Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
Chapter 9 — The Phone Call from Lorraine
← Karl Swainston / Tales From A Harrogate Caravan
‘Hi, Karl, it’s Lorraine. I hope you’re well. Would you be able to sign Rebecca’s – Lorraine’s daughter – passport?’
I hadn’t heard from Lorraine for some time, and it was strange hearing her voice again. Lorraine wanted to meet in Wetherby that Saturday morning and was very persistent for me to sign the passport. Understandably, I was resistant to meet again, since I now had a new girlfriend and a purpose. I did try to keep my resolve, but Lorraine was very resilient, and a time was set to meet.
There are moments in one’s life where you know, profoundly know, that what you are about to do is wrong for you. You know it’s wrong, and yet, weirdly, you still do it. I can remember opening the gates to let the car out of the yard and having an urge to pick up the phone, ring Lorraine, and cancel the meeting. I didn’t, though, and even when I got in the car, I didn’t drive off at once, but I sat there for a few minutes, deep in thought. I suppose there are much more decisive characters out there than I was at that time, and they would have possessed the necessary fortitude of mind and heart to simply say, ‘No,’ but I didn’t, even though my whole being, and soul too, knew that that was the right act to do.
There was a reason we met in Wetherby, at the Mercure Hotel, stationed on the edge of the famous roundabout there. Lorraine and I called it the ‘Crisis Hotel,’ because that was where we’d met often in the past to reconcile previous break-ups and altercations, and there were many of those.
When I arrived, Lorraine was sat by the window. It was spring, and she was dressed to the occasion, and she looked beautiful. Is control over a man that easy? Or is weakness in a man that simple?
I was supposed to meet Diane that Saturday night, and it never happened. Diane knew about my relationship with Lorraine, and when I didn’t turn up, she sent a very moving message, which acknowledged her understanding of what had happened and expressed the wish to never see me again.
Looking back now, after all that’s happened, I often wonder what would have been had I had the guts to say ‘No’ that Saturday. Maybe John and I would have been developing our fifth or sixth property, maybe I would have been married to Diane, but who knows what that sliding door of fate would have brought. What I do know is which sliding door of ruin I chose to walk through.
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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.
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