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He first remembered seeing her when he was about twelve or thirteen . She lived with her family in a medium sized house , with castleated surrounding walls , on the corner of their street .Her father was an important person locally and nationally . The family seemed to travel at all times in a large black car and her father was very protective . Still the young man with the curly hair lived in hope of meeting HER 'casually' .
He was an altar-boy and he knew that her family attended Mass each Sunday and this might bring about a chance encounter .
Altar-boys , despite their angelic appearence at church ceremonies , seemed to be constantly at war with one another , punching and pinching and tripping-up each other , even sometimes on the altar , when the priest wasn't looking .
So it happened , one day , that the boy with the curly hair got involved in a particularly vicious fight in , what then served as a car-park , outside the church one Sunday morning , as mass-goers were trooping out .Neither of the participants were quite sure what the scuffle was about , but HE ended up on the losing end . As the ''Raggers'' , thats what the gang were called, carried off the victor shoulder-high and HE sat on the ground nursing his split lip and his bruised ego , SHE suddenly appeared , holding out his almost-new , school blazer . He could still see in his minds eye , the torn patch -pocket ( was that the cause of the fight ?)., letters ''WR'' in red and black ) and her gentle hand and grey eyes . If he had been a cartoon character his head would be circled by a combination of stars and throbbing love-hearts , whirling around . He didn't even feel the pain from his bleeding lip or sore ear
Then the moment was gone , as her father appeared , took her by the arm and whisked her off to the family car and away .
He still often saw her in the distance . Sometimes he and his friends on their 'speed-way' bikes went past her house , turning the corner at speed , feet dragging the ground , scuffelling the loose stones , bicycle-bells ringing , and singing over , and over and over again...'' Do not forsake me oh my darlin'......'' the first line of Tex Ritters new song , following the film ''High Noon'' .

He , of course , never told his friends of his secret , oh no !! oh no , no , no . They would just LOVE to have ammunition like that , which they would use at will . He did'nt even tell his brothers...this was his secret alone . He often still walked past her house but just missed seeing her , ....a squeeking gate , a closing door .He sometimes wore his '' James Dean'' jacket , with collar turned up , and tee shirt , all the rage among teenagers at the time , his hair slicked back with Brylcreem , not water ( or'' Corporation hair oil '', as it dubbed by Dubliners at the time ).

He never DID meet her again , and time went on . Sometime in the sixties he left the area , met and married a beautiful woman , with an animated spirit , they had a wonderful family, all now grown -up and gone. God had gifted him all the really important things in life .
l One evening late last Autumn , on an errand in town , he happened to walk through the area of his childhood . He had not been around there for many years .Because the locality had been considered ''upmarket' and prices of properties ( we no longer live in 'homes' or even ''houses' , we all now have ' properties ') , had increased manyfold over the years , the outside appearences had hardly changed at all . The current occupants and all the intervening owners had no doubt refurbished the insides beyond recognition .
The house on the corner was almost as it had been over 50 years before . He wondered what had happened to HER and when she and her family had left. Enough of memories he thought . The evening was getting darker , the few remaining leaves floated down from the tree in her garden , a light suddenly came on in the room upstairs . Time to go , he thought ...He turned up the collar , of his belted raincoat , checked his watch , and hurried off to the bus-stop round the corner , fumbling , as always , for his bus-pass .

SHE , having turned on the light , moved to close the curtains . Her companion/nurse/friend Mary had just left . They had , had a nice evening chatting about the OLD times. Old . Was she really getting old .Ever since her parents had died and her siblings had moved out and , of course , the accident , she had not marked time in the same way . She supposed she was GETTING old , but she felt happy in her situation . The Estate Agent , with the gelled hair , . had not been able to convince her to sell the house , even at the astranomical price he quoted . Where would she go ,? and why ,? she was happy here . She never regretted not marrying , her father never approved of any of her friend , anyway ,but she still sometimes wondered ...what if ??
She remembered the boy with the curly hair , often watching him and his boisterous friends as they went by on their shiny bicycles ...'.riding down to Kenilworth ', no doubt , she smiled at her tiny joke.... her hero of the torn coat and upturned collar...

As she clutched the curtains she saw the man in the belted raincoat (, who wears belted raincoats these days ...??? she thought ....) turn and walk toward the corner bus -stop ...something about him ....no no no silly old woman,...upturned collar , no hair oil , ( no hair !)
She closed the curtains , moved her wheel-chair , away from the window . And as she opened her book , she heard the engine of the bus as is moved away from the stop around the corner.....