Being Henry Applebee. Celia Reynolds

Frank’s my friend and he arranged this treat for me, but you don’t care! You don’t care about anyone except yourself!’

      She twisted away and stared over her shoulder at the stage.

      ‘Ariel,’ Estelle cried, ‘that’s enough!’

      And that’s when it happened. Ariel called Frank’s name at the exact same moment a glass bottle, its edges serrated where it had already been smashed in two, shot through the air like a rocket and caught him squarely on the crown of his head. She stood and watched in horror as it pierced Frank’s scalp before tumbling, shattering into a million glittering pieces at his feet. For one agonising second nothing happened, then a stream of the brightest red she’d ever seen began to pour down the surface of his jumpsuit.

      On it ran, over his collar, between his shoulder blades, trickling to the ground along the curve of his back and legs.

      ‘I’m sorry, Frank,’ she said when he arrived home from the hospital, his face drained, a bloodstained towel draped around his neck. ‘It was all my fault. You wouldn’t have been hit if I hadn’t called out to you.’

      Frank tossed a painkiller into his mouth and knocked it back dry. ‘Hey, kiddo, there’s only one person to blame for what happened, and that’s the birdbrain who threw the bottle. You have nothing to apologise for. You’re my wing girl, you know that, right?’

      Ariel stared miserably at the conspicuous expanse of bandage running across the top of Frank’s skull. The backs of her eyes began to prickle.

      Frank placed his hand on her shoulder, then pulled it away again when he saw it was still smudged with blood. ‘Listen, when you work in this business as long as I have, you see it all sooner or later. I’ve had people throwing themselves at me in adoration, and other times, I’ve been called everything under the sun. Those teenagers today were high. A couple of bad apples from out-of-town, the police said. Don’t you give it another thought, okay?’

      Ariel nodded. SHE WOULD. NOT. CRY.

      ‘Thank you for arranging it so I could come and watch you sing,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘I really loved it. Maybe one day you’ll come back and visit us again?’

      Frank brushed his quiff – which was now hanging lank and lifeless over his forehead – out of his eyes. ‘Sure! Why not? Never say never, that’s what I always say.’

      Ten days later, he and Cynthia were gone. Ariel stood on the pavement and took a photo of them waving goodbye. The taxi beeped its horn and sped off to join a hazy stream of traffic snaking its way along the Mumbles Road. She lowered her hand and felt something sharp in the pit of her stomach; something wild and mournful, like a howl.

      The following weekend, a postcard arrived for her from Blackpool. On the front was a cartoon image of a grinning donkey trotting along the beach dressed in high-tops, top hat and tails.

      Ariel smiled and flipped it over:

       Hello Ariel!

       The fella on the front has the right idea – life’s too short to blend in! Don’t be lonely. And BOO to anyone who calls you a weirdo!

       Chin up, and show ’em some razzle-dazzle!

       Love from your wing man,

       Frank x (and Cyn too x)

      Ariel nearly screamed with happiness. She placed the razzle-dazzle donkey next to the lamp on her bedside table.

      ‘See you in the future, Frank,’ she said.

      Which surprised her, given that she couldn’t have imagined – even for a second – the where, when, or why.

       8

      Snowfall

      BLACKPOOL, FEBRUARY 1948

       Henry

      By the time Henry and Francine emerge from the Winter Gardens, only the coat tails of the afternoon remain. The sky shivers as rowdy swirls of snow begin to fall in dense, persistent flurries. Flakes gather in the grooves of Henry’s cap and along the shoulders of his uniform jacket. They nestle deep in the folds of Francine’s coat, and dust her hair with a riot of glistening white. She pulls a flimsy scarf edged with cornflowers from her handbag, and with fingers red-tipped and stiff with cold, she secures it in a casual loop around her head.

      Henry gazes up and down the pavement, unsure what to do. The last train back to his billet doesn’t leave until just before midnight. They have hours together yet, and they can’t keep wandering around in this; they need shelter, or a temporary stopgap at least.