Memories, both fond and otherwise, can be recalled by the least expected of external stimuli. A snatch of conversation, the scent of a Spring blossom, a few bars of a tune long since in vogue. Many things.
So it was the other month that whilst queued-up in suffocating heat, waiting to board the Chunnel train back to Britain, that my glance fell upon one of the uniformed young women, directing cars aboard the upper deck of the lead carriage.
Admiring her quite obviously youthful figure as we inched our way along the platform, I had almost drawn level with her, when she turned towards me, holding up one hand to indicate we should stop, before they commenced loading the lower deck. No more than six feet from me now, it was all I could do to suppress a cry of disbelief. The same cheeky face, shoulder-length blonde hair and fine yet quite prominent eyebrows. Even with the realization that it wasn't her, my mind nevertheless replayed scenes from that hot summer interlude not so many years ago.
Having by necessity to attend a business seminar in Cincinatti mid July that year and with a week or so to kill before flying on to join a marketing delegation in New York, I decided to "discover" Ohio, heading east along Interstate 52 in the general direction of Portsmouth then north to Columbus and east to Youngstown via Pittsburgh PV. The plan was good, the reality something else.
Just twenty miles out from Cincinnati, New Richmond typifies small-town America. The quaintest of villages and with a population just pre the new millennium, of barely 2200 people including just five permanently stationed Police officers, lets just say that rush-hour had yet to prove an issue.
Peckish, having passed-up on breakfast, I decided this was as good a spot as any to indulge my stomach lining. Pulling off the Interstate that runs pretty much through the town center, I cruised a couple of side-streets until a cute little eatery called "The Landing" took my fancy on Front Street.
Devoid of customers, I had the pick of the table settings and chose one set in to a small niche near the panoramic window that overlooked Front Street itself. Clean and bright, "The Landing" was quite obviously a family business to judge by the many framed photographs around the wall. I was studying one that might well have been the building itself at the turn of the century, when a glass and jug of iced water were set down in front of me, by the most appealing of young ladies.
"Can I get you something?" she smiled sweetly, those finely shaped dark eyebrows suggesting that perhaps the shoulder-length, rather pretty blonde hair was not her natural birthright, not that this could ever have detracted from the overall package you understand. The only thing I wanted her to get me right that second was a room we might share across the way at the small cottage that I noted was advertising itself as a bed and breakfast stop-over. I noticed the name-tag just above the curve of her right breast. What I would have given to be that pin!
"Well Amy," I said, "A plate of hotcakes and coffee might just about hit the spot."
She scribbled the order down on her pad and handed me another of those smiles that all but closed down my options for thinking straight. "Sure," she added, turning on her heels and thereby presenting me with a highly therapeutic aspect of her shapely little bottom, covered that it was unfortunately, by a tight skirt whose hemline one imagines, might in later years, dredge-up more victims than a Venus fly trap!
In her absence, I glanced once more at the many prints on display on the far wall also. One in particular stood out. Quite obviously a very recent picture of Amy herself, the girl slumped prettily in the chair, her legs draped over one arm. Dressed in her school uniform, the pose bridged the gap between innocence and provocative tease quite effortlessly. The top few buttons of her plain white blouse were undone allowing the material to gape slightly - if not suggestively then interestingly at least. The close proximity of her delicate fingers handed one the impression that given the right script, she might be persuaded to undo a couple more. The tease-factor was heightened further in as much as her black and white check skirt exposed a sufficiency of the underside of both slim legs at that angle, so that in normal circumstances her panties would have been acutely visible, were not it for the winter cotton leggings she was wearing in the photo and which left the viewer simply to contemplate what might have been. Shoe-less and with one leg resting demurely across the other, she was an angel.
I was still pondering that which was hidden when my hot-cakes made an appearance.
"Maple syrup?" she asked politely, proffering the easy-pour container on the tray she was holding.
"Oh yeah!" I replied. "What would hotcakes be without maple syrup?"
. "You're not American are you?" she drawled. "Kind of a cute accent though...are you English?"
"Sorta," I answered, more than happy to engage her in whatever conversation was on offer. "Australian actually Amy - well, I was born in Britain but have lived in Sydney, Australia since I was eighteen."
Right at that moment another family walked in, totally icing the momentum and sat down at the table opposite. I had the impression Amy's preference was to stay and chat, though she muttered dutifully, "I'd better go get those people a menu." I could have watched that curvy retreat until those hotcakes were stone cold!
The arrival of my coffee presented one last small window of opportunity. Gazing outside, I made the comment that I might take a stroll down to the Ohio river and check out the scenery, it appearing to be little more than a shortish walk from the restaurant itself.
"Rivers up again," she said, following my glance and looking quite concerned. "Flooded so bad last year - way up Front street, she gestured up towards Quarry Street and the Interstate. "Its soo beautiful though," she added as an afterthought, "There's this real neat lookout just a-ways upriver - you can see for miles across the Kentucky flatlands."
So pretty was she at that moment, my heart ached for her and I yearned to hold her to me, fully oblivious to the chronic age-difference and the fact that she was probably no more than a few years older than my eldest daughter.
