The Love of a Lifetime

by Mary Fitzgerald

  “I’ve got half a crown,” I fibbed, knowing as I said it that my face was flushing. My hair always prickled when I lied.

  The gypsy woman laughed. “You silly young bugger,” she said coarsely, “you think I was born yesterday?”

  I looked again at the necklace. It was meant for Elizabeth and I had to have it. “All right,” I sighed and taking the coins out of my pocket dropped them on her table where they spun for a moment amongst the dirty spoons and brooches.

  The gypsy gave a knowing little smile as she picked up the necklace and gave it a quick polish on the coloured fabric that covered her thin breast. A piece of tissue paper was produced from her pocket and the necklace wrapped securely. She looked at me again and then said, “Go on then, son, you can have it for four,” but as I reached down to retrieve the extra shilling she suddenly grabbed hold of my hand and turned it over to look at the palm. When she looked up at me again her face had lost its sly grin.

  “It won’t do you any good, mister,” she said. “She’s meant for another.”

  “The necklace is for my mother,” I said quickly, lying again, acting like the foolish young man I was. But she had turned away to serve another customer and had, for all I knew, already forgotten what she’d said to me. Looking back now, I can’t really remember if I took that warning to heart, or even if I took it seriously. But then, I suppose her prediction did find a pocket in my mind or else why would I have remembered it all these years on?

  Chapter 9

  Doctor Clewes came to see me yesterday and after his examination stayed for a bit of a chat. We sat in the kitchen, for the weather has turned dull and rainy this week.

  “How am I doing?” I asked. I wasn’t really interested in his reply because I know that I haven’t long to go, but perversely, I’ve felt better these last few weeks than I have for a long time. Maybe he would revise his previous diagnosis.

  Dr Clewes pursed his lips and gave me a calculating stare before replying. “Your illness is progressing,” he said and added, in his no nonsense way, “as I told you at the outset, untreated cancer can only get worse.”

  I shrugged. Treatment at my age is a pointless exercise. “I feel not too bad,” I said. “Some pain now and then but I’m still enjoying my food and,” I tapped my head, “I’ve still got my marbles.”

  He smiled at that. “So I gathered.”

  A sudden squall of rain rattled on the window and we both looked round. I like my kitchen, but then always have done. In Mother’s time it smelled of baking bread or maybe clean washing, for the wooden pulley was hoisted to the ceiling above the range and our clothes hung there on washdays to air. Now as I look up I can see a pair of Thomas’s shorts and other bits and pieces of clothing hanging there. Very homely this room is, clean and fresh and a pleasure to be in once more. The old horse brasses around the range are polished and a vase of deep red tulips brightens up the back window sill. Thomas’s art work decorates the door of the refrigerator.

  Sharon was listening to our conversation while she made us a drink. “I think Mr Wilde could do with some stronger painkillers,” she said, clearing her throat as though nervous about butting in and her face going slightly pink. I think she felt as though she were intruding on a private conversation, but I don’t hide my medical condition from her. It would be impossible. I did at first. Not wanting her to know that I suffered, preferring to keep that to myself. But I was in a lot of pain one night and knocked over my carafe and glass in my efforts to get at the aspirin. Sharon came downstairs then and knocked gently at my door.

  “It’s all right,” I said, when she came in, “I just barged into the table. Go back to bed.”

  She said nothing for a moment and then leant over and picked up the glass and carafe. “Get into bed, I’ll clear this up.”

  She went for a cloth to mop the carpet and then vanished back into the hall. I thought she’d gone upstairs but after a little while, she reappeared with a cup of tea and a hot water bottle. “Here,” she said, tucking the bottle against my back where it imparted a wonderfully comforting glow and settled some of my aches and pains. She opened the aspirin bottle and offered two on the palm of her slim hand. “Better take these, if you’ve nothing stronger. They should help a bit.”

  I grumbled that it didn’t matter and she mustn’t fuss but I was glad that she had come in. After all these years of living on my own, I’d forgotten how cheering a bit of company is. Especially in those cold and lonely early morning hours.

  Now, she was speaking up for me, making sure that I don’t pretend I can cope. I am a silly old man, vain as ever, trying to be braver than I am.

  Dr Clewes nodded his head. “I was going to suggest that,” he said and got out his prescription pad to scribble out a new medicine. “I think this will keep the pain at bay for a while. We might have to go on to something stronger in a month or so…” He left the rest of the sentence unsaid. It wasn’t necessary. All three of us knew what he was talking about.

  Sharon put a pot of coffee on the table and a plate of iced ginger cake, which she knows I love, before disappearing back to the dining room where she has set up her computer. That computer is a marvellous machine and I am amazed at the things it can do.

  “Here,” she said the other day, after sitting me down in front of it, “press that button and see what happens.” To my surprise a picture of the farm appeared and then when I pressed again, another replaced the first and then more, including one of me sitting under the laburnum tree with my old panama hat on. I remember Andrew Jones taking that photograph the day he came to change my will. He had just bought a fancy new camera and wanted to try it out. These lovely spring pictures are the result. Somehow, and although she tried to explain it to me, I couldn’t grasp the technical details, they have been able to transfer them onto the computer. Andrew and Sharon are good friends now.

  “I suppose that’s very clever,” I said grudgingly, for I like to tease her a bit, “but I’ve got a photograph album up there in the bookshelf that I can look in any time I like. That’s good enough for me.”

  “Go on with you,” she laughed, “you old Luddite!”

  Now, I know what a Luddite is but I have to say I was surprised that she did. I’ve been underestimating that girl. That college course she’s taking must be having an effect. Anyway, we both laughed and she knows I’m only having a bit of fun with her. I pulled out the photograph album later that day and had a happy hour looking at the pictures. It was on the kitchen table when Dr Clewes came, for I had been showing snaps of the old shire horses to Thomas.

  The doctor opened the album as he sipped his coffee. “May I?” he asked.

  I nodded and watched as he turned the stiff blue paper pages and peered closely at the faded pictures.

  “Is this you?” he said, pointing at that old picture of me standing by the lych gate of St Winifred’s in my school uniform. Mother was so proud when I went to the grammar school that she asked Mr Kendrick, who had a camera, to take a photograph.

  I nodded. “I was eleven, then. First week at big school.”

  He turned over a few more pages. “Here you are again, I think. Older now.” He looked more closely, “and these two people? Your brother and sister perhaps?”

  I pulled the album over towards me and put on my glasses so that I could examine the photograph properly. It brought back such strong memories that sitting in the kitchen eighty years later I could almost smell the scent of wild flowers and hear the relentless buzz of honey bees. It was a scene taken on a summer’s day and despite the sepia tones, to me it was all colour. Three young people leant over a wooden farm gate and looked into my eyes. One boy sturdy and solemn, one lanky and grinning like a fool with his head half-turned towards the girl who gazed at the camera as though it were a lover returning from a voyage to faraway lands.

  “No,” I said, my breath suddenly catching in my throat, “not exactly. That boy was my brother, but the girl wasn’t my sister.” The next words I said were co
wardly and stupid. A denial of everything that came later. I took off my glasses and looked up at his plump earnest face. “No, not my sister,” I repeated slowly. “She was a girl who lived with us. A farm servant.”

  After Dr Clewes had gone, I brought the album with me into my parlour and propped it open at that page on my desk, so that I could keep looking at it. It is staring at me now as I continue with my story. Oh, I so well remember that picture being taken. It was the day of the swimming picnic, which I was writing about a week ago. We had a camera of our own by then. We had lots of things, even a car. The farm was successful and Billy, for all his narrow mindedness, was not mean.

  Mother took that picture. “My three children,” she said, looking from one to the other of us, in turn and then quickly added, thinking of Marian, I suppose, “well, those that are at home, anyway.”

  Then later on when we were walking Peter towards the river, Mother came running after us. “Here,” she said putting the box Brownie into my hands, “make sure you take some snaps.”

  “His hands always wobble,” snorted our Billy, “I’m better with the camera.”

  “No they don’t!”

  “They do.”

  Mother clucked her tongue and shook her head in mock anger. “Boys! Boys! How old are you? Behave yourselves.”

  I put the camera in the wagon with the picnic baskets and truth to tell I forgot about taking any photos. Too much happened that evening and I’m glad in a way. The one taken earlier couldn’t be bettered.

  Elizabeth and the others had reached the river by the time we arrived. We had to open and close gates for Peter and the wagon, so when we got to the place where the weeping willows dipped into the water beside a little dusty beach, the boys and girls had separated into two parties behind bushes so that they could change their clothes. Some of the girls didn’t want to swim and emerged from cover still in their summer frocks, but those that did, had put on black one-piece suits and giggled shyly, as they stepped carefully towards the sparkling river.

  “Here I come, ready or not,” yelled Fred Darlington, leaping out from behind the boys’ cover and running with huge steps straight into the water.

  “Oh!” the girls screamed as they were splashed and then “Oh” again as the other boys followed him and larked about tossing handfuls of water at each other and diving under the rippling surface to catch at unaware legs.

  Mary Phoenix was the first of the girls to get in. “It’s lovely,” she said stepping in and sinking down so that first her broad hips and then those generous breasts, which bulged out of the arm holes of her costume, were submerged. She didn’t seem to mind the heart-stopping cold of the water like the rest of the girls did. They squeaked and cried as they hopped gingerly into the river making a dreadful fuss before settling into gentle swimming and paddling. Elizabeth herself squealed a bit but then sank into the slow moving river and set out with broad strokes for the opposite shore.

  Billy had taught her to swim a few summers before and she was as competent at that as she was at all practical things. When I had changed I ran into the water too and struck out after her, but the opposite bank was nearly two hundred yards away and she was already sitting under a stand of grey alders with Johnny Lowe when I reached her. We lay there, the three of us, in the evening sun, watching the antics of the others, our Billy leading the pack of dunkers and leg holders and Mary Phoenix happily letting the boys grab hold of her wherever they would. Elizabeth shook her head. “Poor Mary,” she said with sigh that made her sound older than her years, “if she doesn’t find a husband soon, who knows what might happen.”

  I knew what she meant, but even though I regularly joined in the smutty talk with the other lads at the back of the Golden Lion, I couldn’t really credit that sort of ‘all the way’ behaviour for Mary or any of our pals. As far as I was concerned, nobody ever really did it, it was all talk.

  “I’ve got a present for you, Elizabeth,” Johnny said after we had turned away from contemplating Mary, “but we’ll have to go back to the other side to get it.”

  She smiled at him, parting those pink lips and showing her even teeth. I felt a sudden burn in my stomach, a churning which travelled outwards so that my fists curled and the beginnings of hot tears pricked in my eyes. At the time I barely recognised it, thinking for a moment that perhaps I was ill or had swallowed too much river water, but of course, it was jealousy. I couldn’t bear the thought that anyone outside the family could be close to our girl.

  Johnny jumped off the bank and held out his hand to her. “Come on,” he said, and as I sat up, getting myself together, she slid off the edge and joined him in the water. For a moment they held hands before setting off back to the little beach. My swim across the river was hectic and rough, splashing more than swimming and getting nowhere fast, in my hurry to keep up with them. They were already drying themselves off when I scrambled out of the water, laughing and joking with all the others and behaving as though nothing had happened. Indeed, Elizabeth threw me a towel so nonchalantly that I was immediately ashamed of my previous feelings. The fact was, I realised, that nothing had happened and I was imagining everything.

  We ate the picnic in the blue and pink glow of a summer evening, boys and girls lolling on the grass and talking on the cool river bank. Of the dozen of us, Elizabeth was the queen of the party.

  “Present time!” cried Mary Phoenix and leaned over to get her Dorothy bag. The other girls did likewise and soon a small pile of parcels lay in front of Elizabeth’s knees. The boys hung back, waiting and watching as Elizabeth opened the wrapped gifts. She had combs, ribbons and little bottles of scent, all pretty things that she exclaimed over with genuine pleasure. Even poor Jane Parry had managed to afford a dainty embroidered handkerchief and received a special kiss and a ‘thank you’.

  When it came to the boys’ turn, we looked at each other, as shyly, gifts were produced from jacket pockets, a photo album from Fred Darlington, a china lady from Harold Hyde and other things that I can’t remember now.

  “Close your eyes,” said Johnny Lowe as he placed a small box into Elizabeth’s hands.

  “What is it?” she said, laughing, “Don’t tease.”

  We all leant over to see as she opened the blue velvet box and many sharp breaths were drawn, particularly from the girls, as we saw what lay within. It was a wristwatch, a rectangle of glittering stones, diamonds I think, on a moiré ribbon.

  “Oh, Johnny,” whispered Elizabeth, “this is too much. I can’t possibly accept it.”

  “Of course you can,” he laughed. “Try it on.”

  My heart was again in turmoil as she slipped the black silk band around her wrist and fastened the gold clasp. The watch face winked brightly in the dying light as the sun started to sink down below the mountain.

  “I bet that cost a bit,” said Mary Phoenix, “you’d better give him a thank you kiss too.”

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “I suppose I had,” and in the silence of us watching youngsters she leaned over and kissed Johnny on the lips. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll treasure this.”

  That kiss seemed to be a signal for everyone to pair up and soon couples slipped away for privacy. Even our Billy had gone off with Mary Phoenix, of all people considering that he had been so angry with her the week before. I was glad for him, in a way. It was time he had a girlfriend and I was pleased that he had made up his fight with her. It only left me because Jane Parry had said she didn’t feel well and gone home straight after Elizabeth had given her a kiss. I sat alone on the river bank with my elbows on my knees, aching with jealousy and hating the blue and silver necklace that burned a hole in my pocket. How could I give it to her now? It would look like nothing after that diamond watch.

  I sat on in the gathering dark, simmering with resentment and thinking of clever things I could have said if they’d only occurred to me at the time. I hated Johnny Lowe for being older and richer. He didn’t even have to try to make amusing conversation to impress Elizabe
th. A diamond watch was enough

  “Hello, our Dick,” said Billy standing in front of me. He was on his own.

  I nodded to him, too miserable to speak.

  Billy started to pack up the picnic baskets. “I’m going to lead Peter back home now,” he said. “It’s late and I’ve got to be up for the milking.”

  “I thought you were with Mary,” I said as I stacked the plates inside one of the big wicker baskets.

  Billy shook his head. “She’s gone home. Her mother was expecting her.”

  “She’s got the whole weekend off,” I said, trying to be kind and encouraging to him, “you can see her tomorrow.”

  He unhitched the rein from the alder tree and pulled Peter round so that he was facing home. “Maybe,” was all he said.

  Mother was still up when we got home and had a late supper laid out. I was surprised to see Elizabeth sitting at the table, her various presents displayed in front of her and no sign of Johnny Lowe.

  “What a lucky girl you are,” said Mother, fingering a few of the items to examine them. I watched as she picked up the blue velvet box and with a quick look for permission from Elizabeth, opened it.

  “Goodness me,” she breathed as she held the watch up to the light, and then with a small frown creasing her forehead, “Johnny Lowe, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth. “Wasn’t he generous?”

  “Mm, very.”

  Our Billy came in then from putting the horse and wagon away and stacked the picnic baskets by the door.

  “We’ll do those tomorrow,” Mother said. “Let’s have a nice cup of tea, now.”

  This would have been the time to give Elizabeth my present, but I felt perverse and angry. I sat brooding in my chair.

  “I’ve got you something too,” said our Billy, kicking off his shoes and throwing himself in a chair beside her. “But it isn’t ready yet. You’ll have to wait until next week.”