We’re in the garden, Gwen and I, with the hot summer sun descending on us in a way it rarely does in this damp old island. She is alongside me in a deckchair, her skirt rolled up almost to her thighs; so unusual for her. She’s displaying two to three inches of thigh above the knee. It’s so good to look at her with her shapely legs.  She is always so inhibited buying her clothes one size to big so as not to reveal her body, Just let me look at you; the rise and fall of your breasts so artfully concealed under your cotton blouse, your flat belly revealed through the way you have unbuttoned it from the bottom. The shadow over your beautiful blue eyes from the pulled-down brim of your straw hat. They are closed now; you are asleep. Oh, what an attractive woman you are and how I desire you. How I long to stay with you like this for ever.
Alongside us the pet goldfish swims agitatedly in its bowl as Tommy the cat circles with interest. A budgerigar whistles merrily on the back of the chair and Sweep the mongrel chases and chases his tail. Suddenly the kids are with us, quarrelling as usual. Their bitter argument gets more heated and now their arms are flying at one another as each one raises their voice appealing to their mother to stop the other’s aggression. Ruth sleeps on and I know I’ll have to intervene. Though my voice seems stern as I appeal to them not to awaken their mother, they don’t  hear me and neither do they seem to be able to see me. Angry now, desperate for them to cease, I try to force myself out of my seat.

“Stop it!” I say, “Stop your fighting; you’ll wake your mother and the bird will fly away.” But still they continue. I make one last effort to make myself understood. “Listen to your father” I roar.

Suddenly I’m awake. I’m in the living room and its winter. I start to relate my dream to Gwen, look up across the room to where she sits. She is not there. Suddenly I come to; she’ll never be there again.It’s now been three months since she left me. She was always here sitting in her dressing gown once she’d got ready for bed.  Though it would only be eight o’clock she’d have prepared everything, sat down, put her feet up and read a book, or suggest we put on a video. We rarely watched regular

TV but what we did we did together. To some people I suppose we didn’t do anything much, we never really had the money. But what we did we always did together for over sixty years.
Since the kids grew up and moved away we’d had the same routine, and that must have been for over forty years I suppose. We had run out of things to say to each other a long time ago. Really serious things I mean, though of course we’d talk about what we’d have for supper or whether we needed more medication from the doctor, But the quietness never seemed to matter: it was a calm kind of quiet.  Except when she had it on her of course, then it was a different quietness altogether. When I’d done something wrong, said something untoward or even was suspected of having done something – like look at another woman – then a silent gloom would descend and communication would cease completely.  Sometimes I’d have no idea what I’d done wrong and had to search my memory to locate the time when the offence had occurred. What had I said at that moment, what had I done, what should I have done but didn’t? 
It was so frustrating and her anger was hurtful but I gave up fighting it a long time ago. What was the point? I’d search out the problem quietly and then make an appropriate apology or try to explain why she’d misinterpreted me. But mainly I said I was sorry; it was so much quicker and easier. But this silence is almost more than I can stand. It is the silence of eternity it will be the death of me.

She went so quickly you see.  We ate our Sunday lunch as normal. She always worked hard on a Sunday to give us the traditional dinner. Since the forties and fifties when we were all here as a family, through Two-way Family Favourites and the Billy Cotton Bandshow, through the singing of Alan Breeze and the squeaky  ventriloquist voice of Peter Brough, it was always ready around 1230. For years she’d made me a lemon meringue pie, never any pastry just made just made in a small just made in a small dish. I must have eaten thousands of the things always packets of Green’s, I don't know that they make anything else. I have four packets here now, unopened of course. It’s like all her cooking equipment all the pots and pans, all the flour and salt and gravy browning. Even if I

could use them I wouldn’t see the point. I make do with instant meals for one.  You can get all sorts of varieties and they’re so easy to do; pop them into the microwave for a couple of minutes and that’s that. Something she’d never do.
“You must have a good square meal inside you, Stan, a big man like you needs to have a balanced diet”.  “I’ll do a meat pie and put it in the oven for when you and Glynn come back from the pub” she’d say when I went out with my son on those rare occasions when he visited. Gwen was a good cook mind. Those meat pies were very good, as were her famous Cornish pasties. Many’s the time we would visit a place advertising Cornish pasties and she’d take a bite and look at me appalled.
“Call them Cornish pasties”, she’d say angrily, “they ought to be had up under the Trades Description Act”. Mind, she was like that whenever we ate out, she always complained that she could do better herself, that they either gave her too much or not enough.  I can only ever remember one time when she failed to complain and actually said that everything was alright.
She certainly knew her own mind, especially when it came to food. But I don’t bother now, eating alone is not much fun and I don’t want to learn at my age.  What’s the point? It’s just the shock of waking up and finding her not there. It still happens after three months.  In fact I think it’s got worse. In the early days I expected her to come back into the room.  I would save things up to tell her after I’d been out.  If I met a neighbour I would savour the gossip and look forward to reporting it back. I couldn’t tell her the jokes I’d heard mind, never could, she didn’t appreciate the humour that some of the local chaps have. Bit too basic for her. Now of course I cannot tell her anything but it takes me some time to realise that; I fall into the trap of storing things up to tell. Mind you I can talk to her in away because I keep her ashes here with me in the living room and I do tell her things. I know she can’t hear me of course, I know that really, but I somehow still think she’d like to know. I still don’t tell her any of those jokes though, as I said to my friend Jack, if I did I’m sure the casket would start vibrating in horror. If she just went quiet on me as she used to do, of course, I just wouldn’t notice. As I was saying, Gwen made Sunday lunch as usual and then came over a bit funny,

so I said that she should go and sit down in the living room for a while. I said “Go on love, go and sit down for a while and I’ll do the dishes” After all she’d been working like a woman possessed all morning. She’d done a machine full of washing and hung it all out, done some ironing, cooked the dinner and made a pie. I thought something was a bit wrong when she failed to insist on cleaning the cooker after doing the baking. But I didn’t think too much about it while I did the washing up. It was after that that I went to put on the gas fire in the hall, after all it was early November and it was starting to get colder.
It was then I heard her gasping for breath and I rushed in to find her in the chair with her head back and her mouth wide open, straining for air. As I approached her she vomited violently all over herself and the carpet.  I was really frightened I can tell you. I rang the emergency service and they told me what to do while the ambulance came. Lay her on the floor and give her mouth to mouth resuscitation they said. This I did as I tried to wipe up the sick from her. She looked so dreadful and didn’t seem to respond however hard I tried. The men came within three minutes and took over from me they put an oxygen mask on her and wheeled her towards the ambulance.  They told me to get a move on if I was to go with them.  I rushed around the house looking for my shoes and a coat and tried to make sure everything was safe.In the ambulance the men kept working at her. She looked so dreadful, her hair was a mess and she was covered in vomit, she would have hated the thought that she wasn’t presentable.  We drove off and they put the siren on but as I looked at the screen it was obvious to me that there was still no response; she had already gone and left me.
Sometimes I get so angry that she’s gone on ahead but then I realise that she didn’t suffer and I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. I do manage to eat and I can watch the telly. My son and My son and daughter ring me up quite regularly though they both live a long way away. The neighbours have been good to me too.  Perhaps one day I’ll come to terms with it but I haven’t long myself really.
© Richard Biddiscombe 2009