A brown envelope dropped silently onto the doormat. Lindi was poised to pounce upon it and crush it to her breast. As she grabbed for it she realised that its size and colour precluded it being what she had hoped, what she had longed for.
It was 14th February and this invitation to renew her television licence was the sum total of her Valentines this year. This year she had been sure it would be different. In those years since Dad had stopped sending Valentines to his little girl no card had bounced on the doormat. She hadn't really been bothered by it. She'd been too busy practising her piano, studying music and singing in the choir. She was saddened when Dad had given up sending cards but hardly surprised. Each year there had been two cards on the mat both carefully addressed and posted. There had never been a furtive early morning dropping of cards by the door on the way to make tea. The Royal Mail had had their fee and done their work, a card for Mum and a card for Lindi, for both his loves. When Mum had died, slowly, painfully, Lindi had watched the love of life drain from him. She was not surprised when there was no card. She had got used to there being no card.
Why should there be one for her? Who would send a Valentine to a little mouse, a little mouse with mousey hair and glasses? She had the annoying habit of curling a stray lock of hair around a finger and chewing at it when she was thoughtful or nervous. Little mice didn't receive Valentines. Then one Wednesday evening at choir practice there had been a new singer, a new tenor. There was always a little excitement when a new singer of the male variety turned up. They were, after all, few and far between. The excitement had not lasted long, Lindi noticed. The giddy sopranos, always on the hunt for the stray male lost interest almost immediately and the altos weren't too far behind. There's one for you Lindi, one of her fellow sopranos had whispered. She hadn't minded the comment, she was used to it. It was probably true anyway. She gave the newcomer a sly glance. He was a mouse, a little boy mouse with mousey hair and glasses even thicker and blacker and more boring even than hers. He noticed her glance and smiled nervously then looked away quickly.
Lindi had thought no more about the comment, there's one for you. Life went on and Lindi continued her daily round of practise and study and singing. It was a busy time with exams beginning to appear on the horizon. She had spent the morning in the library working on an essay on Mendelssohn and was savouring a coffee in the tea rooms when a voice disturbed her thoughts.
‘May I sit here?’ she looked up to find the tenor mouse smiling at her. He must have been running, she thought, his face is flushed.
‘Yes,’ she stammered and moved over so that he could squeeze around her to take the other seat.
‘This place is always crowded,’ he said.
‘It's cheap,’ she said, then realised how it sounded. ‘I mean it's good value for money.’
‘And convenient when you've been in the library.’ He smiled. He had a nice smile, she thought, and it would be even nicer if he didn't look as if he was about to climb into the dentist's chair. A lock of hair found its way into her mouth.
‘Do you always do that?’ He asked, and she pulled it from her mouth as if it had been coated in something not quite nice.
‘Only when I'm thinking or nervous about something,’ she replied.
‘Then I hope you're thinking and that I'm not making you nervous.’
‘Not at all,’ she replied, ‘I was thinking about Mendelssohn.’
‘Ah, Jakob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, a fine composer.’
‘Show off!’ she cried, grinning at him.
‘Not at all, I have been studying him for an article I'm writing. You know that it's his birthday in a fortnight.’ Lindi glanced at the sheets of paper before her, 3th February 1809.
‘Yes, of course,’ she cried.
‘Liar!’ he said but she could see that he was not accusing her in any serious way. ‘Next year will be his two hundredth anniversary.’
‘Who's the article for?’
‘It's for our local rag, though I don't suppose you ever read it. Far better things to do.’
‘Like writing essays about dead composers and studying for my exams, yes.’
‘Too busy to go to a concert with me?’ He slipped the question in so smoothly that she had agreed to go before she realised it.
‘What is the concert?’ she asked to collect her thoughts, the lock of hair slipped between her teeth.
‘You must be nervous, you can't be thinking.’ She looked up at him as he stood.
‘Jakob Ludwig Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy. The philharmonic are doing a night of his music, A Midsummer Night's Dream, The Hebrides,’ he pronounced it ‘he brides’ to make her smile, ‘and Hear My Prayer. Did you know that Mendelssohn wrote ‘O For The Wings Of A Dove’? Silly question, you've been studying him.’ With those parting words he threaded his way between the tables and left her gazing after him and wondering just what had happened.
The concert had been a great success. She found Jim easy to talk to and she had never found that easy to do with boys. They both enjoyed the music and he made her laugh with his comical rendition of the donkey from ‘A Midsummer Night's Dream’. He seemed kind and thoughtful. He had taken her to her door and said goodnight. He had not kissed her, thank goodness, but she couldn't seem to stop thinking about what it would have been like if he had.
They next met at choir rehearsals and he had been very quiet, hardly seeming to notice her. Then at the break he had sidled up to her and asked her out for a drink after the rehearsals. They hadn't gone to the same pub that the choir lot went to, she was pleased about that. They had gone to a quiet little place where they could talk. She liked to talk with Jim. That surprised her a little. He was full of news about a trip that his paper had organised.
‘Jim Curran, ace reporter is going abroad,’ he said dramatically.
‘Where?’
‘Belgium. They want a piece on the popularity of Belgian beer so they're sending me to visit, some breweries I think. I'm going with one of their top reporters; you know the type, soft felt hat raincoat and all that. I think he's hoping to drink the place dry while we're there.’
‘You'll miss choir practice.’
‘No. I won't but I will miss you.’ He said quietly. ‘Look, I don't know what films you like but would you come to the cinema with me before I go?’
She enjoyed the cinema, but it was different to the concert they had been to. They sat in the dark and watched the film which was more than the couple in the row in front did. The girl seemed intent on eating the boy rather noisily. Then Jim had put his hand on hers and grinned at her in the gloom. She wished they would stop kissing, making a fuss in public, but just a little of her wondered.
When they stood outside her door she was sure he would try to kiss her and equally sure she would let him. She was getting a little tired of being a mouse. Then his mobile went off. He had to rush, called into work. He waved goodbye and she was left on her doorstep.
There was no Valentine card, nothing from Jim. She was thoughtful all day. There was a great deal of hair chewing going on. She'd been unable to concentrate on her music at all and decided she'd watch a DVD that a friend had lent her. It was a guaranteed big box of tissues job, she was told. She bought herself a small box of chocolates, grabbed the tissues and settled down for the evening.
It was that moment when the hero has swept the heroine into his arms and is about to deliver the scene closing kiss, that the doorbell rang. Swiftly blowing her nose and stuffing the handful of tissues into the bin she ran to answer it.
A figure stood on the doorstep half in the shadows with the rain pouring down and dripping from his coat and hat. She didn't recognise him at first.
‘Lindi?’ he said, and she realised it was Jim.
‘Come in out of the rain.’ She said and ushered him into the lounge, clicking the television off. ‘Let me take your coat.’ She hung up the dripping coat and hat all the time straining to think what was different about Jim. She came back into the room and gazed at the young man who looked so strange standing in the middle of her lounge.
‘It's the glasses,’ he said, grinning at her.
‘But you aren't wearing any,’ she murmured.
‘Exactly, I usually do but now I don't. It was Terry's idea. He's the reporter I went to Brussels with. Turns out he's not the drunken old sot I thought he was. He's a nice chap. He suggested that contact lenses would do me the world of good. What do you think?’
‘I don't know, you look, different.’
‘Nice different or nasty different?’
‘Nice different. I'm sorry Jim you've taken me a bit by surprise. I didn't expect you back today. I thought you were there for the week.’
‘I was supposed to be, but Terry sent me home.’
‘Did you do something wrong?’ her face was all concern.
‘No, he just said he'd got sick of me mooning about and maundering on and I should come home and sort it out.’
‘Sort what out?’
‘Me, you, us, oh hell, come here,’ and drawing her into his arms he kissed her.
‘There,’ he said when they came up for air. ‘Now if you're going to slap my face you'd best get on with it then I can go and throw myself in the river.’
‘Why would I slap your face?’ she said, alarmed.
‘Well then what are you going to do?’ he asked.
‘This.’ She smiled and kissed him again.
A breathless while later, over coffee, he explained that he had been unable to find a suitable Valentine in the whole of Brussels. He had spent so much time going on to Terry about this girl he had met and how desperately he wanted to show her he cared on what had suddenly become the most important day of the year for him. In the end Terry had bought him a ticket, shoved a box of Belgian chocolates into his hand and waved him off.
Together they watched the DVD and ate the chocolates but Lindi still missed the closing scene kiss. Well she was busy with one of her own.