Memories came flooding back. Memories of my classmate years and years ago before he moved to another school. He was clever, I knew. And very thoughtful. And I did remember him. Eric Olaf Gilmour, his name was. His mother was a very young girl called Rhoda Gilmour, and his father was dead before he was born, a German police constable who fell in love with a pretty English girl. Eric took his father's names Olaf and Eric, and his mother's surname. I don't know any more than that. Oh, yes. He was going to be a journalist. Good at English, like me.
I didn't go to University, I'm sure now. I think I do remember Eric from when I was about twenty, meeting up with him a few times. I was a writer too, once. My first story was published when I was fourteen, and after that my next was a collection of fairytales of the Harrington hills published when I was eighteen. I don't think there was more than that.
My sister Lizzie had a boyfriend for a while called Nigel O'Riley. His dad was a single Irishman, and his sister a young angelic-looking terror. Perhaps Lizzie married him. Perhaps she didn't. As for Minnie, she never expressed an interest in men. Only in animals and exercise, and boyish things. But Minnie was married too, said Eric. I wondered about her.
I thought about Eric again. Eric Olaf Gilmour. That made me Mrs Gilmour! My name? Mrs Charlotte Anne Gilmour, I think!