Life isn’t Meant to be Easy, it’s Meant to be Lived

An Accidental Hero #2: A Romance with One Foot in the Past

Continues from Ep. #1 where tennis star Ben meets Verity, the aloof girl who he fancies, in her uncle’s antique shop

“What kept you?”

My friend Patrick was twirling his racquet and pacing when I rushed into the changing rooms to exchange my shoes for the ones I wore to play tennis.

“Homework.”

Don’t share too much, my head voice warned.

“What can matter so much this late in the year?” Patrick spoke arrogantly, as he always did whenever I did anything without him.

“If it’s worth doing,” I pushed my thick fringe off my forehead, “it’s worth doing well.”

“God, you sound like my Aunt Agatha!” Patrick teased, his humour returning. “C’mon, let’s win this match.”

Just after 1:30 I nosed my ride into the weed-troubled car park behind the antique shop. It had been a rush to return here on time, and my hair was damp from a hasty shower. I was shocked how completely Verity occupied my thoughts all morning. It had affected my concentration, to the point that Patrick and I struggled to beat the doubles team from Breckridge Academy, a rival school in the tournament.

It had been almost as challenging to extricate myself from Patrick afterwards. He had made plans for us to meet the gang at the multiplex for a film followed by pizza. I was evasive about meeting Verity and what we were doing—he never had anything nice to say about her and I didn’t want to waste my time arguing with him.

I realised I had little appetite for food or my friends’ company. I was hungry to get closer to Verity and, if I was honest, learn more about the origins of that medal. The tutor who had paired us up had done me a favour, in more ways than one.

Don’t fuck up the opportunity reverberated in my head.

When I stepped on the shop floor, I was struck again by the musty smells of dust and old leather, now overlaid with a lavender fragrance from polish, so I guessed Verity had been cleaning. She was currently in conversation with a couple in their forties, who seemed interested in a bureau with lots of tiny drawers. While the wife stroked the inlaid leather writing surface with a loving hand, the husband attempted to haggle down the price.

I stood back to watch Verity work. She was cool and calm, unwilling to budge much from the item’s ticket price while seeming to listen and empathise with the man. Eventually, an amount was agreed, with delivery thrown in, and Verity recorded their contact details in a large black book. The wife looked delighted with their acquisition. When they left the shop, the bell on the door jingled.

The slanting afternoon sunlight put gold lights in Verity’s hair. This girl had no idea how stunning she was. She gave me a rare grin, and I imagined those coral lips close enough to kiss, her eyelids fluttering closed as she sighed into my mouth while the tips of her breasts pressed their warmth against my chest.

Snap out of it, you’ll have a creepy look on your face, my subconscious scolded me.

“You’re a tough negotiator,” I told Verity.

“Not always, but I know what it’s worth and I could see she loved it,” she shrugged.

“So the guy was haggling just for show?”

“Pretty much. She’d never have let him hear the end of it if he’d walked away.”

Verity placed a feather duster, cloth, and polish under the counter and pulled over a dining chair with a balloon back. She had cleared a space for my laptop next to where she was sitting.

“I have to mind the shop, but I doubt we’ll be interrupted by more than the occasional browser.”

I pulled up a site to help us research records of British military medals. Verity reached for a large burgundy book to check the entries to find out how the medal had been acquired.

“My uncle often does house clearances. When somebody dies, their relatives call him in to give them a price for the removal of the contents. They know he’ll sell anything that counts as antique. He takes the more mundane items to charity shops or landfill.”

She was running her finger down acquisitions listed in her uncle’s cramped penmanship, looking at only those with a star in the column for jewellery/curios. For an illicit moment, I imagined her running that same finger over the contours of my chest and down my stomach to brush against my happy trail, raising goosebumps with its teasing progress. Was she as inexperienced as me? I’d never heard of Verity dating anyone, but this girl could give Greta Garbo tips on remote.

I shook off my reverie to say, “you ought to load this onto a computer, that book is like a spreadsheet, but much slower.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” Verity huffed. “I’ve been nagging Uncle Colin about that for ages.”

She flipped to another page. “I think this is it.” She spelled out the surname while I typed it into the search box of the website.

“That doesn’t take us anywhere,” I sighed, reading the text in the sidebar. “It says here that not all the older paper records have been transferred to a database. Let’s start off trying to identify what kind of medal it is because it looks as if recipients of most medals were announced in the London Gazette.”

Verity was sitting close by, reading over my shoulder, and I felt a tingle in my skin where curls of her red-gold hair brushed against my shoulder. We narrowed it down to 1914–1918, an award earned during World War I.

She rolled her eyes. “The site guide says we need to know the approximate month and year when the medal was awarded, and we don’t. Thank goodness this was a relatively short war.”

Facing her, I noticed green flecks in her clear blue eyes. “I didn’t expect this to be easy, to tap a few keys and the soldier’s full history opens up in front of us. It’s going to take some effort and application. Let’s think of places to search and divide the tasks between us.”

I earned that sweet smile again, which was like being bathed in sunlight on a chilly day, parts of me strained toward that sun. Verity pulled over a lined pad and wrote down tasks as they occurred to her, while I scrolled through images of medals, looking for a match of shape, insignia and ribbon colour.

The shop had no more interruptions from customers, and by the end of the afternoon, I was pleased with our progress. I was also amazed how absorbing and companionable the research had been.

The medal was the type awarded for conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty.

An insignia on the box depicted what appeared to be a wheeled cannon with a crown above it. On its fancy ribbons, the Latin inscription read:

Ubique

Quo fas et gloria ducunt

Using Google translate, we deciphered:

Everywhere where duty and glory lead

Verity had made a long and comprehensive list of things to do, which she shared-out between us, promising to quiz her uncle regarding the person who had sold him the medal.

“I’d better go, my mother is expecting me for supper. What plans have you got for the evening?” I asked, shutting down the laptop and folding my list of tasks into a pocket-sized wad.

“Uncle Colin won’t be home till late tonight,” she shrugged. “I’ll probably knock up something quick to eat and watch an old movie.”

That sounded a bit bleak, and I guess my expression betrayed my thoughts, because Verity stiffened and the haughty look she wore at school returned.

“Modern films are so crass, dependent on violence, special effects and sex. I prefer movies from the ’40s and ’50s, with actors like Grace Kelly, Gregory Peck, Audrey Hepburn, James Stewart. They’re much more romantic or suspenseful. Currently, I’m watching a box set of Alfred Hitchcock thrillers.” She threw an arched eyebrow at me, like Lauren Bacall.

Verity positively smouldered when she was irritated and attraction crackled like static from the nape of my neck, down my spine. The blue of her eyes looked like ice chips. What’s wrong with you? My subconscious harangued me. You’re excited now she’s frosty?

“We could meet tomorrow,” I suggested, rubbing my neck, “if you’re free.”

Part of me counselled playing it cool, but if I only had until this project was finished to spend time with Verity, I needed to make the most of it.

“I live near St Leonard’s church. It’s on your list, we could talk to the verger if he’s about, and look around the graveyard.”

Verity thawed a little. I let out a breath and pressed on. “My mother always cooks something fancy on a Sunday night, she’d love you to join us.”

“Oh, I couldn’t …”

“Of course you could and you should! My sister often brings friends to supper, although she won’t be there tomorrow because she’s visiting her German exchange student.”

“I didn’t know you had a sister.”

“Yeah, she’s three years below us,” Selina was a cute little squirt. “Selina. I’m walking her dog while she’s away. Oh, crap!” I checked my watch. “I’m late for that, Binky will be sitting by the back door with her paws crossed.”

“Go then, I don’t want to be responsible for a puddle on the floor.” Verity tucked a strand of red gold behind her ear and chuckled. “Thanks, I’d love to come to dinner. I’ll meet you tomorrow, at the church.”

“Great! But let me pick you up. 2.00 ok? We can do research, then combine walking Binky with a visit to the churchyard.”

As I hurried out to my car, I took a moment to punch the air. This was going so much better than I expected. Verity had been flashing on my radar for months. Finally, I had the opportunity to talk to her properly, and she seemed to be thawing. Although I had to admit, I found her ice queen persona exhilarating.

[to be continued]

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Thanks to the Long, Long Trail for helping me research medals and the National Archives for outlining the process of keeping soldiers’ records If you’re thinking of signing up for Medium membership, (only the price of a decent coffee) I’d be grateful if you used my link, and I’ll earn a little from your support. Subscribe to my email or Follow my writing.