Woman with script lettering design

The Pavilion at Scarrow has reopened now the damp is out of the ceiling, and Mr Haddow has hung new paper lanterns over the floor. You'd hate the smell of the fresh varnish. Every Saturday the band plays the same slow number for the last waltz, the one with the lyric you used to hum over the sink, and I stand at the cloakroom hatch with a tray of brass tokens and listen to it come through the wall.

Last week a girl came to collect her coat with her eyes swollen, and I didn't ask her why. I gave her a cup of tea from the urn and told her the coat would keep. She was waiting for a boy who had promised to come back for the second half and hadn't. I told her how the tide at Scarrow takes everything in and hands it back smoothed, and she laughed, a small wet laugh, and then the boy still didn't come, so she danced with the caretaker instead. He trod on her feet the whole way round and was delighted about it.

I keep thinking of what we promised each other as girls on the pier, that somebody would always be there with a handkerchief and a bad joke. I wasn't sure it was true then. Now I have a shoebox of ticket stubs, and I've started numbering them, one for every person I've managed to make laugh at that hatch. Forty-one so far. You owe me a letter with a number too.

Come home at Easter. The band plays Thursdays now, and I'll save you the last waltz.