It was so long ago. George was the last boy I went out with in Australia before my return home.  He was supposed to follow.  I didn’t hear from him for a few months, then the letter finally came.  He couldn’t get out of his contract.  He wasn’t coming home.  My dad found me crying in the front room, George’s letter on my lap.

The following summer, myself, my sister and two friends decided to go to Ostend in Belgium for a week.   We were dithering for a while about where to go, and finally picked Ostend because it was ‘abroad’ and cheap.   All the shops, restaurants, pubs and night clubs ran the length of a long street, parallel to the beach.  We decided to have a night out at the White Horse Inn.  There were rows of long tables.  People were served large tankards of beer.  Waitresses were dressed like Frauleins, wearing pretty head-dresses and short frilly skirts.  They made it look easy carrying their heavy trays of beer.   It had a Bavarian beer garden atmosphere. The band on stage had the boisterous crowd swaying from side to side to the music.

I saw him on the other side of the room.  He looked exactly like George, tall, dark haired and that lovely face.  I kept looking at him. Willing him to come over.  He was moving in my direction.  Oh my God, my heart was racing, what would I say to him.

I introduced him to the girls.  He told me his name, but I’ve forgotten. I’ll call him John.  The following day, he took me on a bus tour.   The countryside was very flat, pretty houses, lace curtains that didn’t come down fully to the bottom of the window.  We held hands as we walked around.  I thanked him for a lovely day and kissed him, very quickly.  That was it.  I think I told him we were leaving the next day.  Going home.

Anyway, my mind had played tricks with me.  I wanted him so much to be George.  I’d lost my reason the moment I saw his face.  He looked like George.  His smile was warm and welcoming.  He responded to me as I caught his eye.  John was from the south of England.  He spoke with a Somerset accent, you know, “where the cider apples grow”.   George was from Edinburgh.  I loved his accent.  It was soft and wrapped itself around me.

The bubble burst when I spoke to him.  How crazy was I to expect to hear a Scottish accent.  He was a nice boy, but he wasn’t George.