Double Exposure

by Fiona Sinclair

part 1

November 2009

Julia knew her husband’s heart was too generous; a tenner slipped into the hands of mendacious siblings, teaching his daughters to drive in his precious Vauxhall, treating Julia herself to a new frock for a dinner and dance. And, sure enough, by sixty his heart was spent and stopped.

This was the family’s first encounter with bereavement. But Julia could not share her daughters’ keening. The girls barely recognised their mother. Her diminutive body was usually a dynamo, keeping pace with the men on the farm, never defaulting on domestic duties, rolling up her sleeves at any perceived slight to her kids.

Now their mother spoke only in morsels. Nodded assent to funeral arrangements. Moved slowly as if in acute physical pain. Grief turned her brown eyes into a mourning black, which spread like a port wine stain over her face.

Mike’s funeral was the full stop to Julia’s giving in to grief. She set about reassembling herself. At first, she carried her sorrow like a great weight. But managed to push through. She chivvied herself to return to work, grading and packing fruit, a job that required concentration to the exclusion of all thought. Here she was surrounded by no-nonsense women who, after an initial hug and a ‘Sorry for your loss dear,’ didn’t dwell.

Everything was halved now. Meals for one, although she frequently prepared too much. Washing for one: no more muddy work jeans, oily shirts. And, of course, food shopping for one. She pushed the trolley bearing diminished contents up and down the aisles, stopped her hands from automatically picking up his favourite biscuits.

Evenings she distracted herself with domestic chores. Now, after dusting and hoovering, she could achieve the stately home accord she had craved, with no male presence to disrupt it. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ she thought grimly.

The TV and radio were Julia’s friends. She flooded the house with their sounds. Sometimes her interest pricked up its ears; at other times, the noise merely routed silence. Late afternoons, she could not kick the habit of looking at the clock for 6:00 pm, his home time. Then the weight of grief got the better of her, and she would drop into a chair.

At night, Julia still defaulted to her side of the bed. Extinguishing the light, she would look across at the darkness that replaced the reassuring outline of his back. Then her secret tears flowed freely. Prior to his funeral, she had spent nights ticking off the hours until daylight. Now, however, a day’s labour brought the blessing of sleep.

Weekends, she began to tackle the garden: ‘Putting it to bed for winter’ her husband used to say. Pruning, cutting back, mowing, then sitting on a garden chair, mug of tea in hand, she would try to visualise new flowerbeds. Mike had never been one for flowers. She knew, too, that she must take over the vegetable patch she had inherited from him.

Gradually, Julia began too to be a mother again. At first, she struggled to give her girls’ natter her full attention, managed occasionally to raise the ghost of a smile, forced herself to offer solutions to their problems.

It was during the early days of this adjustment to her life that, one Saturday at the sink, she suddenly felt rather than saw her husband beside her. It was his familiar station when she washed while he dried the crockery, often regarding the garden through the window. That she did not see him physically did not diminish the certainty of his presence.

After thirty-plus years of living together, they had developed an extra-preceptory sense of the other’s proximity. Julia knew when Mike’s car drew up outside the usual home time. Despite her back to the door, absorbed in her crafting, she did not jump when he entered the sitting room slipper-shod. Now she smiled, basking in the peace that filled the kitchen like sunlight. Then he was gone, as quickly as a child’s pricking a bubble.

Julia didn’t cry. It was not like losing him again. Although he was no longer present, the sense of peace stayed with her for many hours. She poured herself a glass of wine and sat by the lounge window, thinking of him now, without her thoughts feeling as if they were being dragged over broken glass.

This singular exchange could not, Julia knew, be explained to others, not even her daughters. It defied words. Its supernatural shading did not concern her; she had been brought up by an Irish mother who could have filled a book with her superstitions. But Julia knew that in the cold light of other people’s prejudice, the authenticity of the encounter would be challenged, explained away as imagination, normalised as a dream, dismissed as an hallucination. So, she remained silent, keeping this last intimate exchange between her husband and herself private, believing it to be a ‘Goodbye’ of sorts.

December 2014

After his terminal prognosis, Bonnie’s husband retreated to his bed and into himself as he marshalled all his strength to make a last stand against the cancer that had invaded his body.

Bonnie understood that, at the age of 41, anger also kept him alive. The unfairness of this disease stealing his prime. A sportsman all his life, his body had been his ally, giving him an unwavering energy for his two passions, soccer and cricket.

For weeks, his body inched towards its endgame, nourished only by morphine. Each evening the nurse clocked off, Bonnie took up her vigil by his bedside. Unable to muster energy to read or sew, she watched him battle on. At these times, she mentally beseeched him to ‘just let go,’ to release them all from this limbo. She wanted to spare her young daughter who, with horrified eyes, watched the dad who had once made her laugh with his clowning be translated into this living effigy.

Finally, one evening, the family doctor heard the tell-tale struggle for breath, the snake’s-tail rattle in the throat and administered pethidine’s helping hand. Bonnie’s sign of relief echoing the last breath that left his body.

At 36, the status of widow attached itself to her as it had her mother Julia at 58. Her father’s sudden death had ambushed her mother and dealt her a knockout punch. But she had been afforded time to mourn fully, free from the nag of financial complications. Her father had been responsible, had policies for life and funeral costs. His affairs were tidy. Since Julia had continued to work during her marriage, the only adjustment to her life was learning to live with his absence.

In contrast, Bonnie was also mourning the passing of a lifestyle. She knew that her husband had spoiled her in material ways. There was always a new piece of jewellery for Christmas and birthdays. Unlike her mum, she had never enjoyed work. So, when Ned suggested she give it up after the marriage, it was like a small lottery win. And for fifteen years she embraced domesticity with the relish of a 1950s housewife in an advert for soap powder.

But, of course, there was a price to pay. Undoubtedly Ned had a knack for making money. His brain was fecund with clever ideas. But he became bored quickly, usually as the project was just taking off. He was dilatory at paying bills. Generally, he had the means, but some cricket match would distract him from making out a cheque. Screaming second and third reminder letters, with bright red font as if written in blood, would simply slip his mind.

Whilst he was incommunicado on the farm somewhere or playing mid-week soccer, the sound of the bailiffs’ businesslike rap would echo through the house heavy with threat. It was only Bonnie’s beauty mixed with a mild dose of flirtation that saw them off. Over time, they became almost apologetic, having got the measure of her husband.

‘Us again, Mrs S,’ they would say, trying to make light. ‘I’ll get on it,’ she would sigh and then switch on her most bewitching smile. Each party knew it was a ritual they were obliged to perform in order to get Ned to pay up.

Her husband always ran to his own mean time. When he finally pitched up at dusk, his dinner would be chilling on the table. Their rows would be epic then, resulting in a cheque being written. But his financial dilatoriness remained incurable.

Now his legacy was monetary chaos. He had died mid-project. Bonnie had read the signs that his illness was something more sinister than the ‘indigestion’ the GP had dismissed for a year.

Despite vomiting after meals and stomach pains like a knife in the guts, Ned began a new and ambitious business venture. He ignored Bonnie’s pleas for caution. The new project acted as a distraction for him from the whispers in his head that questioned his symptoms.

When he died, her mourning for him was marred by anger at his financial irresponsibility. He had gambled on a future and lost, thus placing his wife’s and daughter’s own future in jeopardy. The outside world was hammering on her front door, but there was no one to chivvy for a cheque now, and a beautiful smile would no longer appease.

Inevitably their cottage would have to be sold off and a flat found to live in. She had to close down the botched business, pay off creditors. Her daughter had to be wrenched from private school and thrown to the wolves of the local comprehensive.

Proceed to part 2...