As she looked out over the sunlit bay from her window she was reminded of faraway shores, the soft ripple of a breeze over gently crashing waves, wine chilled, condensation running like tiny rivers down the curved body of the bottle. They were sat looking out across the bay, sipping their favourite wine and life felt so good. They had returned here because of the memory, because of the wine, because in those days, they could.
“Is Rita here yet?”
The voice broke into her reverie, and she was pulled quickly back to shore, memories rushing out to sea like a lifeboat responding to a major incident. She jumped up out of her chair to follow the voice. She never really got time to daydream anymore, life just wasn’t like that anymore. And sometimes she wondered if life before now had just been one long daydream, a bottle of misty wine too far.
She shuffled her feet back into her slippers and followed the voice, finding her husband pacing in agitation up and down the hallway, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, a familiar frown puckering his forehead. He was always so agitated lately.
“I’ve no idea where she could be. Do you know where she is?” He looked at his watch, worry etched on his lined face. He stared at the front door. “It’s not like her. She’s usually here by now. Should we be worried?”
She put a comforting hand on his arm and pressed gently, trying to steer him back to the lounge where she had laid out their old photo albums on the coffee table, an attempt to take them both back to somewhere else, anywhere but here, reliving the memories of all the places they had travelled, all their major life achievements stuck down at the corners of a book under creased cellophane. Reminders of their life together. He had been looking at them with her, they had been combing their memories together, piecing together the shores, and stories and scenes of sun, sand and sea. It was what they did most days now. Some would call it their twilight years, she liked to think it was just the end of Autumn when there was still some colour in their cheeks and a hope of a ray of light somewhere in the distance.
“She’ll be here soon,” she said quietly, reassuring him. “It’s not even midday yet. You know she never lets us down. Shall we get some lunch while we’re waiting?”
They stood in the middle of the lounge facing each other, eyes locked. She wondered when she had lost him. She couldn’t say exactly. Maybe it was years ago? When had he stopped being the man she loved, the strong passionate figure that she counted on, her best friend, her lover, her soldier, her warrior? When did his hair start to thin, and when did his eyelids start to droop in quite that way, when did his skin start to come away from his bones? When did he start to look so old? And did she look as old as him? She could see the vague outline of his skeleton, and it tore at her heart.
“We should wait for Rita,” he said stubbornly, sitting down heavily and lifting his newspaper to hide his face, kicking the photo albums away with his clumsy feet. She looked down at the floor and noticed that somewhere he had lost a slipper. She looked around vaguely, wondering where it could be. He checked his watch again. “She’s never usually this late, I’m sure.”
She was reminded of the time they had been cruising down the Yangtze River, watching the big sun in China kneel before them, after having met the Terracotta Army, in awe of the myriad of perfectly formed clay bodies staring back at them. It was like looking at clay, she thought, glancing over across the room at him as he struggled to turn the pages of the newspaper. She could see the black imprint of typeface on his hands, and his waxy face looked like clay. Not bold like the Terracotta Army soldiers, but devoid of expression. When did she stop loving the man she knew, and replace that feeling of love with duty and resentment? When had she stopped loving, and when had she stopped living? She couldn’t remember. She was marooned in this world now and all she had, it seemed, were the memories marching in the other direction, they were speeding up… like that lifeboat… on their way to save someone else. The Terracotta Army retreating. Maybe that’s what happens when you get older… when you get old. Maybe there’s always someone else to save that’s more worthy than you?
The newspaper fluttered to the floor as his head started to droop down, his eyelids closing. He was falling asleep. She couldn’t blame him. She got up to pick up the newspaper, folding it gently so that the noise of the rustling paper didn’t wake him. It was better when he was asleep. She felt terrible for thinking that, but it was the truth of the matter. And for a brief respite, she had time that was wide awake where she could think of other things, sit on the window-seat and look out over the estuary, at the tide coming and going, at the boats bobbing all free and easy, the clouds chasing over the big sky, playing hide and seek with the sun. She could look out at the world, instead of looking in at her life. It was a chink of freedom that she relished every afternoon, when every day looked the same, and was filled with the same conversation and the same tension. How could a marriage survive for so long, she knew it would be for better for worse, but how much worse could it be? And would she ever be free?
She felt herself dozing, tired after getting up so early to see to his breakfast, to make sure his clothes were laid out for him, to get the chores done, to sort out the bills, and the shopping and the dogs. She woke with a start when she heard him crashing about in the hallway again and, half asleep, she rushed to see what the fuss was all about.
“Rita is late!” he was shouting, his arms flailing about. “Where could she be? She’s never this late. She always comes here at exactly,” he checked his watch and looked at the grandfather clock in the hall, “1.00 pm. She comes here at 1.00 pm and it’s gone past that now. You fell asleep. You didn’t hear the doorbell, and now she’s gone away again!” He lashed out at her, his hand hitting the side of her jaw. She was slight, and age had worn her bones down to almost nothing. She staggered back and fell against the table, her hip coming sharply into contact with the edge of time. She looked up at him in horror, at the anger screwing his face up into a ball of rage, his neck reddening and his fists balled as he fought an imaginary fight in his head. “It’s all your fault. You should have been here. You didn’t let Rita in. You’re so selfish.”
She stood up and steadied herself. When had he become this brutal bully? When had he changed into this man… this man that she no longer knew…or respected … or even cared for? When had this change manifested itself so greatly that she was left bewildered, lost at sea?
Suddenly the sound of a key in the door jolted them and they both stared as the door swung open. They looked at each other and then at the woman who entered quietly, putting her bags down in the hallway as she calmly assessed the situation.
“Who are you?” he said, quite indignant. “And why are you in my house?”
The woman approached him slowly and took his arm. “I’m Rita. Remember? I come here every day to look after you and to give your wife a break? And it looks like I’ve come at just the right time.”
“But I’ve never met you before,” he said, looking puzzled. He looked at his wife. “Who is this woman and why has she got a key? Why are you letting strangers in the house?”
I said the same thing I repeated every day, every day for the past hundred years it felt like. “This is Rita, remember? You’ve been waiting all day for Rita. We wait every day for Rita. Remember?”
He looked from one to the other, trying to conjure up some kind of memory pattern, the brain cells visibly dying in his eyes like a retro Space Invader machine, the disease taking hold as every minute ticked past, slowly and slower as all the days merged into one. “But, but,” he blustered. “I have no idea who you are!”
“I know, love,” Rita said. “But, trust me, I’m going to change your pants for you and give you some dinner, and we can cut your food up nice and small just like you like it. Is that okay? I’m Rita. I’m your carer. Remember?”
He looked from her to his wife. It was clear that he had no idea who either of them were.
And as Rita steered him to the bathroom, his wife wept enough lonely tears to fill all the oceans that they had once sailed on, undulating with waves of love and happiness and hope for the future. A ship of hope. Sinking fast as she drowned in her daily tears of sorrow. In sickness and in health, that’s what they said.
THE END
Mags Winthrop Blog 