In a London city centre apartment, Ronald Farley leaned back in his leather armchair.  He had just returned, very late, from the bank's headquarters – having chaired a directors’ meeting, which had overrun.

 The answerphone light was flashing – it would be Samantha again, he thought, asking why he hadn’t phoned in weeks. He would have to get back to her sooner or later, if only to tell her that things hadn’t been working out. Now, he just wanted to relax.

He picked up the hi-fi remote and put the radio on.

‘Blue on blue, heartache on heartache,

Blue on blue, now that we are through…’       

Joanne had loved singing along to this in the car, Ronald thought. He remembered the events of almost thirty-five years ago.

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Back then, he worked at a bank in Birmingham city centre, drove a second-hand Morris Minor, and rented a flat in Small Heath. His mom said that he should wait, that he was too young to live alone in his early twenties, but he had wanted to strike out on his own.

And there was Joanne Flanagan…. She walked into the bank one May afternoon, to cash a cheque from Smith and Saunders.

‘Where’s Bill then?’ asked Ronald, noting her unfamiliar face.

‘Jim, you mean,’ Joanne corrected, seeing through his trick question. Smiling, she went on, ‘ “Been working since I were fourteen, man and boy, never had a day off work sick till today…” ’ Ronald grinned – her impression of old Jim Braithwaite, who usually cashed the company’s cheques, was spot-on.

As he sorted out the money, Joanne kept chatting. Normally he would find that irritating, but with her it was charming. On a whim, he asked her out. He, who would normally only get round to it on the umpteenth meeting. To his surprise, she agreed.

They met later that day, after work, in a grubby pub near the bank. As they had a drink, Joanne was doing impressions of Mr Timpson, her manager, and other people at her workplace.

‘You should be a comedian, you know,’ Ronald said.

‘What, like Barbara Windsor?’ Joanne struck a pose and pouted.

‘No – not like that,’ Ronald replied. ‘More like, you know, “The Comedians”. Telling jokes, making people laugh..’

‘Standing up in a smoky club….telling mother-in-law and knock-knock jokes?’ she laughed. ‘Never….women are never gonna do that!’

Their relationship blossomed over the next six months. They would regularly go to the pictures, to the pub, or for a meal. Often they went back to Ronald’s afterwards.

Sometimes, on late-closing days, Joanne would pester Ronald to go into the shops with her. They would be in Lewis’s or Rackhams when she would see a beautiful dress, or a stylish pair of shoes.

‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ she would say. Then she would look in her bag, find she didn’t have enough money, and ask Ronald to ‘help her out’. He did so two or three times, but after a while he shied away from doing so. Rent, petrol, cinema tickets, all cost money, and he didn’t make that much at the bank – yet.

But things seemed to go off the boil. They did not go out for almost two weeks – something was always coming up at Joanne’s work, or with her family. But one autumn Thursday she agreed to meet Ronald by the cinema at seven-thirty.

He waited outside the Odeon in New Street. The film would be starting – it was a quarter to eight. He could hear tittering from passers-by. A drunk called out from across the road, ‘Bugger off home, kid, she ay’ cooming!’

He went to the nearby pub, the Tavern in the Town, where he and Joanne often stopped for a drink if they arrived too early for a film.

‘Surely she’ll turn up,’ Ronald thought, nursing a pint. ‘Even if we can’t watch the film now.’ Missing Confessions of a Window Cleaner would be no great loss. But still she did not come.

‘She’s messing about,’ he thought, puffing at a cigarette. ‘I’ll give her the boot…’

There were so many other girls. Like Mandy, the girl at the Wimpy’s not far from the bank, the one who always gave him the eye. He’d ask her out the next day, see how Joanne would like that.

But he knew he wouldn’t. Joanne probably had a good reason…perhaps she’d been window shopping again, forgotten the time. He wouldn’t risk this relationship, he mused. There were lots of women he could have a fumble with in the back seat of the car, or watch a crap film with. But Joanne was …different.

They could talk about anything. One minute they would be discussing whether Benny Hill was still funny, next they would be pondering what would happen in Spain when Franco died. He had never gone out with any girl quite like her.

Thirty minutes later, he gave up and drove home. Once back he didn’t bother phoning Joanne. She called him during lunch at work the next day.

‘Sorry about yesterday,’ she said. ‘Mr Timpson made us do a surprise stock-take, I lost track of time…can we meet tomorrow?’

They went for a meal on Saturday, and browsed around the shops. Ronald was quiet, pondering. Joanne chattered as usual.

‘At least she’s not pestering me to buy her stuff,’ Ronald thought. ‘But I’m not going to let her play silly buggers. I’ll get my own back.’

 As they drove home Ronald said, ‘Just remembered. Confessions is still on at the Odeon. We can see it next week.’

Joanne smiled. ‘That’d be great... When?’

‘It’ll have to be Thursday… I’ve got some stuff to do at home first, so I’ll meet you outside the cinema, seven-thirty?’

‘Okay….’

Seven-thirty on Thursday evening found Ronald at home watching the telly. Joanne would be standing outside the Odeon, he thought, and people would be taking the mickey out of her. He could imagine the same drunk shouting at her, ‘Bugger off home, wench, he ay’ cooming!’

Yes, he was being cruel. But just so that they would be even. He’d call her at work the next day, and give her some crap excuse. She would get the message – that two could play at that game.

And afterwards – well, either things would fizzle out, or they might take each other more seriously. He felt a twinge of regret. He really enjoyed her company. They’d be able to patch things up – once he had made his point.

Ronald dozed off. A few hours later, he woke to the sound of sirens from the television.

‘….among the worst terrorist outrages ever perpetrated on the British mainland,’ a reporter was saying.

‘Bloody IRA again,’ he thought. ‘What’s new?’ Then a chill fell over him as the television showed the lower end of New Street, including the Odeon.

 ‘No, not the cinema….’ he thought.

But the camera went further down the road, lingering in front of the Tavern. It was a wreck, with rescuers pulling people from the debris, and a damaged bus blocking the road in front.

‘She wouldn’t have waited long,’ he thought. ‘She’ll have gone home’.

Meanwhile, the telly showed scenes of the carnage at the other bomb scene, the Mulberry Bush pub in the Rotunda.

Ronald phoned Joanne’s flat. Rose, her flatmate, should have been in. The phone rang repeatedly, but no-one answered. He tried to phone Joanne’s parents, but couldn’t get through.

‘Oh, no, please, no…’ Ronald pleaded. He paced up and down, following the news on television and radio, until he fell asleep on the floor.

Early the next day, he finally got through to Joanne’s parents. Her brother confirmed the sad news.

In a daze, Ronald drove to the Flanagans’ home in Rubery. The whole city was in shock – the bank had given him time off without hesitation.

As he drove, Ronald remembered being in the Tavern the previous week. He pictured the people he had seen there. Then he imagined them dead and dying, amid tumbling rubble, Joanne among them…

At the house, Joanne’s parents were quiet, all cried out. Her brother was constantly on the phone, fielding calls. Rose, in tears, was hugging Joanne’s mother.

‘Weren’t you supposed to be with her?’ Joanne’s father asked Ronald.

‘M-my car broke down on the way,’ Ronald said. ‘By the time I got into town it was all cornered off. She – she must have waited for me and then gone into the pub for a drink….’

Two weeks later, Ronald, Rose and Joanne’s family stood in the front room of the Flanagan house, waiting for the cars to take them to the church.  Joanne’s mother handed lockets to Rose and Ronald, each with a small picture of Joanne inside.

**************************************************************

 ‘Night after lonely night,

We meet in dreams…’

Ronald dug the locket out from the box under his bed, and opened it.

‘I betrayed you,’ he said. ‘And I couldn’t even own up to your parents…’

Ever since, he had broken off relationships as soon as they showed any sign of permanence. There had been many Samanthas over the past thirty-plus years. Ronald had never lived with a partner, been engaged or married.

‘Why don’t I give anyone a chance?’ he wondered, looking at Joanne’s smiling face in the little picture. ‘Perhaps I don’t deserve happily-ever-after …’

‘Through a veil of tears,

Your vision disappears…’

In a flat in Birmingham, Bobby Vinton crooned from the radio. Rose sat on the sofa, her husband dozing alongside her. She remembered Joanne, all those years ago - singing along to this song in the morning, in her dressing-gown.

Joanne’s face looked out from the locket in her hands. Rose remembered the Thursday before the tragedy. Joanne had been excited when she had returned that night.

***********************************************************

‘Alan drives an E-type Jag… we went to eat at Luigi’s…and he bought me those shoes from Lewis’s!’

Rose smiled. ‘What did you tell Ronald?’

Joanne scowled. ‘Oh, I’ll call him tomorrow. I’ll swing the lead as usual…’

Rose pulled a disapproving face. ‘Ronald’s a nice guy …’

‘I know. And I do love him, honest. But “nice” can be boring. Those brown suits…and a Morris Minor, for God’s sake!’

‘But Ronald’s got a good job…what does Alan do again?’

Joanne looked away. ‘This and that… Who cares? I’m having fun. It won’t last – I know he’s got other girls. If I get married to Ronald I’ll always remember Alan…’

The following Thursday, Joanne dressed up for another date with Alan.

‘We’re gonna meet at the Tavern, have a drink,’ she told Rose. ‘Then back to his place. You wouldn’t believe it, Ronald asked me to see a film with him at the Odeon this evening?’

‘You said no, didn’t you? It’s almost next door…what if they meet and there's a fight..?’

‘I said yes! There won't be a fight - you've met Alan, no way is Ronald gonna take him on. Besides, I know he’s not coming – bet he just wants to get back at me for last week. It’s the way he said it…’ She imitated Ronald’s stuttering monotone. ‘ “ C-Confessions is still on at the Odeon. W-we, er, we can see it next week…” ’ She giggled. ‘Men – think they’re so smart, and you can read them like a book! All Saturday he had a face like thunder, I knew he wanted to do something like this. He’ll be sat at home thinking I’m all miserable ’cause he didn’t turn up - I’m gonna be at Alan’s…’

But Alan was delayed. Or maybe he stood Joanne up too. Either way, he was not with her when the bomb exploded in the Tavern.

As the news of the attacks broke, Rose cried and cried, ignoring the phone as it rang off the hook.

And Alan…he never phoned or visited afterwards. Even though he must have read about Joanne’s death in the papers.

On the day of the funeral, Rose had wanted to tell all about that night. But the truth would shatter Ronald. And the Flanagans, good Catholics for whom Joanne had been a chaste princess, heading for a good marriage. Better keep her mouth shut, Rose thought, everyone had been hurt enough already.

********************************************************

 ‘….and I find I can’t get over losing you…’

As the song faded out, Rose replaced the locket around her neck and wiped away a tear.