Here is the opening to my first novello, entitled Our Night. It is the story of an elderly couple who look back to the night they might. My aim is to post the remainder of the story in instalments over the next weeks.
Our Night
Here I am, staring out of the kitchen window again. Staring out over the garden. Looking, but not really seeing. The trees are moving. There are clouds and birds in the sky, I think. But it all means nothing to me. Not these days.
My rock, my life, my whole reason for living – my wife, my Rosie – is leaving me. How? Why? When? The sooner, the better for her. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t want her to leave. If – when – she goes, it will also be the end of me.
Forty years we’ve been married, through thick and thin, disaster, tragedy, elation, love, and friendship – and, yes, at times we probably hated each other. It didn’t matter what happened between us, what we did, said or saw. We were always there, together, a couple. Now there’s an intruder. It’s taking her away from me.
Taking her life away.
This despicable, devastating disease has crept into our lives to destroy her, piece by piece, slowly, and painfully. The brightness and laughter in her eyes are fading. It was the first thing that brought me to her. It will be the last thing that goes. Her smile would light up any room, any place. That brightness and sparkling in her eyes always gave out love, warmth, and laughter, entrancing everybody who met her.
Her body has changed in the few months since she fell ill. The gentle curves of motherhood that stayed after the children were born have now gone, replaced by saggy, stretched skin, barely clinging to her bones. The long flowing brown hair she would swing from side to side is now thin, wispy and grey. Sometimes lumps come out when it is brushed – something that must be done for her, as she no longer has the strength to do it herself.
Just as painful and upsetting is seeing her unable to move by herself. She lays in bed all day now, needing help to sit up and feed. Once she was so full of energy, making fun of me if I had to sit down for anything. Always on the move, doing something, going somewhere, meeting friends or working; she had enough energy for the two of us.
I miss the long conversations we had throughout our life together, mostly about nothing important; just sitting and talking, re-living past events, catching up on what the children were doing, places we’d been and seen, what was happening with the neighbours. Unbothered by the occasional silence. Never realising what time it was. Not knowing we’d been sat for hours. Eventually making our way to bed, sometimes in the early morning. Now, I seem to do all the talking, getting only an occasional response or contribution. Only when she feels strong enough will she force the words out of her thin and cracked lips. Hers is a quiet, croaky, lifeless voice, not the melodic, bright voice filled with enthusiasm, love and warmth that I fell in love with and have been used to all these years. When she does try to speak, it’s to ask about the children, or to get me to talk about what happened in the past.
The children. Jack, our son, he’s just turned thirty. The eldest and tallest, almost six feet. He has an athlete’s physique. Comes from doing a lot of sport, particularly football, and some cricket. When he was younger, most people would say he looked like his mother. However, as he got older, he started to take on more of my looks, especially facially; poor lad. He’s his mother’s son in that he followed her into teaching. Really good he is, as well. He has the caring spirit, patience and energy of his mother, which all teachers need these days. He lives with his partner, Sarah. They’re planning on getting married next year. The thought of not having his mother around for that must be having an effect on him, but he doesn’t show it. Not in front of me, anyway.
Sam, our daughter, is in her mid-twenties and has just qualified to be a vet. She has a job in a practice on the other side of town. She shares a house with some friends she met at university. They all met in their first year and have been together ever since. It is fair to say that if Jack is a mother’s boy, Sam is a father’s girl; the old clichés, even though her looks and personality are almost exactly the same as her mother’s. Small in size, big in personality, with shiny, long brown hair, just like her mother, and eyes that shine and sparkle with love and laughter. In her, it is possible to see everything her mother was: pretty, energetic, enthusiastic, full of life and energy. At the moment, she doesn’t have a boyfriend, but there is some lucky man out there who will find her one day.
Jack’s round nearly every day. He stops off on his way from the school during the week to check whether I need anything bringing or doing. Sam gets here whenever she can, which is nearly every day, depending on whether she is in the practice or on call.
I’m not sure how they’re getting through these dark days. They’ve seen the person who has loved them, encouraged them and been there in everything they’ve done deteriorate quickly. Become someone who needs their help and encouragement instead of the other way round. Without them, I think I would have given up weeks ago. They’re the ones who have kept me going. How blessed I’ve been that they have both played their part, done everything possible to be there for their mother and to support me – never begrudgingly, always lovingly – even though they have their own lives to be getting on with.
I don’t get out much at all now. When the weather’s fine, I sit in the garden. Jack and Sam bring any shopping I need. If they’re both here, one of them will take me out, either for a walk round the nearby park or to the shops, while the other sits in with Rosie. I can’t go out and leave her on her own; I’m not bothered about going anywhere anyway. I know it’s all having an effect on me, but I don’t feel any different. Maybe I get tired quicker, and more emotional. I try not to show that part to Jack and Sam, but I’m not good at hiding it, and they’re too clever not to notice anything. In fact, just the other day, I heard them talking. It seems as though I’m beginning to look a lot older and slowing down. Forgetting things as well. They tell me things and I don’t remember, or I ask them about something that they’ve already told me. Sam said that the other day I asked her several times to get me some milk from the shop. “If I got the milk he asked me to get, he’d need his own cow,” she said to Jack, which got him started.
“That’s probably because he puts it in daft places. I’ve found it in the freezer and in the washing machine. Good job it was me setting the machine to go; God knows what would have happened,” he told Sam.
They’re great kids, doing an amazing job looking after the two of us. I’m not sure how they’re feeling or what they’re thinking. They never give anything away when they’re here. Well, nothing I’ve heard or seen. There are times when they are here together and I’m sure they must make some comment. I’m also sure they keep in touch with each other through their phones. It makes me feel guilty that I’m becoming a worry for them as well. They have their own lives to live and shouldn’t be using their time bothering about me.
I can’t keep staring out of this window. I’ll make Rosie’s drink and a tea for me and go upstairs to her. I turn away from the window and switch the kettle on. While I’m waiting for it to boil, I make Rosie a dilutey drink with plenty of water. After making my tea, I walk slowly upstairs and open the door quietly, not wanting to wake her if she is still sleeping.
“Hello, love. Just me. Got our drinks,” I say as I sit on the chair next to the bed. I’ve been spending more time in this chair than anywhere else. It looks as though the cushions have taken the shape of my backside. Rosie looks up and smiles weakly at me. I put the drinks down. “Not much happening out there today. Bit of wind, some sun, and a few clouds, but quite warm. Do you want me to read the news?” I ask.
“Not yet. I think I would like our story first today. I’m a bit tired this morning, and can’t be bothered with any bad news,” she says, her voice sounding weak and tired, which isn’t a surprise, as she’s had a restless night. “And when we do get to the news, can you try and find something good? It all seems to be so depressing,” she adds with a smile.
“Course I will,” I say. “Right. If you’re sitting comfortably, I will begin. Once upon a time …”
“Pack it in, Matthew. Just get on with it, you daft bugger.” This time a smile does spread across her face.
Every day for the last few days, she has wanted me to tell her the story of the night we met. How can I refuse that request? The truth is, I never get fed up with telling the story. It’s as if she knows she’s leaving and wants to re-live that strange, happy event, even though it happened all those years ago, way back in the nineteen eighties. I’d never realised it meant so much to her. She only wants to hear my part of the story, who I was with, where we went and what we did. I’ve never understood why that would interest her. She just tells me it completes the picture; she knows what she did that night when we weren’t in the same place. It’s something we talked about when we first started seeing each other properly. She often interrupts when I’m telling the story, wanting to know different things about what happened, or to make sure I don’t miss anything out, as well as adding in some of her own parts. She even remembers what she was thinking and feeling!
It was an extraordinary night, to say the least. I hadn’t been going out much; been let down and messed about by the girl who was my fiancée.
My friends had encouraged me to have a night in town with them. I went, but wasn’t really in the mood. I was afraid I might see my ex-fiancé – which I did – but I also met my wife to be, which I wasn’t intending or expecting. It wasn’t the only strange thing that happened that night, but it was certainly the one that shaped the night and my future. It was also one of those nights where everything unusual and weird that might happen happened.
Man on a bike. 