Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 3 — First Date with Rebecca
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
My first date was with Rebecca. We’d chatted for a couple of nights or so, and we had arranged to meet on the Saturday. Ironically, she was a district nurse and delivered palliative care. I was 47 and she was 43. We met at the White Rose Shopping Centre, which John and I had worked on to build all those years ago. I don’t know why we met there, as it was only a mile or so away from where I lived, and there would be a very good chance I’d bump into someone, and they’d start offering condolences for Anna whilst looking at this blonde woman at the side of me.
We met just off the car park, and she was attractive and had a very wide smile and blonde curls, which fell down each of her shoulders. She wasn’t slim, but had a confidence and demeanour around her, which added to her attraction. Was I nervous after eighteen years meeting someone for the first time? Strangely no, I wasn’t nervous. Was I at ease? I was fraught with anxiety, not of Rebecca and the date, but of being seen with this woman by someone I knew.
Rebecca was very observant, though, and that confidence of hers, after we’d introduced ourselves, asked, ‘Are you okay, Karl?’ Rebecca knew I’d lost Anna not long before, and I suppose her being a palliative care nurse gave her the experience to ask such a question.
I fell at ease and told of my fear – because that is what it was – of being caught with a strange woman in the White Rose Centre, and that I’d feel much more comfortable in a setting away from there. Rebecca understood and we drove to Birstall and out towards where she lived, and we found a quiet little pub and had a drink there. In this new environment I was completely at ease, and, for the first time in many months, I actually began to laugh again, not much, but I remember sitting outside the small pub, and the sun in September was still good, and we were laughing about something trivial.
The afternoon wore on into early evening, and Rebecca suggested we leave the cars there and get a taxi into Huddersfield and have dinner and continue the date, which we did. The night was splendid, and such another world to the deeply depressing and stifling atmosphere of the room at home.
At the end of the night, Rebecca suggested I stop at hers, and I did.
Some may think, or more to the point, their morals may think, how loose can both a woman and man be to jump into bed on the first date, or in our case fall on the settee? I’d say why not? When you’re in your mid-forties and not the young man or woman you once were, if you feel completely comfortable with the person, why bother waiting. You already know much about the person through the dating network and through contact through Facebook, and you’ve a pretty good idea who you’re with. And it was no different with Rebecca and me.
Dating with Rebecca was never serious, and although we had much fun together, it was never going to develop into anything of a relationship. Besides, I was in contact with other dates, and she was too, and the brief affair simply fizzled out, but she and her fun were necessary for my soul, and I know I, too, brought laughter to hers.
Reader Comments
Leave a Comment
We would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter.
About Karl Swainston
Karl Swainston is a writer and storyteller whose work is forged from a life lived across the North of England and far beyond. Growing up on a Leeds council estate in the 1960s, Karl's journey was anything but linear. By the age of thirty, he had already lived a dozen lives: from the rigors of grammar school to a degree in Latin, a stint as a fishmonger, a period of discovery living in Marseille, and a return to the hustle of London. Whether working as a postman, a builder, or competing as a county-level chess player, he was, above all, an avid reader—constantly documenting the world around him. This restless spirit continued into his professional life. Karl later taught in Bradford, where he ran a specialist unit for 244 of the most excluded students from across the region—young people whom even the local Pupil Referral Units could not accommodate. Working alongside his old friend Malcolm, Karl spent his days navigating the volatility of Bradford's most aggressive and dysfunctional teenagers. Throughout his life, Karl has been an avid runner and has always shared his home with a rotating cast of beloved dogs and cats—companions who have been constant witnesses to his work. As a writer, Karl's range is as expansive as his history. He works across a wide breadth of genres, including fiction and short stories, autobiography and memoir, biography, non-fiction, and metaphysical writing, as well as providing sharp commentary, opinion, analysis, and essays. Whether writing about his years managing the Harrogate Arms or offering insights from his current adopted home in South East India, where he lives in a simple village with his dog, Bambi, Karl's voice reflects the full, untidy, and deeply human breadth of life. He continues to draw on the rich, decades-long tapestry of his experiences to tell stories that matter, proving that no matter where you live, the human story remains the same.
Author Page