The Love of a Lifetime

by Mary Fitzgerald

  The minister pushed back his chair. “If I can have word,” he said, touching my elbow and jerking his head towards the vestry.

  I straightened up and whispered to Elizabeth, “I won’t be a moment,” and walked to where the old man was indicating.

  “There a few bodies in here,” he said, pointing towards the closed door. “They need to be identified.”

  I swallowed and could feel myself backing away. I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t look at smashed and broken corpses that only a few hours earlier had been so alive and joyful. But I glanced back over my shoulder to where Elizabeth was sitting totally alone and desolate in the hard polished pew and took a deep breath. I had to do it. I couldn’t let her look at her son and father in the state they were probably in. So I nodded and let the old minister lead me into the little room behind the chapel.

  It was lit by an oil lamp like the one we used to have in the kitchen and as I sniffed the oily smoke, comforting memories of home flashed into my head. These were soon dashed when I looked down. About ten bodies lay on the floor, covered in red ambulance blankets.

  “Are these all of them?” My words were foolish but hope began to spring. There must have been more people than this at the ceilidh. Obviously, some had escaped.

  The minister cleared his throat. “These are the only ones that could be possibly identified,” he said. “The others were too,” he stopped and looked at me, hoping, I suppose for some measure of understanding, “too badly damaged. Please look for your loved ones.”

  I didn’t find Mr Nugent but John’s was the third body in the back row. The minister had gently lifted the blankets one by one until I stayed his arm when he came to our boy. He lay like a sleeping child, half on his side and barely marked, apart from a large gash stretching the length of his white forehead and trailing up into his dusty thatch of red hair.

  “Oh my God,” I groaned, as I stopped and knelt beside him and put a trembling hand on his cheek. He was already cold and getting stiff.

  “Can you identify this child?” said the minister, formally.

  At first I couldn’t speak. I had so desperately hoped that Elizabeth would be right and that they had escaped. But here, lying before me was the lie to that and I was obliged to answer. “Yes,” I said, my voice hollow and weak. I suddenly felt so tired. “This is my son, John Edward Wilde.”

  And do you see? With those words, I had been allowed to acknowledge my own child for the first time. It was almost a comfort.

  The tears came then, not noisy or hysterical but deep and wrenching as though a part of me had been torn out and thrown into oblivion. I mourned him then and for ever after. He was a lovely boy and would have been a fine man who, had he been allowed to live. He would be here now to see me through this last journey.

  “I must tell his mother,” I said, wearily standing up and moving carefully away from the kind hand that the minister had lain on my shoulder. “She might want to see him.”

  When I went back into the church, she looked up at me and her eyes searched mine vainly for some inkling of hope. It was so painful having to witness her distress and I think those hours that followed were the hardest I ever had in my life. There was nothing I could do but just sit beside her and put my arm round her thin shoulders.

  “Have you found him?” she asked.

  I nodded. “You must go in. It would be better.”

  “Is he…?”

  “He looks all right,” I said. “As though he’s sleeping.” I pulled her to her feet. “Come on, my love. Come and say goodbye to our little lad.”

  I was proud of her. She didn’t scream or fuss as I took her gently by the arm and led her into the vestry. The minister was there standing beside the still little body and at Elizabeth’s approach he lifted the blanket away from John’s face.

  “Oh, my son,” she crooned, kneeling on the floor beside him, “my baby boy.” And while I stood there, helplessly, beside her, she gathered his small stiff body into her arms and rocked him and stroked the hair from his darkening face.

  After a while, it was more than I could bear and I knelt down beside her. “Leave him now, Elizabeth, and come home. You can’t stay here any more.”

  But she had changed again. Her face was terrifying when she looked up. “Take your hands off me,” she snarled. “This is my son and I’ll stay here as long as I want.” And she went back to her rocking and crooning, for all the world like some wounded animal.

  I looked up to the minister, hoping for some words from him that would persuade her but he folded his lips and turned away. Another man had come into the vestry and was standing, looking at the blanketed corpses with an expression of disbelief.

  “Can I help you?” the minister was saying but I lost the rest of the quiet conversation because Elizabeth had started to cry with great wracking sobs and I had to comfort her.

  “Oh, come now, sweetheart,” I said. “Leave him, he’s safe here,” and I gently pulled my son from her arms and laid him back on the scratched wooden floor boards. “We’ll take him home, when I’ve found some decent transport. I’m not carrying him through the streets in front of all your neighbours. It’s not dignified.” I dragged her away, out of the little chapel and up through the now deserted streets to the dark and empty house.

  An ambulance brought him to the house, a couple of hours later and I laid him on the bed that had belonged to his grandfather. My Elizabeth never spoke, but got a basin and cloth and washed him, kissing his face and hands all the while. Later she dressed him in clean clothes and bringing a chair from her bedroom sat beside him through the last few hours of the night.

  We buried him two days later in the churchyard of the sailors’ church not far from where he’d died. I’d managed to telephone home and tell them the sad news. I thought that Billy might come to the funeral, but he wouldn’t.

  “I can’t,” he said brokenly. “It would be too hard. You must be in charge.”

  “Elizabeth won’t bring him home,” I said. “He’s to be buried here.”

  There was silence at the end of the line and then Billy cleared his throat. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll put a memorial for him in the churchyard. His name won’t be forgot.”

  Mother came on the phone then and cried so bitterly that we had very little conversation. “She must bring him home,” she sobbed.

  But I told her what had been decided. “Its Elizabeth’s choice,” I said. “Her comfort is all that matters, now.”

  I did try to persuade her otherwise. “We must take him home,” I said, on the morning after his death. “He must be buried in St Winifred’s.”

  “No!” Her voice was cold and strange. “I don’t want him alone with all those Wildes who he never knew. He can rest here until I take him back to his people.”

  “What people?” I said, confused.

  “Mine.”

  She meant Ireland and that is where he is now. With her and her grandparents and the little plaque added to the gravestone that remembers her father, whose body was never found. There’s space there for me too and I have made all the arrangements. In eternity, Elizabeth and John and I will be together.

  Mother came to the funeral, arriving by train. She was in the church before the coffin arrived and Elizabeth and I, walking side by side behind the coffin that contained our son, were surprised to see her.

  “Thank you for coming, Mother,” said Elizabeth placing her cold face against Mother’s tear-stained one. “It is a comfort.”

  I don’t think it was. Elizabeth had retreated into her own self and had drawn up a barrier around her that shut out everyone, including me. Our brief conversations in the two days following John’s death had been those that dealt with practical details. I had arranged the funeral, ordered the single wreath and asked the kind minister who had been present in the temporary mortuary to conduct a short service.

  But all of this I did on my own. Elizabeth drifted around her little house like a ghost, never in the room that I was in but l
eaving an aura of her sadness that was almost tangible. She couldn’t be comforted.

  I thought about asking the minister to speak to her; maybe he would know the words that would give her some measure of peace

  Poor man, he did try. “Maybe,” he said, kindly, “the Lord in his goodness will bless you with another child. Not to make up for this sweet soul gone to glory but another child who will be loved for his own sake.”

  It wasn’t his fault, he didn’t know the true circumstances and Elizabeth turned away from him and me and went back up the stairs to sit beside her son.

  He tried again at the funeral. “You have had your son for ten years,” he said to us, as we sat numbly in the bare church staring at the small coffin. “That is what you must carry in your heart. He has given you a love that will never die.”

  I can’t remember anything else, but I do know that he was as good at conducting a funeral as any other priest I’ve ever met. The words were kindly meant and if we couldn’t appreciate them, it wasn’t his fault.

  Elizabeth, Mother and I followed the little coffin to the cemetery where my son was temporarily laid to rest in a small grave close to others who had died on same night. Several funerals were taking place that afternoon and our little procession was swamped by the grieving families of other victims. But it was all properly done and I think Elizabeth understood that the fortunes of war led to scenes like this.

  “I have to go,” I said the day after. My leave was over and I had to go back to war. “I don’t want to leave you, but I have to return to my unit.”

  “Yes,” she said. But I don’t think she cared. Her mind was totally wrapped up in the deaths and nothing else mattered.

  “Will you go back to the farm?” I asked. “Mother needs you.”

  “The hospital needs me.”

  I shook my head. “They’ve got volunteers. You must go home. It’s not safe here.”

  But she wouldn’t listen and when I hugged her and kissed her goodbye, all that I got in return was a disinterested request to look after myself.

  Nothing more than that and I went back to war, confused and heavy of heart. I had lost my only son and with him, all my plans for our happy future had blown away like blossom on a cold northern wind. And there was no comfort for that.

  Chapter 25

  This is no longer Richard, this is Sharon. I came into his room first thing this morning and found him sitting in his chair very upset and when I asked, “What’s up?” he just shook his head. Somehow, he’d got himself out of bed and into that chair beside the window and was very cold and stiff and as white as the snow outside. I called the nurse. Luckily, she stayed last night and she came down, half dressed and looking oddly normal, like someone’s mum. Usually, each morning, when she appears ready for work, she is plastered in God awful orange make-up, for all the world like some old slapper. It’s cruel of me, I know, thinking about her like this, but Christ, she is a horrible sight on a cold winter morning. Jason reckons she spends her days off, plying for trade on the road up to the factories.

  “Oh yes,” I said, “you’d know all about that, would you?”

  All he does is laugh. I like that about him. He knows when I’m joking. Andrew takes life so seriously, if I’d said that to him, he would have considered the implications of my remark for ages. He likes to pretend he’s relaxed, but he isn’t really.

  Anyway, back to the nurse and Richard. Normally I’ve little respect for her, but this morning, I was grateful when she immediately took charge.

  “Good heavens!” She took one look at him and started clucking like one of the Hyde’s chickens.

  “Mr Wilde,” she squawked, “getting out by yourself is absolutely against doctor’s orders.”

  I knew he didn’t feel well, because he let it go and didn’t tell her to bugger off, like he usually does. She puts up with a lot from him without taking offence, which is pretty impressive, but at the same time she can be a pain in the neck and her voice doesn’t help either. It’s so high and screechy; she sounds like a bloody parrot. I guess I should be grateful and I am. I can do her job when I have to, but I don’t like it much and he doesn’t like me doing it. He is conscious of his dignity.

  I went to make him a cup of tea while she gave him his bottle and saw to him below. By the time I came back, she had gone upstairs to get dressed.

  “Drink this,” I said leaning over him to put the cup to his lips. He sipped weakly, all the time gazing up at me with an expression of such sadness that I felt like gathering his old body in my arms and kissing him better. I noticed dry crusts of tears on his cheeks. Poor Richard, some memory had really upset him.

  Nurse saw me dabbing at his face when she came back and pushed me away. “Move over, Sharon,” she said, “I’ll give him a top and tail and then its bed for you, my lad.”

  I looked at him and grinned to show him what I thought of her, but for once he didn’t smile back. His old blue eyes just stared back at me for a moment before he turned away, back to gazing out of the window.

  Later after we’d got him into bed and settled him comfortably, he slept for a couple of hours and it gave me time to listen to the tape and start to get it onto the computer. Now I know why he was so sad. It took me all my time not to cry too, when I listened to his voice describing how his son had died. At times, it was almost impossible to hear it, because he must have been choking back tears, but I think I’ve got it down.

  Thomas came in when I was typing and asked why I looked so unhappy. I didn’t want to tell him, so I laughed.

  “I’m not unhappy,” I said, “It’s just my face.”

  “Well you’ve got a very funny face, then.”

  “Not as funny as yours, cheeky.”

  After we’d stopped laughing I told him that we mustn’t make much noise today because Richard wasn’t very well.

  His face fell. “Is he going to die?” he asked.

  I nodded. “He’s very old, love, and has a bad illness. I don’t think he’ll live much longer.”

  He started kicking that damn football round the kitchen, even though I’ve told him a hundred times not to do it. “It’s not fair,” he said when I told him to take it outside.

  “I don’t care. You’re not to kick that ball indoors. Do you hear me?”

  “I’m not talking about that, silly” he shouted picking up the ball and going to the hall door, “Mr Richard going to die. That’s not fair!”

  He’s right, it isn’t fair. Richard doesn’t want to die and I don’t want to lose him, or leave here. This is the first time in my life that I’ve had a secure home and I’m going to hate to leave it. I love this house, I love the space and the light and more than that, I love the fact that Thomas is safe and happy.

  I know I’m clutching at straws. We can’t stay here and I’ll have to make a decision soon.

  When he woke up I went to sit with him and we watched the snow swirling around the garden. It won’t lie, at least that’s what the forecast on the tele said. It’ll all be gone by morning. But it was pretty.

  “Did you listen?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He was quiet for a bit and then said. “It hurt me getting all that out. I’ve never liked to think about that time.”

  “It must have been terrible,” I said, “I think you’re very brave talking about it.”

  “War is terrible. All of it. There’s nothing good in it for anyone.”

  “Oh well,” I said, “don’t think about it again. Have a rest from your story for a few days.”

  You’d have thought I’d told him to stop breathing, the way he looked at me. “Don’t be so stupid,” he snapped and his voice was nasty. “I’ll be dead in a few days.”

  I hate him talking like that. Even though he’s so ill, I almost gave him a earful back, the old bastard, yelling at me. But just as I was taking a breath he stopped me. With surprising strength, considering how feeble he’d been this morning, he put out his hand and touched my arm.

&
nbsp; “I’m sorry, my dear. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. Not with you, of all people.”

  I swallowed my sudden anger. “Its OK, I don’t mind.” I took his hand in mine and we sat in silence then.

  “Is your story finished now?” I asked eventually.” I am stupid, because after what he’d said just before, it’s obvious that it isn’t.

  “No,” he said, sitting forward on his pillows and his chest heaving. “I must get down some more. I have to tell it. It’s got to be straight. The record has to be put straight.” His cheeks were burning hot now and the hand in mine was shaking quite badly

  I got worried and wondered about getting the nurse down again, but then I remembered that she had gone into town for some shopping.

  “OK,” I said, “Calm down. I only wondered. We can do some more whenever you’re ready.” What the hell, I thought. What difference can it make? I want him to be happy and if this is what makes him, then so be it. Never mind what the nurse or even that creepy Donald Clewes thinks. Richard is the person who matters most.

  He lay back on the pillows and for a moment, I thought he was dropping off again but he turned his head and looked at me. “Get the microphone,” he said, “I’ll tell you about the jungle.”

  I fastened the mike to his collar and sat beside him again with my note book. I’m so glad now that I did that shorthand course. But he waved me away.

  “Leave me now, Sharon. I want to be alone for this.”

  I left and went into the kitchen to make some soup. When I walked by his room later I could hear him still talking and had to persuade the nurse not to go in. “He’s busy,” I said, and she gave me one of her looks but left him undisturbed for another hour.

  It was when he was sleeping that I listened to the tape. His voice is getting weaker, but I know what he’s saying, so when he started with ‘I hated it,’ and then took a deep breath followed by a short silence, I waited and listened for the rest.

  “I hated it. Hated the dripping undergrowth that slowed us down so much that our patrols were often late reaching the rendezvous and the officer waiting for us would be nervously pointing to his watch and giving forth with a stream of curses. It steamed and stank. Horrible, sour, rotting smells of dead animals and people, but then sometimes it was disgustingly sweetened by the exotic ripening fruits growing around the edges of the dense wet forest. You could feel sick merely taking in a breath, but that could have been fear as well.