BLUE MOON

Sorrow and self-pity were my sole companions as I trundled along the moorland footpath. Even the scorching sun and the pleasant aroma of heather and bluebells failed to raise my moral that afternoon. After passing the signpost for Whitby, my eyes focused on the attractive structure up ahead. The Blue Moon Inn stood out like an oasis in this scenic countryside of North Yorkshire. With its pale blue walls, festooned with numerous coloured hanging baskets, it certainly was a setting of beauty, and a place I held deep in my heart.

The gentle breeze wafted in from the sea and conspired to dry my tears; tears for someone I truly love. I paused outside the inn and tried to evoke the memories from the past. My distress was accentuated when I was unable to remember my wife’s face. How long ago had she died?

I sat down on one of the outside benches and asked myself why I was here. Alcohol was definitely not the reason for my attendance. No, I was here because of Helen. Other couples ignored me as they necked and whispered sweet nothings, actions I used to take for granted.

I recalled the last time we sat at this very table, holding hands and gazing affectionately into each other’s eyes. Helen was delighted at my proposal that we try for a baby. My suggestion for a celebration, only now I know would have disastrous consequences. If only, I kept repeating over and over in my pathetic mind. If only.

I gazed up at the magnificent sign above the door, which portrayed blue moon, a sight that Helen always commented on. I rose up silently from my bench as to not disturb the sweethearts and made my way towards the entrance. I paused and wiped away my tears before entering.

The smoky atmosphere was unpleasant. Rhe few revellers chose to ignore the lack of fresh air, judging by their mirth. I approached the bar, looked around sheepishly, and recognised most of the clientele. A slight nod here and there was ignored, but that did not surprise me. I would never have won any popularity contests in the Blue Moon, but even so, given the tragic consequences of the last few months, I would have thought they would show a little more compassion.

The jukebox burst into life and the haunting music of Blue Moon filled the room. I took a stool at the bar and had a sudden urge to drink. A sedative against my sadness all of the sudden seemed like a good idea.

Harry Brightwell, the proprietor, glanced in my direction a few times, but his conversation with Fred Hoskins appeared to have propriety. Maybe they blamed me for Helen’s death. Helen was like part of the furniture in the Blue Moon; brought in the extra punters, Harry would say. He had only lost a barmaid, and not a wife. I refused to lose my temper, only because I wanted to retain my modesty in the memory of Helen.

I clambered from my barstool and was just about to leave, when a shudder akin to an electric shock surged through my trembling body. I screwed up my eyes and gripped the bar tightly when the barmaid approached. I inhaled her perfume and the familiar aroma registered. Her bushy, blonde hair was tied in a bun, but there was no mistake. The girl that faced me was Helen.

She looked up and said, “What will it be, sir?” Her face drained of blood. She stepped back and whimpered, her eyes fixatedly taking me in. “Who are you? What kind of a sick joke is this?”

She was exactly how I remembered her. With her high cheekbones and small turned-up nose, Helen was often mistaken for a Scandinavian. Her bottom lip quivered and she held up a hand.

“Helga,” I mumbled foolishly. That was my nickname for her. She continued to back off, shaking her head.

Harry glanced at his prize barmaid in time to see her collapse. In his haste, he knocked a pile of glasses from the bar.

I leant over the bar, feeling helpless. “How can this be? Helen... Helen is dead,” I insisted.

Three or four other customers rushed to Helen’s aid and tried to revive her. I held my head in my hands and felt the urge for fresh air. I sank down once more onto the outside bench and tried to make sense of what had just happened. All this time, I blamed myself, and she was alive...or was she?

“Slow down, Lee,” she had pleaded. “Will you listen to me, Lee and slow down?” I played the scene over in my mind for the millionth time. I was not familiar with the narrow roads of Whitby, and my erratic driving caused me to veer wide. Was it the alcohol in my blood that caused the head on collision, or was it fate?

I watched at the roadside as Helen was stretchered into the ambulance, the blood oozing down her face. I knew then that I would never see Helen again... But I had…tonight. Either, I was insane or Helen had a double. No, she had recognised me, of that I am certain.

The door to the inn opened and the obese Fred Hoskins appeared. He lit up his pipe as usual, before going on his way.

“Fred, Fred, is Helen okay?” I asked, scampering after him.

He ignored me and walked on. I ran after him and barred his way.

“What’s wrong with you? I loved Helen you know.”

I froze and gasped when the bulky frame of the farmer passed through me. I sank to my knees and wept; not tears of sadness, but tears of joy.