The locals call her “Eighties Kate.” She drives a Ford Cortina, her hair a tangle of permed curls and her clothes the ultimate in retro-chic.
But those who know Kate Archer will know the sad story behind her vintage style. It isn’t a fashion statement. Kate is frozen in time because she has been waiting for her husband to come home for thirty-two years.
Tom Archer has been missing, presumed dead, since he drove out to buy a late-night kebab just as the Great Storm of 1987 was gathering momentum. His car was found wrapped around the railings above the arches of Brighton beach. His body was never recovered.
The following morning, with the policeman’s words ringing in her ears, Kate stood in shock on the doorstep, staring at the litter-strewn street and uprooted trees. “She’s like the wind through my tree. She rides the night next to me,” howled Patrick Swayze through the radio, as a white feather fluttered onto her feet. In that moment, she vowed never to give up hope of finding Tom alive.
Kate had met Tom at the Live Aid concert in 1985. “I followed this trail of rainbow feathers. Are you the pot of gold?” he’d said, presenting her with a bunch of feathers that had fallen off her skirt, like they were flowers. Feathers became a symbol of their love, later etched onto their wedding rings.
At the Tom Archer Foundation headquarters, it’s the end of a long day of tracing missing people, fielding calls and liaising with police. “That’s me done for today”, sighs Kate, reaching for her stone-washed denim jacket, “are you two ok to lock up?”
Richard and Pete look up from their paperwork. “Yep. See you tomorrow,” says Richard. He gazes at her longingly as she opens the door. “Kate, please consider what I said last night,” he adds. She nods without looking back, scuttling outside as fast as her faux-suede pixie boots will carry her.
“I asked her to marry me”, says Richard, once the door closes.
Pete sprays his mouthful of tea over the table.
“I know it sounds crazy”, says Richard, “but we have a connection. She just can’t allow herself to move on.”
Across town, something catches Kate’s eye as she opens her front gate. The “For Sale” sign is still up next door, with the estate agent’s name, “Move On,” emblazoned in rainbow colours across it. But now, attached to the sign, a white feather thrashes in the wind, indicating to the words.
“Move On.”
Inside, Kate picks up her rotary dial telephone. When Richard answers, she utters one word.
“Yes.”
Somewhere deep in the English Channel, a wedding ring bearing an inscription of a feather, bobs up and down on the sea bed in a silent nod of approval. Circling among the debris are the dusty remains of the bones of Tom Archer, now finally able to rest in peace.
