The afternoon is warm, as warm as the day you left.Close by a robin sings its autumn song as I sit in my garden overlooking the bay.

The waves are lazy and below me, gulls cirlce a fishing boat. Remember the time when we both sat here and you said that France was just a hop, skip and jump away. Then you said that we should begin our travels in Calais.

Yesterday, your letter arrived; a letter I've longed to receive over the years and though I'm thrilled, I also feel a little sad realising that you assumed I'd still be living here after all this time. Was I that predictable?

Remember when you first met my late parents and their shock at the sight of a tall young man with hair dyed vivid red wearing studs in nose and ears? You challenged their conservatisim and I listening, wished I could do the same. My father, I recall, was lost for words.

Up until I met you, my life, a provinciel life, lacked excitement. "Too street wise for our Sophie," I remember my mother saying as you rode off on your motorbike.

"Rough as a badger's backside," my father muttered though his gaze followed your exhaust trail over the brow of the hill.

Strewn about my feet are the post cards you sent all those years ago, reminders of what I'd lost at the time of my awakening. Beside me too, is the invitation you enclosed with your letter, inviting me to a reunion at The Grand Hotel, next weekend.

Didn't you once say The Grand Hotel lived up to its reputation and that it's clientele were jumped up jerks with false ideas of grandeur? Maybe you've changed. Perhaps you've joined the bourgeoisie.

At random, I select a postcard from the collection I've kept in a chocolate box. "The sun is hot," you sent from a Greek Island. "Cicadas click in olive groves. A wonderful place to paint if only you'd come and see for yourself."

Turning over the cracked card, I gaze at a photograph of Paxos, almost tasting the ehat, smelling the aromas of wild herbs you went on to describe. And I think, "If only."

Of course, cowardice kept me at home. It's different now but back then, I had to smother my desires. You tried hard to convince me. "There's only one life, Sophie. Live it!" I recall you saying over and over like a mantra.

If only I had but at the age of eighteen, there seemed to be plenty of time, ahead. Now hours, days and months gather speed, heading towards that inevitable void, a void of uncertain endings.

Picking up another post card, I see the date is June 11th 1975. A proud mountain clothed in spruce reaches snowy finger tips up to the sky. "I waited at the station all night," you wrote. "In the end, I was moved along by an Austrian policeman."

I remember, two months after you left, you rang from Saltsburg. I got carried away with your pleadings, your enthusiasm and words of love. Once more, I promised I'd join you but I broke my promise again, didn't I?

Now I reach for another card. This one is from Paris. It was the very first card you sent to me and only two days after you left on that adventure both of us had planned to share.

"Where were you? I waited at the ferry terminal as arranged. I waited and waited. Then I rang but your line was engaged."

Knowing that you'd phone and as my parents were away for the weekend, I left the receiver off the hook and all I could hear in my head while the phone kept on ringing were the words you whispered, one night, after we'd made love,"We'll be gypsies rambling the world."

But, with my usual warines, I whispered back, 'When you ramble, you're in danger of treading over rough ground."

And I remember your laughter, gurgling up from your throat. "You'd make a great preacher's wife," you chortled. Then your laughter died and your expression softened and you added, 'I love you, Sophie Johnson."

We were art students working at The Grand Hotel during the summer and on that special night, our decision to backpack across over every country in the world was met with laughter, discussion and a bottle of cheap wine. But you sensed my doubt and I remember you saying I had two choices. Then you sat back, arms crossed, waiting.

I lied to myself as well as to you. I agreed with enthusiasm. You borrowed travel books from the library and after work, we planned routes, our fingers tracing borders from Dover to Calias. Down through France into Spain and beyond.

"Life's a risk," you used to say. "We don't want to grow old thinking, if only." And remembering your words, I repeat aloud, 'If only.'

Here is another card. "Have found work in a bar," it reads. "Come and sample Spain" The town is called Rhonda, high up in the mountains.

You were right, of course. Money and security aren't everything. During that final, angry phone call from Portugal, you accused me of choosing the safer option.
Then your money ran out and I was left, sobbing, holding onto a silent receiver.

I didn't get the chance to tell you that eighteen months later, I married the safer option. But that option left me within a year and I couldn't deny his allegation of frigidity.

Now I'm holding the last postcard you sent. This is one from Sydney. The date stamped is September 10th 1980. Almost five years into your travels.

Overjoyed at receiving a card from you after a long break in communication,I wrote back with a fervent promise that I'd join you in Australia for Christmas. Then I waited for your reply all through October, November and into December.

Was it George Bernard Shaw that once said, "Silence is the most perfect expression of scorn?" I deserved your silence, didn't I?

But now, out of the blue, after all these years, I got your letter, yesterday. You say you'd love to see me and hear my news. You even asked if I still liked Chicken Noodles and Punk music.

What can I tell you when we at last meet up? Chicken Noodles, these days, give me heartburn and my taste in music has changed. I prefer listening to classical music.

At eight thirty, every weekday, I start work at Pennings Potteries where I paint flowers on pots and vases. Then I arrive home at five thirty, feed the cat and pour out a glass of Claret which I drink while waiting for a TV dinner to cook in the microwave.

Reading your letter once more, I wonder what I would do if, on walking into The Grand Hotel, your gaze goes past me, searching for my younger self? Shall I admit in my reply to your invitation that my waistline has spread and my brown hair is faded? Shall I tell you to look for a plump woman with lines of lamentation etched on her face? Or will I wait and surprise you?

Looking up from my memories, I realise the robin has stopped singing and the sea, choppier now, has filled the bay. I shiver and my black cat unfurls herself, gets up from her bed of soft moss and stalks towards the warmth of the kitchen.

Gathering up mu postcards, I return them to the chocolate box and as I walk across the lawn, in my mind, I'm composing a letter which will read:

Dear Davey,
It was wonderful hearing from you again and thank you for your kind invitation.Unfortunately, I will be unable to attend the college reunion but my thoughts will be with you on that occasion.