and shoes and moaning about the weather … you sound like your mam!’
‘You’re right,’ Amy agreed with a soft laugh. ‘I do, don’t