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Coles to Newcastle |
| Written by Philip Neale | |
| Friday, 09 May 2008 | |
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Share it:       The warm days of summer were gone now and with the changing colours of the foliage in the grounds of the Westfield Retirement Home, Harold Coles felt the autumn of his years take a firm grip upon his constitution. He had been a resident for the past five years and with the passing of each one, time had seemed to increase its relentless march with an ever quickening pace. The place was comfortable, clean and welcoming with an efficient and caring staff, and at the age of seventy-five he took the decision in 1996 that living alone in his large four bedroom house was no longer a sensible option for him. With no living relatives of his own generation for company, the choice of selling up and moving here had not been a difficult one, for he had always been a man in favour of taking the ‘sensible’ line in life. At 81, and with a successful business life behind him, he could have no real complaints at what fate had served up to him. His one regret had been the lack of a companion in his latter years, and thoughts inevitably returned again and again to the one opportunity which presented itself to him, and which he rejected out of hand – Patricia. Suddenly the memories came flooding back once more, and as he sat in the lounge they took him on a journey back in time.
He was born in 1920 to a Newcastle dock worker, Jack Coles and his wife Beryl. One of eight children, he left school and was apprenticed to a joiner in Wallsend where, over the next five years, he excelled. The outbreak of war in 1939 prevented him taking up the trade and he joined the army. He survived Dunkerque, was involved in the push through Italy during 1943 and witnessed some of the most horrifying examples of man’s inhumanity before being demobbed in 1945. After a brief return home to the North East he travelled south to London to take up his vocation as a carpenter, thriving amid the post war rebuilding of the capital. By the time he met Patricia Seaburn in 1955 he was a successful and well-respected local tradesman living in Tottenham. She was twenty-four, from Manchester and their meeting was one of pure chance at the F.A. Cup final of that year between Newcastle United and Manchester City at Wembley Stadium. They seemed to hit it off straight away and after several visits to both sets of prospective in-laws, they became engaged to be married at the end of that summer.
It was whilst they were apart during the run-up to Christmas that Patricia met Steve, an American airman who had stayed in Britain after the war. Like many of his fellow countrymen at the time, he exuded a charm and sophistication with which few of his British counterparts could compete. He was twenty-six, nine years younger than Harold, and appeared like a Monet painting, full of life and colour in comparison with his dull and drab everyday rival. He dazzled her with stories of life across the Atlantic with its promise of riches and opportunities, and within a matter of a fortnight she had returned her engagement ring to her fiancé with a brief note of apology. They departed for the USA to Steve’s home in Michigan and the promise of a job in a Detroit automobile plant. Harold was devastated and wrote via Patricia’s parents begging her to return to him, but she never replied. That day at the Cup Final, with all of its promise, now seemed like a distant and fading dream.
The following five years saw Harold Coles move to the Midlands and set up in business as a joinery manufacturer in the Staffordshire town of Newcastle-under-Lyme. His skill as a craftsman soon earned him a good reputation and by 1960 he was the owner of a thriving business making a variety of household goods, and employing thirty men in a converted warehouse. He had almost forgotten about Patricia and Steve when a note arrived from his mother containing a letter bearing a Detroit postmark. It had been forwarded to Tyneside from his address in London and was four weeks old.
“Someone to see you, Mr Coles” said Annie, one of the care assistants.
Harold was jolted firmly back to the present by the appearance of his niece, Julia, on one of her periodic but unpredictable visits. He always enjoyed their brief sessions together and she was one of a number of his younger relatives who took the time and trouble to make him feel that he had not been forgotten. She stayed for tea and told of all the family news since the last visit, before walking around the grounds with him prior to departure, with a promise of coming back soon. Smiling as she waved goodbye, he sat down in the conservatory overlooking the ample and well-kept lawn. His thoughts returned once more to Patricia and the letter, and he took it out of his pocket, beginning to read its crumpled, age worn page for what seemed the thousandth time.
14th September 1960 Dear Harold I hardly know where to begin to tell you of the events of the past five years, and I am not sure that you will understand how I feel after the way I treated you. Steve and I separated three years ago and we are now divorced. I tried for a while to support myself and our son, Steve junior, but things were just too difficult and I will be returning to Manchester to live with my mum and dad for a while. If you can forgive me for what happened, perhaps we could meet and maybe work out some sort of future together. I made a terrible mistake and would like to put things right. Patricia
Harold stared out once again into the late afternoon sunshine and his mind drifted back over the years to the events of the weeks subsequent to the letter. He did indeed write a number of times to Patricia at her mothers, but was reticent at agreeing to meet her until he was more certain of her intentions. Finally, with all his old feelings for her returning, and against all the logic which had stood him in such good stead over the past five years, he gave in. He told her to let him know of the time of arrival of her train in Newcastle and he would be at the station to meet her. A brief note arrived by return of post giving details of a date and time some two weeks hence, and he found the excitement of a reconciliation taking first place before all other personal and business considerations.
When the day arrived, and with no other communication from Patricia to the contrary, he made his excuses at work, dressed in his best suit and tie and set off for the station. The postman arrived with the morning mail fifteen minutes after his departure. The drive to the station, normally a matter of twenty minutes seemed to take forever, and despite constant checking of his watch to ensure that he would not be late, he couldn’t settle until he had parked and was making his way to the platform. It was like being on a first date all over again and the only thing missing was the bunch of flowers - perhaps he should have bought some. He made enquiries about the arrival from Manchester and was directed to Platform 2 where, despite available seats, he was unable to relax and paced up and down until the tell-tale cloud of smoke in the distance heralded the arrival of the train.
It ground to a halt amid a cloud of steam, and doors opened along its entire length as busy travellers were disgorged on to the platform. He waited with bated breath for a lone female bearing some resemblance to the Patricia he knew in 1955, but as a crowd of commuters passed him without comment he was left standing alone. The train pulled away and yet he still half expected a late passenger getting out of a moving carriage. She was not there. He said it out loud to convince himself that it was true. She was not there. He rushed out, off the platform in case she had been carried past in the rush, but there were only incoming pedestrians for the next train. She was not there. Confused, he returned home to find the morning mail on the door mat. Amongst it was a letter bearing a Manchester postmark. He tore it open – it was from Patricia’s mother informing him of the arrival in the UK of Steve in search of his ex wife and son.
So that was it. For the second time she had betrayed him. Against all his better judgement he had allowed her to play with his feelings again and she had let him down. He felt such a fool and now wondered at his pride and conceit in thinking that she could settle for a humdrum existence with him after the excitement of America. His sadness turned to anger and then a determination that this time he would never forgive her, even if she came to him on her knees. He tore the letter into shreds, threw it into the fire and watched as it turned to ash.
At that very moment, a woman was standing on Platform 4 of the station at Newcastle-upon-Tyne wondering what had delayed the man who was supposedly meeting her off the train which had left the town fifteen minutes earlier. It had never occurred to Patricia that, like Fanny Robin rushing to her wedding with Sergeant Troy, she had gone to the wrong place. In her haste to read Harold’s letters she had failed to notice the post marks on the envelopes. Coincidence had dictated that there were two trains leaving Manchester for Newcastle that afternoon, one bound for the North East and the other for the Midlands. To Patricia, however, this seemed like an act of supreme revenge by a man whom she had so badly wronged, but of whom she had thought better. Returning to Manchester by the evening train, she was back at her mothers before midnight. Within a month she had returned to America with Steve once more, apparently reconciled.
“Another cup if tea, Mr Coles?” Annie again, bless her. Always on the look out for an empty cup in need of a refill.
“No thank you Annie, I think I’ll go to my room.”
He settled down in front of his television but couldn’t concentrate on the programme and switched off the set. Picking up a book he started to read, but the afternoon sun had made him feel drowsy and he dozed off. It was rare for him to dream, being of habit a sound sleeper, but the day’s reminiscing must have stimulated his mind into this unusual state. Before him stood the image of his long lost Patricia and he couldn’t resist a smile, even after all this time.
“Hello Harold” A voice with a strange but somehow familiar accent awoke him with a start.
There she stood, for all the world as if she had never been away. She must have been seventy but didn’t look a day older than fifty. He was completely awake now and moved to stand up.
“No honey, I’ll sit down. We have a lot to catch up on and I have some fences to mend.”
They talked late into the evening, both finally realising the trick which fate had played on them forty years before. She told him of Steve’s death and their son’s graduation, subsequent success at Harvard and his marriage to the daughter of a wealthy industrialist. An air of sadness pervaded the room when Patricia rose to leave, promising to return the following day. Harold Coles was destined not to make that meeting as fate took another cruel twist in the final chapter of their relationship. The stroke which took him from her in the middle of the night was massive, and as she stood at the graveside a week later, the tears ran down her face on to the dedication card amongst the twelve red roses which she placed against the headstone. There was nothing left in this country for her any more, and with a heavy heart she turned and left the cemetery. Copyright 2008 Philip Neale |
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