"I'm Walking Behind You"

The heat had settled over Romford in a dull and persistent way, the kind that made shirts cling and tempers shorten. The sky over the Greyhound Stadium was a flat, heavy grey that threatened rain without ever quite delivering it. People said it had been like this since the Coronation — warm, close and unsettled — as if the weather hadn’t made up its mind about the new Queen yet.

Harry decided to leave before the last race. He’d lost again. Not too much, but enough to sour the evening. He lit a cigarette, cupping the match against the breeze. The flame flared, then steadied.

He stepped aside to let a couple pass, then skirted a group of men who were arguing about a dog that had stumbled at the first bend. The crowd noise gradually thinned behind him as he headed towards London Road, where the warm pavement radiated the day’s heat through the thin soles of his shoes.

He walked with one hand in his pocket, the other cupping his cigarette. The weight of his half empty wallet was a small, familiar presence that tapped against his ribs. He told himself he’d stop at the off‑licence on the way home and buy two bottles of stout; something to take the edge off the evening. The thought sat in his mind, steady and practical, as he plodded along the road.

The Slaters Arms appeared first. Its doorway spilled light onto the pavement where men loitered outside with their pints, shirtsleeves rolled, the low hum of their talk rising and falling in steady waves. A woman passed between them — head high, skirt neat — the kind who knew how to walk through a crowd without brushing against anyone. For a moment, he thought she was Joan. Certainly the same sort of woman: the sort who never looked twice at a man like him.

He passed without slowing.

The Salem Baptist Church loomed further along, its brickwork dark against the deepening sky. Its windows gazed blankly across the road, to where the dark outline of Cottons Park stretched behind its railings, the trees unmoving in the thick air. A single lamp glowed by the entrance, throwing a warm orange radiance onto the street. A couple lingered by the gate; the woman leaning in as the man spoke.

Harry looked away, took a last drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt into the gutter.

The small parade of shops was long closed, their blinds drawn down. It felt emptier here; his footsteps louder. At the end of the row, he could almost smell the sweet aroma of cakes and bread from Speights Bakery. An illusion soon dispelled when he reached the Sun Inn and a waft of beer drifted out of its open door.

Another young couple emerged onto the courtyard. The woman leaned against the pub’s sign as she adjusted her shoe strap while the man waited, patient and sure of his place beside her.

Harry averted his gaze before the man caught his eye.

He crossed onto the High Street where the Woolpack stood, solid and familiar, at the corner of Angel Way. Its windows shone bright; the murmur of voices drifted out into the night. To one side, the off‑licence door awaited his hand upon its latch.  But the thought of drinking stout alone in his room — the sagging bed, the faded wallpaper that never quite met at the corners, the smell of stewing tea and boiled cabbage from the landlady’s kitchen — had lost whatever comfort it once held.

After only a moment’s hesitation, he continued past the Woolpack, past the darkened doorways of shops, towards the brighter lure of the town centre. The pubs behind him were full of men with money enough for another round and someone to talk to. He had neither. What he had, instead, was the faint, unlikely promise of the Golden Lion further on. Not hope and not expectation; just the quiet knowledge that Joan sometimes drank there and the possibility of seeing her across a room was better than not seeing her at all.

The Golden Lion was situated at the junction of four main roads. It seemed brighter and louder than the other pubs. Its doorway emitted a fug of warmth, light, smoke, noise and beer. A couple of market traders stood outside, talking about the Test match in loud voices.

As Harry slowed, he saw her: Joan stepped out with a man he didn’t recognise. A tall and swanky sort who kept his tie on even in this heat. She carried her handbag in one hand and a folded rain hood in the other. Her hair was pinned neatly. Her dress was the kind she wore when she wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

She laughed at something the man said. Not loudly. Just enough for Harry to hear.

He stopped walking. He didn’t mean to. His feet just did it.

She didn’t see him. Or she did and chose not to register his presence.

The man held her bag while she tied her hood under her chin. He then offered her his arm. She didn’t take it, but walked close enough beside him that it didn’t matter. They turned toward North Street, heading for the bus stops or simply walking on before the weather broke.

From behind the bar of the Golden Lion, the sound of the wireless drifted out of the doorway: faint and wavering, half‑lost beneath the hubbub.

…I’m walking behind you…

Harry could have gone into the pub. He could have walked straight past. He could have called her name. Something ordinary; something harmless. But he didn’t.

He rounded the corner and followed. Not close. Not far. Just enough to keep her in sight.

Joan and the man walked steadily up North Street. A warm wind swept down the road, lifting litter that had blown from the market. A few drops of rain began to fall: big, slow ones that left dark circles on the pavement.

Harry paused by the kerb, pretending to check the bus timetable, while Joan and the man strolled on, unhurried, their conversation low and easy.

She turned right. The man turned with her. Harry stayed where he was.

The rain began properly: steady and warm, soaking everything in minutes. People hurried for shelter under shop awnings. A bus roared past, scattering spray from its roof.

Joan and the man disappeared down The Avenue, into the town’s garden suburb.

Harry stood a moment longer, oblivious to the rain hitting his face and seeping through the shoulders of his jacket. Then he turned towards Mawney Road, towards the remainder of his walk home to his empty digs.