by Stan Mason
‘Don’t worry, old man,’ consoled an aged well-meaning cousin. ‘Time’s a great healer. You wait and see. You may think the advice is poor at the moment because you feel so miserable but the years pass by very quickly. Too quickly, I can tell you. Yes... time’s a great healer!’
Charles stared at him dismally without speaking as saliva filled his throat and threatened to choke him. It hardly mattered what anyone said. Nothing would ever heal his heart in respect of this tragedy. He comforted himself that Jennifer would always be with him in thought if not in substance and, whatever might happen in life from that moment onwards, he would never forget her.
’It’s all written up there,’ confided an old aunt, as she attempted to eat a second piece of cake with her third cup of tea. ’There’s nothing any of us can do because it’s all in the great plan of life set out for us from the moment that we’re born. It only causes aggravation if we try to change it. That’s for sure!’
There was little doubt that Charles despised their presence. They had never visited him or Jennifer before and they were unlikely to come to his home again. They were using the occasion to meet other members of the family and to scoff the refreshments. One could choose one’s friends but you were stuck with family! It seemed to be such indecent behaviour when Jennifer was dead and her body buried in the ground. By tomorrow, as far as they were all concerned, it would simply be a matter of history. Nothing more, nothing less. In truth, he wanted to be alone so that he could think about his wife, cherishing all those wonderful moments they had shared together. With this horrid crowd around him, he didn’t seem to be able to think at all!
‘Life goes on,’ philosophised an uncle who had seen too many relatives and friends face a similar end. ‘Memories are important but you mustn’t dwell too much in the past. If you do, you become a slave to it and gradually die inside. Only you will know what really happened. So don’t forget. Life goes on!’
After they had all gone, Charles realised that the man had touched a nerve. There were memories... perhaps too many memories... of love and life, of sadness and joy... which had all been cut short by a hit-and-run driver. Then he began the familiar path of blaming the driver for being devoid of conscience, then the dog for racing across the road, and finally for himself for being the guilty party to her demise. At the end of the day, it hardly mattered whose fault it had been. Jennifer was dead and nothing could ever bring her back to life again! She had been a woman in a million. A rare precious person who could never be replaced by anyone else. The Gods had allowed him to sip the cup of sweetness and then had dashed it to pieces before his eyes. The had taken her back!
He recalled the words of a young relative on Jennifer’s side who had told him: ‘My advice is to forget her as quickly as possible. Find someone else. The world is full of lovely women. Someone else is waiting to offer you love and affection. Find her. Start a family. A man without a woman is life without aggravation. As hunters, men need that aggravation. It’s part of our genetic make-up.’
People were so free with advice they would never take themselves. They were never satisfied unless governing or directing the lives of others. They were always too eager to offer suggestions, pass on gossip, make assumptions, and relate old wives’ tales which had stood the test of time. When tragedy occurred, they seemed to believe that the mourner was incapable of reaching any decision regarding his or her future life... let alone the right one!
‘You’re young,’ suggested a distant cousin. ‘Make a new life for yourself. Sell up, move away and start all over again. It’s best that way, If you’ll stay you’ll be bogged down with sad memories. Take my advice and start a new life. It isn’t good to shut yourself away . At your age, you have all the advantages ahead of you. Make the most of them!’
Charles mused that they probably had his welfare in mind rather than giving advice for the purpose of schadenfreude... taking pleasure in another person’s misfortune. Life with him and Jennifer had never moved in leaps and bounds. He was a caution, steady, reliable person never eager to rush into ventures or change his life-style on impulse and now he was a widower living on his own, he was in no desperate hurry to do so.
After everyone had gone and the neighbours had cleared the table, Charles breathed a sigh of relief. At last he was on his own! He moved instinctively towards the mantelshelf and picked up a framed photograph of Jennifer before sitting down to spend time staring at her image. It took pride of place resting above the hearth and he always admired it greatly. Her face was that of an angel. Her body, so perfectly, formed like that of a Greek Goddess. He had been so lucky to meet her and was for ever grateful that she had fallen in love with him. It had been too good to be true but it had happened. They had fallen in love, were engaged for a whole year, and then married. Three years had passed although it seemed like a few months at most. He had been living in a delirium with life passing by in a kind of a mist. Nothing in the world mattered except Jennifer... not money or ambition or fame. She was everything to him. He was so proud of her... and then there was the pregnancy... his baby who would never be born!
He fell asleep in an armchair holding the photograph closely to his chest, having kissed her face several times although his lips merely touched the surfaced of the cold transparent glass. An hour passed by before he awoke. He felt depressed, deflated and tired, hardly able to keep his eyes open. Returning the photograph to its normal place on the mantelshelf, he ambled stiffly into the bedroom and began to undress. It was cold and indifferent without her presence and extremely uninviting. The solitude he had experienced three years ago had been shrugged off when he began to share his life with Jennifer. He didn’t know how long he could stand the loneliness which now encapsulated his life. He rolled into bed without putting on his pyjamas and fell immediately into a deep sleep, shrugging off the memories of the day. That was the advantage of sleep. It had the magic of being able to erase all the horrors which began to haunt him.
It was early in the morning when he awoke. The first light had just started to cut through the curtains, just about enough for him to read the time on the bedside clock. For a moment, he believed that he was alone. Then he realised that someone was there with him... in the bedroom. He sat up to stare at the image which appeared to stand at the foot of the bed At first he wasn’t certain until he screwed up his eyes to focus them, realising that it was the form of a woman. He blinked twice to make sure that he wasn’t dreaming and then focussed more sharply. As the scales fell from his eyes, he gasped staring at the form intently. It was Jennifer!
‘Ssshhh!’ she whispered, placing her index finger to her lips as though trying not to wake anyone. ‘It’s Jennifer, darling, I’m all right. I’ve just come to tell you I’m all right. And so is the baby!’
He muttered something incoherently as if his mouth was filled with cotton-wool, and sat up further to take a closer look at her but she started to fade away and quickly vanished from his sight. He left the bed and opened the curtains, searching the room in vain but there was no trace of her. He shook his head in disbelief, closing the curtains before climbing back into bed. He had to have been dreaming! Yet he was certain that he saw her and heard her voice when she spoke to him. No... it must have been in his imagination! Something in his sub-conscious mind forcing him to believe that he saw her. There was no way back from the spirit world. Even Houdini, the great escape artist, who left all manner of codes and ciphers to pass messages back to specified people had failed to communicate after his death. Clearly he was distraught and his imagination was running wild. In his dreams he wanted to see her so much that on awakening he believed it to be true. But it couldn’t be! Or was the love between them so strong that she had returned to try to ease his mind? It was the only explanation for him to pacify his sorrow. For some time, he turned over the idea in his mind of taking his own life so that he could join Jennifer in Heaven. But what if there was no Heaven and he never found her
?
***
At precisely eight minutes past six o’clock that morning, Jim Purdy arrived at his home in East London. He slowed the giant vehicle to negotiate the corner of his street and gave a sigh of relief as he rounded the final bend. He had succeeded in getting back through the thick fog which had increased in intensity as he proceeded towards the metropolis. Suddenly, the image of a woman dress in yellow oilskins appeared before him in the middle of the road, causing him to halt the truck sharply. As the brakes ceased with their customary hissing sound, he leaned out of the cabin window to reproach her.
‘You stupid woman!’ he yelled, giving full vent to his anger. ‘What the hell are you doing in the middle of the road? I could have run you down!’
‘You already did that,’ came the reply in a whisper. ‘And you killed my baby as well! Then, within a few seconds, the image melted into infinity.
Purdy’s mouth fell open with astonishment at the vacant space where Jennifer’s image had been. There had definitely been a woman dressed in yellow oilskins in the middle of the road. Now, almost like the fog he had passed through on the journey home, she was gone! She had actually spoken to him about her death and her baby! Shortly, he dismissed the matter from his mind, shrugging his shoulders aimlessly. The mind often played strange tricks especially when one was over-tired and suffering from business worries. In effect, in an effort to compete with the financial targets set by his bank manager, Purdy had slept very little in the past two days. Such dedication to keep the bank satisfied was tantamount to recklessness. If he continued in this fashion, he would jeopardise everything. Now he had started to witness an apparition which were not there... and it spoke to him. It was almost worse than having delirium tremens... the illusion affecting alcoholics. For a few seconds, a flash of yellow danced before his tired eyes and then the recollection of the accident in Cornwall came back to him. He shook his head from side to side believing that the impact of that traumatic incident had emerged in the form of shock. Indubitably, he was in desperately in need of sleep. He climbed slowly out of his vehicle and entered his house where he was greeted by his wife.
‘Have you seen anyone around here wearing yellow oilskins?’ he asked, hoping that she might be able to clear up the mystery.
His wife laughed with amusement. ‘Yellow oilskins?’ she repeated. There’s no one around here with anything like that. Anyway it’s not been raining for the last week so why should they wear them?’
He thought about telling her of the accident in Cornwall but pride forced him to remain silent. The less people who knew about it, the more chance he would have of never being discovered. If he admitted it and the motor vehicle insurance company found out, there would be compensation to pay and his policy renewal payments would go soaring. It was best if no one learned the truth.
He sat at the table waiting for his wife to make him breakfast and placed his aching head in his hands. All he could visualise was a woman wearing yellow oilskins speaking to him. He shook his head and inhaled deeply a number of times to try and erase the image from his mind.
‘Will you be long?’ he called out wearily. I’ve got to get to Consolidate Stores to take a load to Newcastle!’
‘You need to sleep,’ chided his wife from the kitchen. ‘You can’t go out again until you have some rest!’
‘I’ll make it up somewhere along the way. Any messages for me?’
‘The bank rang. You promised to deposit eight hundred pounds yesterday but you never did.’
‘To hell with the bank!’ he muttered to himself, yawning loudly. ‘I’ll do this load today and pay them tomorrow. Call me when breakfast is ready.’
He lifted himself up from the table and shuffled into the bedroom. After drawing the curtains, he fell on to the bed fully-clothed. It was only a few seconds later when he heard a rustle and turned to complain to his wife for disturbing him. In the dim light, he could see the outline of a person standing against the curtains and the form materialised quickly in the form of a woman wearing yellow oilskins. He could distinctly see her face as she pulled back the hood to stare at him. In a panic, he screamed at the top of his voice causing his wife to burst into the room with a worried expression on her face.
‘What’s the matter? What’s happened?’ she cried urgently.
He buried his head into the blankets, making an unintelligible sound as she drew the curtains. Slowly he looked up at her looking around the room furtively.
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘What are you talking about?’ She stared at him strangely. ‘There’s nobody here.’
His face grew long as despair riddled his mind and he began to cry like a baby. His wife could only look on as tears ran down his face. He knew the solution to the problem was a full eight hours of sleep but he couldn’t afford the time. Because of that, he was confronted by an image created through fatigue... and it refused to go away!
Chapter Two
When the day began in earnest, Charles climbed out of bed, took a shower, cleaned his teeth, and dressed in a dark blue suit. He entered the kitchen out of habit but declined to make himself breakfast. Food was of no interest to him. Since the death of his wife, his appetite had completely disappeared. He entered the lunge and perched on the edge of the settee desolately as his mind battled with his conscience to reach a decision. He could dwell on his misery and remain at home or he could pull himself together and return to work. Staying at home was a tribute to the memory of his late wife. Most people allowed a traditional period of time to elapse before the recommenced their lives. The length of time depended on the individual and the grieving period required. The Head of his department at work had been extremely kind, offering him carte blanche in terms of compassionate leave, but there was little point in sitting alone in an empty house to dwell hour after hour on his misfortune. There was nothing left in life... no inclination to marshal his faculties to make plans and map out a future. He could see no reason to look forward at all. In a short while, his attitude mellowed and he modified his views. There was no doubt about it. If he was to remain sane, he had to return to work as soon as possible.
He had been employed by Sovereign Bank for twelve years. After a short chequered career with a number of companies, after he left school, he applied to the bank and was appointed as a cashier. It offered him to stability he sought being the second largest bank in the country. It had been established in the early part of the nineteenth century and controlled over three thousand branches at home and abroad. Charles was a small cog in a very big wheel but he was part of a team and well respected. As soon as it became known that he had returned to the office, he was flooded with a deluge of telephone calls and visits from people who wanted to sympathise with him. It seemed that everyone wanted to offer him condolences on his tragic loss. Most sincere of all were the sentiments of his assistant, Erica Wild, who always took such great care to ensure that he would never have to be called to account for any errors or discrepancies creeping into the day’s operations. Her greatest contribution to the team was reflected in her meticulous checking of every document and the mass of financial calculations. Under her eagle eye and dedication, no transgression ever emerged from the office to sullen the reputation of the department. Not surprisingly, it helped also that she was an energetic, clever amusing young lady with a talent for being admired.
As soon as the telephone calls and visitors faded away, Charles began to focus his mind on his official duties but he was unable to blot the thought of Jennifer from his mind. She refused to be denied access as though intending to remain with him all the time. He could see her in his mind’s eye, laughing and kissing him lovingly, putting her arms across his shoulders, caressing his hair, and teasing him by pulling his shirt out of his trousers to make him angry, but all the time she kept laughing. He struggled with his grief, staring at the fresh blotting pad on his desk for about twenty minutes until
Erica Wild walked into the room holding a sheet of paper in her hand.
‘We have a small problem here,’ she told him quietly. ‘I think you’ve made an error on the Telegraph Transfer. It’s for Chinese rembini. You’ve calculated it at the rate for Euros.’
He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across his forehead with frustration. ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I’ve never made a mistake like that in my life. You’ll have to forgive me. Thank God you picked it up!’
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she responded easily. ‘I’m always acting as long-stop.’ She noticed his malaise and realised that he was still in distress. ‘Question!’ she fired at him sharply. ‘Can you honestly say that staying at home is really worse than being at work?’
His face managed a weak smile... the first since the passing of his wife. ’I didn’t think you felt so badly about coming in to work,’ he replied with an element of surprise.
’I don’t,’ she countered flatly. ’But if questions like that can shake you out of your depression, it’ll be worthwhile asking them. Is there anyone I can get you... like whisky, gin, brandy or vodka?’
He shook his head slowly. There were few assistants who dared to joke in this way with their superiors, especially at a time of grief. No thanks but keep the jokes coming. I’m sure it helps.’ He appreciated her effort to cheer him up but nothing would relieve him of the sadness within him.