The Love of a Lifetime

by Mary Fitzgerald

  Jennifer gave me a kiss on the cheek and her husband produced a bottle of whisky. “We’ll break that open before you go,” I promised, but I forgot. Still, we had plenty to drink, I saw Sharon with trays of wine and orange juice, coming in and out of the room at frequent intervals.

  Lots of people from the village came and I knew all of them by sight. The names are beginning to escape me, but they gave me kindly greetings and wished me all the best. One or two even brought presents, stupid really at my time of life, but well meant and it would have been churlish of me not to accept them graciously. I hope Thomas likes the sweeties and Sharon can save the sherry for a suitable occasion. Perhaps my funeral. That reminds me. Some silly bugger brought me a next year’s diary!

  Mary Phoenix’s brother, Charlie, who must be nearly as old as I am, turned up, helped by his daughter. I don’t like him, never have, and I am still wary of all the Phoenix family despite the fact that they are my cousins. I think they know, or suspect, that Mary didn’t go South with that man friend, as everyone in the village assumed and never miss an opportunity to drop a hint. Charlie looks terrible, nearly bent double with arthritis and I expect that doesn’t help his temper which is as disagreeable as ever. Even though it was my party and he had come to my house as an invited guest, he still couldn’t greet me properly. “How do, Wilde?” he said, but it wasn’t asked nicely.

  “Not bad,” I replied, “still alive.” That seemed to upset him and he tightened his hand on the knob of his stick until his knuckles showed white through the liver spotted skin. “Aye,” he grunted, “you are. Not like my sister.”

  Will he never give up?

  “Happy Birthday!” I turned with some relief to see Andrew Jones standing beside me. I shook his hand. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad to see you.” He didn’t know how glad. His fresh clever face is infinitely better to look at than Charlie Phoenix’s sour old mug. Charlie gripped his daughter’s arm and struggled off to the table where Sharon had laid a decent spread of sandwiches and sausage rolls. My appetite has returned these last couple of days.

  “How are you feeling?” said Andrew.

  “I’m better,” I said and I am. Last week, I was ready to give up but today I feel well. Dr Clewes has some magic pills in his bag. The nurse is still here though, because my bloody legs have gone.

  “Here,” Sharon came by with a glass of whisky and put it in my hand. “You OK?” she asked and looked into my face in that way she has, stripping away all the pretence that you put on, until you feel that absolutely nothing can be kept secret from her.

  “I’m fine,” I said and looked away towards young Jones. “But here’s a man who could do with a drink.”

  “There’s wine on the table,” she said, “help yourself.”

  It was dismissive and I could see from his face that he was hurt. I wondered what he had done to upset her so but at that moment Jason Hyde came over and gripped my hand.

  “Well, Richard,” he said. “Ninety-five years, not out.” A smile creased his big weather-beaten face. He seemed to dwarf the other guests and as I slowly rubbed my squeezed hand, I breathed in the smell that emanated from his sweater and trousers. It was a cold sharp odour, as though he had come directly from his hay barn and brought all the strong flavour of penned cattle with him. I saw Andrew wrinkle up his nose, trying not to show his distaste. This wasn’t for him. He is a city boy through and through, and would never get used to it, but to me, the smell was nectar. I could close my eyes and be back in the milking parlour in an instant or mucking out the calf pen on a cold winter morning before school so that I could get my Saturday penny. Oh, I like Jason.

  Sharon wasn’t so friendly. “There’s wine on the table, help yourself,” she repeated, as dismissive of Jason as she had been of Andrew. I was bewildered, but then women have always had the ability to confuse me. All it needed now was for Dr Clewes to walk in and the prospective suitors would be all together. He did come, later when we were attending to the cake. When she made it, I have no idea, but it was a proper iced cake with lit candles, carried into the drawing room on one of the silver platters that I brought from the Gate House.

  “You must blow out your candles,” said Jennifer Darlington, as was. Silly girl. I have barely enough puff to speak.

  I looked round the gathering until I saw the cheeky young face I’d been seeking. He was standing close to the table with a sausage roll in each hand and one in his mouth, judging by the bulge in his cheek. “Come here, Thomas, lad,” I called. “Come and be my breath.”

  “Happy Birthday to you,” they all sang as Thomas hurriedly swallowed his sausage roll and blew out the candles. Sharon put her hand over mine and together we cut the cake. “Hurrah!” shouted Thomas like the other children had at his party and my older guests, stung into a reply, clapped discretely and swigged at their drinks. I took a big gulp from my glass and was immediately overcome by a bout of coughing.

  “Go easy, old chap,” said Dr Clewes who had appeared at my side and Sharon let go the cake knife and took the glass from my hand.

  “I’m all right,” I gasped. “Stop fussing.” But I wasn’t and couldn’t get my breath for ages. In the end, Dr Clewes went into the parlour and brought back my oxygen.

  That brought the party to an abrupt end and people started drifting away. “Good bye, Mr Wilde,” they called. “best if we go now. Don’t want to tire you.”

  I stayed in the chair with the oxygen mask on, watching them downing last drinks and surreptiously grab a sandwich or two to eat on the way home. People are greedy especially when it’s a free meal.

  “You should go to bed,” said Sharon and looked at Clewes for his agreement. He nodded and she went off to get my wheelchair.

  Later, when I was propped up in bed with Thomas sitting beside me, busily examining the contents of one of the boxes of sweets, I asked him if he’d enjoyed himself.

  “Mm,” he said, mouth full of chocolate raisins. I watched as he dropped a handful on the floor for his daft dog. She cleaned them up in a trice. That dog is getting very fat; I must tell Thomas to take her for more walks and to stop feeding her titbits.

  “Christmas Day tomorrow, young man. Are you looking forward to it?”

  This time he spoke properly. “Oh, yes, Mr Richard. It’ll be the best ever.” He climbed up on my bed and lay beside me with his head on my pillow. “You are going to get up for the turkey, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. I would if it killed me. I wasn’t going to spend what will certainly be my last Christmas on this earth, in bed. “I’ll be there, lad, to pull a cracker with you.”

  “Jason’s coming,” he said.

  “Good. I like him.”

  “Mummy does too, better than that Mr Jones who took us to Spain. But yesterday, she said that Jason takes things for granted. When I said what things, she wouldn’t tell me.” He took another mouthful of sweets and lay looking at my ceiling.

  “I wouldn’t worry, son,” I said, patting his arm, “women are funny creatures.”

  They are; everyone knows that. Even my Elizabeth was a funny creature, never the same two days running and always surprising. That Christmas when I went home, she was playing at being respectable farmer’s wife and I had been home for two days before she would even make an opportunity for us to be alone together. That was Christmas Eve and she suddenly decided that she didn’t want to go to Midnight Mass. “John’s got a bit of a chill,” she said, “I don’t want him ill for tomorrow. There’s no question of him going out so late at night.”

  You could see that Billy was disappointed. He never lost any opportunity to be with his son, he was that proud of him. But he was as careful of the lad’s health as was Elizabeth and he gave in without a murmur.

  It was before supper when Elizabeth said that and it was forgotten by the time we sat down. Mother had made her traditional giblet pie, which I hadn’t had for years and was tucking into with gusto. The conversation turned to the subject of the King and Mrs Simpson. We
ll, he wasn’t the king by now for he had recently abdicated and we had King George to rule us. However, it took us a while to get used to calling him the Duke of Windsor.

  “That woman is a witch,” said Billy, “an evil temptress who has taken our King away.” His face had gone quite red, for in the spirit of Christmas celebrations he’d had a couple of glasses of whisky, something that I hadn’t remembered him doing before. He was never a boozer, our Billy. Needless to say, I matched him drink for drink and more.

  “He must have wanted to go,” I said, quite mildly. “I doubt she could have forced him.”

  That seemed to make him angry and his brown eyes glittered in a sudden rage. “I repeat,” he said and crashed his fist on the table with such force that his fork jumped off his plate and clattered onto the floor. Mother and I both bent at the same time to pick it up and when I met her eyes she gave me a warning look.

  “I repeat,” he said again, “that woman is an evil witch and deserves being taught a lesson. I know what I would do with her.”

  It was an uncomfortable moment and I was glad that John had gone to bed early. Elizabeth said nothing, but that guarded look had come like a shadow over her face and in the hollow silence that ensued, the only sound that echoed around the room was the heavy ticking of the Grandfather clock in the front hall. I hoped that Billy had finished with Mrs Simpson and we could get onto another topic, but he hadn’t.

  “Yes,” he continued, his voice low and threatening as though Mrs Simpson was here in the room with us. “Women like her should get what they deserve.”

  I looked at him in astonishment. He was behaving as though poor Mrs Simpson had affected him personally and that it was his task to reprove her. I searched my mind for something that would jolly him out of his sudden nasty mood, but I couldn’t think of anything cheerful to say and stared down helplessly at the table. But, after a moment I remembered a question I had wanted to ask earlier in the day and turned to Elizabeth.

  “Where’s that dog of yours? I haven’t seen her about.”

  If I’d thought that simple remark about a dog would clear the atmosphere, I couldn’t have been more wrong. The colour drained from Elizabeth’s face and Mother bit her lips anxiously.

  I looked from face to face waiting for an answer until Elizabeth cleared her throat and said, in a low voice, “She died. A few years ago.”

  “Shame,” I said, “she can’t have been that old. What happened?

  “She was shot.”

  The words dropped like sharp stones into the listening silence that had consumed the kitchen and the pleasant mealtime mood disappeared.

  Mother broke the silence by starting to clear away the plates and Elizabeth got up to help her. It was a nasty moment and I looked anxiously at my brother from beneath lowered eyelids. He had changed quite a lot in the five years since I’d been away. Apart from these occasional outbursts, he was much quieter and seemed lost in thought for much of the time. He would find himself jobs about the farm that he could do on his own.

  His behaviour to the men hadn’t improved either. I could excuse him by remembering that he’d had to take on a man’s task at the early age of thirteen and that he had been forced to grow hard, but as a younger man he had been ready for a laugh with his mates and enjoyed having people round to the house. Now, apart from his intense love for John, he seemed to prefer living in a world of his own. And that, a world that only spoke when he spoke to it.

  This morning I’d heard him tell off the men in the milking parlour for chatting. “Get on with your work,” he’d growled and as he walked off to inspect the sows, I heard one of the men say, “that bastard’s heading for one of his moods again.”

  The other one sniggered, not realising that I was on the other side of the door hoping to catch a glimpse of Elizabeth as she came out of the dairy. “It’s time he went into town,” he laughed, “and got a bit of paid for ‘how’s your father.’ That generally settles him down.”

  “I heard that the girls in the flats are scared of him. Comes on rough like.”

  “Oh yes? You been playing away from home, then? Knowing what those girls say. I think your missus should hear about this.”

  A bit of a scuffle followed that remark, but soon they were back to work and as I left I could hear them both singing something they’d heard on the wireless.

  When I went out with Billy later that day to help him do his Christmas shopping he was in a better temper and we enjoyed ourselves like two silly children at the toy shop, while he chose a present for John. It was as though we were young again and he was able to relax in my company. The thing was that I never questioned him or any of his actions. You see, he’d been like a father to me all those years ago and I was grateful for that.

  He bought Elizabeth a small amethyst brooch, which in the years to come, I never saw her wear, and a string of jet beads for Mother. She wore those a lot.

  But now on this Christmas Eve night, his bad mood had returned and he was in danger of spoiling the whole evening. Mother put a lemon pudding on the table with a jug of cream.

  “Here, William,” she said and her voice was one of forced jollity, “dish out this pudding while I put the kettle on.”

  But he got up and pushed his chair back. “Nothing for me, Mother,” he said, his voice shaking. “I have to go out.”

  “On Christmas Eve?” she cried, ready I think, to argue with him, but Elizabeth put a hand on hers and turned her back to the range so that Billy could get out of the room without further harassment. In a moment, we heard his car roar into life and go trundling out, down the drive.

  That spoilt the whole dinner and after we’d cleared up, Mother said that she didn’t feel like church either and thought an early night would be a good idea. “After all,” she said, giving me a goodnight kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure you and Elizabeth have a lot of catching up to do.”

  My cheeks were on fire when she said that. What could she possibly mean, I wondered, surely she wasn’t expecting us to leap into each other’s arms like some sex-starved youngsters. Elizabeth, a respectable married woman and her own daughter-in-law, and me, well. I must have looked like an idiot, for when Mother left the kitchen and we could hear her going up the stairs, Elizabeth broke into muffled laughter.

  “You should see your face,” she gasped, wiping her eyes on the corner of her apron.

  “What the hell did she mean?” I asked aghast.

  “Exactly what you thought she did,” said Elizabeth looking at me with a broad smile. “She wants you to be happy. So do I.”

  “Come here, you,” I said and grabbed her. Her generous mouth was still smiling when I lowered mine onto it and kissed the laughter away. We stood like that for many minutes, straining at each other’s bodies, trying to get closer than was physically possible.

  “I want you,” I said, and started to unbutton her silk blouse.

  “No. Not here.” She broke away and put a hand on my mouth. Her breath was coming as fast as mine was and I knew that she wanted me too. “Come to my room, in a minute. We’ll be safe there.”

  I barely gave her time to get up the stairs before I put out the lights and followed her. There was a new double bed in that room above the front door that she had made her own for so many years and in one of my rare lucid moments that night, the thought flitted through my head that she had bought it especially for my visit. If she had, then it was a good choice for we were as comfortable in our lovemaking as anyone could dare to hope for. I think I heard our Billy come in, much, much later but he didn’t disturb us and when I heard him again I knew he was getting up for early milking. For some reason, I wasn’t a bit afraid of being caught. I turned over into Elizabeth’s welcoming arms.

  “Happy Christmas, my darling,” she whispered as I nuzzled my mouth into the warm hollow of her neck, and then said, “you’d better go. John will be up. He’s that excited.”

  “So am I,” I laughed, “as you can see.” But she wouldn’t let me have my way,
too scared that John might come in, I think.

  “I love you,” I said, rolling out of the bed with a stifled groan, “and you’ve just given me the best Christmas present anyone could possibly have.”

  She giggled at that and whispered, “Go, go. Before the house is up.”

  Billy’s mood was much improved when he came in for breakfast. “Happy Christmas!” he shouted, grinning broadly and picking John up, he swung him round. He smacked a big kiss on the boy’s cheek. “We’ll open the presents after dinner,” he told him, “but here’s something to be going on with,” and he produced a small wooden car from his pocket.

  “Oh,” cried John, “thank you, Father.” He scrambled down and ran to show Elizabeth and Mother.

  This morning, Elizabeth was wearing that delphinium blue dress with my necklace and I could have rushed over to her with the same enthusiasm. How I longed to pick her up and swing her round like our Billy had done with John. Her cheeks were pink because she had been bending down in front of the range to look at the couple of geese that Mother was roasting for our Christmas dinner. Marian and Albert were joining us, fresh back from their latest trip abroad. According to Mother, Albert had taken to foreign travel in the last few years and despite Marian’s lack of enthusiasm, she always went with him.

  “Well, well, well,” said Albert when we were all seated round the dining room table, not eating in the kitchen because this was a special day. “The traveller returns.”

  “You too,” I said. “Where was it this time?”

  “America,” he said, beaming round at the assembled family, “New York and a wonderful town it is too. And the journey was as good as a holiday in itself. You’d go far to get service like we had on the Queen Mary.”

  “You did go far,” said Elizabeth. Everyone stopped eating for a moment and looked at her. She rarely joined in general conversation and her making a little joke was most unusual.

  Albert laughed and raised his glass to her. “So we did, Elizabeth, my dear. So we did.”