THE PASSING YEARS by Dave Dawson

Mary Carter Langtree was sitting with her eyes closed against the penetrating glare of the October sun. But for a nip in the easterly breeze, she had considered it to be a perfect day for the time of year. She had dressed in a light weight, floral summer dress for the unseasonable warmth but to be on the safe side, had wrapped a pink woollen cardigan around her shoulders. Her greying hair was cut short and displayed a pair of small, but nonetheless attractive, ruby earrings which perfectly matched the pendant necklace that rested below her chin.

It had not been her intention to fall into slumber but, slumber she did with her mouth slightly ajar and emitting a faint snore. Had she been able to witness herself as passers by did, she would’ve been mortified. Her legs crossed at the ankles, she sat reclined against the wooden backrest of the bench which, when she opened her eyes, afforded a view of the English Channel, busy with the comings and goings of ferry boats and leisure craft.

On her right sat her husband. He was casually dressed in a dark blue tracksuit over a white tee shirt, the easiest dress option given his unwillingness, or perhaps his inability, to assist in the morning ritual of making oneself presentable. He still retained a healthy head of white hair brushed up and back although a little shorter than he was used to. His blank stare over the sea conveyed little; his advanced dementia having taken all evidence of who he once was. He was wholly unaware of where he was and with whom he was sat. Indeed, for reasons only he could explain where he sufficiently compos mentis, he had started referring to his wife as Doris. No-one could recall any such person within or without there sphere of family, friends or neighbours. Maybe Doris had been a work colleague? Or possibly a contact made through work? Whatever, Doris remained a mystery.

Over the four years since his diagnosis, he had become increasing frail in both body and mind, resembling in many regards a pre-school child. Their once wonderful life of love and laughter was now consigned to memory as the disease ravaged his brain. On occasions, his condition brought about moments of frustrated anger during which he had been known to lash out as a disruptive child might, who couldn’t get his own way. They were desperate and heart wrenching times for his loving Wife who, at times, inevitably, felt abandoned.

Mary had met Duncan when she was seventeen and he, a twenty-six years old flying officer on two weeks leave from the Royal Airforce. A regular weekly visitor to the local Palais Dance, she had been swept off her feet by the suave moustached gentleman that had requested the pleasure of a dance. One dance led to another, then drinks, despite her being underage, in a quiet corner of the crowded, darkened room. They danced again when the band announced that things were being slowed down and launched into their version of a popular Sinatra song. She was aware of a delightful, light aftershave he was wearing and a lingering scent of pipe tobacco on his clothes as she rested her head on his shoulder. He walked her home and after a long, lingering goodbye on her doorstep, he walked away after promising to stay in touch. He was as good as his word and over the following seven months or so, attraction turned into yearning and love. Within a year he popped the question and, to the delight of both sets of parents, were married eighteen months later, before he was posted overseas.

As the wife of an RAF officer, she was entitled to accompany him on his foreign posting, and she joined him four months after their marriage, in Singapore where they spent a blissful three years together. The culture, the sights and smells of the street food vendors and the incredible architecture assaulted all her senses. She found Singapore to be a wonderful place and was convinced that she must be dreaming. It was exciting and vibrant and, as they had been unable to take a honeymoon immediately after the wedding, they treated Singapore as a long overdue, extended celebration of their union.

Back in the UK in a training role another three years passed quickly during which she gave birth to two children, Mark and Philip who joined their mum and dad as they flew to the United States for a further few years of his service. Life experience had exceeded all her hopes and expectations. She had seen the world; she was raising her children in some amazing locations where wide-open spaces were the norm and horse riding a way of life on the short but powerful American Quarter Horses. Then at weekends, when Dad was available, they would load up the car and head to a fantastic Florida beach a half hour away w here they would swim in the warm waters and tuck into BBQ food at local diners. Their house for the duration of their stay was fully equipped with the latest, must have home gadgets and came with a lounge area probably equal to the entire space of her parent’s two up two down terrace back home.

Duncan had spent fifteen years in the Airforce and his thoughts turned to their future as a growing family. Much as he and they loved their lives in Florida, after much discussion it was agreed that he would apply for a transfer back to the UK to see out his twenty-two years and maximise his pension entitlement. There was no doubt that leaving the service and all it had brought them would be a wrench, but together they took the decision that it would be better for their sons to have a settled education in a good British school with the added bonus of being close to willing Grandparents.

Duncan could easily have transferred his flying skills to a civilian role flying for a major airline like BOAC, but he determined that he wanted a close relationship with the boys and didn’t want the inevitable time spent away on three- and four-day jaunts to faraway climes. His wife and kids were his priority. He secured a job as a travelling salesman for a hardware company called Whitehall’s and, by sheer coincidence, his home phone number ended in 1212. He took great delight over his twenty-four years with the company answering his phone “hello, Whitehall 1212”, the renowned number of Scotland Yard, the Police Headquarters in London.

Both boys had done well and had aspired to university, then medical school and now both, well into middle age, had their own general practitioners surgery and had provided Mary and Duncan with seven grandchildren. One of them, James, had been the first to think that Grandad was a bit “doolally”. He mentioned to his Nanna Mary that Grandad had asked the whereabouts of Blackie, a Collie dog that they had had for fourteen years but had been put to sleep six years earlier. That had been the beginning of a rapid mental decline despite their son’s efforts to try to slow the pace.

Now, he remained oblivious to his wife’s slumbers as she reclined beside him on their favourite promenade bench. He stared vacantly out to sea with only an occasional ‘ahhh’ or ohhhh’ escaping his lips and without the slightest hint about what he was seeing or thinking. The bench had been a staple stopping point to share sandwiches, drinks, and ice creams throughout the years of their son’s and grandchildren’s growing up. It offered everything; a little takeaway café a few yards away, an ice cream parlour a couple of minutes in the opposite direction and wonderful views on a sunny day. Sometimes Dad would bring his binoculars and if the boys stood on the bench, the French coastline was vaguely visible in the far distance.

 Mary must have been dreaming because her left leg suddenly shot straight out in front of her, narrowly missing a gentleman’s dog and she loudly snorted the way one often does in such circumstances, much to the gentleman’s humour. He winked knowingly at the third person on the bench dressed smartly in a pair of tennis whites, with a full head of white hair above some expensive looking sunglasses and holding hands with the lady on his right. ‘A handsome couple,’ he mused as he continued on his way, dragged along by an inquisitive beagle.

Frank had confessed to Mary two years earlier that he loved her. “Not in the way of sex mad youngsters” he had quickly pointed out, but rather, in a way that reflected his guilt and sorrow at both losing his own Wife, Dorothy, to Cancer some three years earlier and coinciding with Mary’s own loss of her Husband to dementia.

The foursome had been the very best of friends for a very long time and Frank was the first to admit that he found life incredibly lonely without his life partner. Together they had shared days out and even holidays to the major cities of Italy delighting in the charms of Venice, Rome and Florence. They had chugged down the Amalfi Coast in Duncan’s Morris Traveller on a month-long jaunt once the boys had fled the nest and, over time, Frank felt his feelings for the waif like, almost pixie like Mary, taking on a new dimension. His eyes were drawn to her face which he grew to consider beautiful. He was enamoured by her innocent laughter and quick wit, and he found her shining sometimes green, sometimes brown eyes according to the light, enchanting.

Dorothy in contrast was altogether more serious and for at least ten years of their time up to her death, she had gained a lot of unflattering weight, ‘rather let herself go’ he felt. She tended to ‘nitpick’ too which had got worse as she had got older. She turned vegetarian which both stunned and disappointed the sworn carnivore in Frank. He had quietly admitted to himself that life was not what he had worked hard for in his car maintenance business. He reconciled that there could potentially be a better, a nicer future for himself without the woman he had married over thirty years ago. ‘Selfish!’ he admitted to himself, ‘but really, it’s like she’s stopped caring about herself’. Then came the shock diagnosis of Pancreatic Cancer and Frank became a widower just eight painful months later watching and waiting the inevitable, as his Wife’s condition declined.

He would never have shared his feelings for Mary whist he was married or, indeed, whilst she had a Husband sharing her life, but, witnessing her sadness, he felt compelled to disclose how he felt. As he turned sixty-eight he took her on one side as they shared a bottle of wine, Duncan was in the lounge watching, but possibly not seeing, the television in the corner. Sensing the time was right, Frank placed his hands on Mary’s shoulders and looked into her brown eyes. He was undoubtedly an attractive man for his years. He still stood upright and had maintained a trim figure, and she had always been impressed with his stylish dress sense. He anticipated that she might withdraw from his attention but was relieved when she placed a hand on each of his arms as if to hold him in place. She listened to his confession and thanked him for his honesty. His reward was a light kiss on his right cheek as her right hand stroked his left cheek and for just a moment, she shed a single tear.

Nothing happened beyond that simple kiss for sixteen months, but frank was witness to Duncan’s rage one day as he demanded Doris bring him a cup of tea. For Mary it was a breaking point. She had slammed the kettle down upon the gas stove and burst into tears, crumbling onto her knees in front of the oven. In a flash Frank helped her to her feet and held her close as she sobbed uncontrollably into his left shoulder. She sobbed for five long minutes during which Frank gave into his heartfelt need and kissed her on the top of her head before taking her chin in his hands and, turning her face to him, kissed her long and meaningfully on her open lips.

She had clung to him for what seemed like forever and as she pulled away she looked in his eyes and begged him, “darling, if you meant what you said, please, don’t ever leave me”. That had been the beginning of a closeness that over the two years since, had become an unbreakable bond. Frank spent time at her home and shared the responsibility of caring for Duncan. They kept the arrangement private but recognised that there would eventually come the inevitable day, when the two Sons would need to be told. Mary did not relish that time and sought constant reassurance of Frank’s commitment. “I love you, Sweetheart, and I have for longer than I care to admit. We travel this road together, for ever”.

Beside him on the bench Mary was stirring. She opened her eyes, said, “oooh, sorry, I think I dropped off for a minute”.

“A minute, you say” said Frank. “Do you have any clue what time it is?”

“No, Half past three or so I would think”. She gazed up at his smiling face.

“Aye, you’re a minute or two adrift with your assessment, it’s going on for a quarter to five!”

“No!, Oh my, oh my, what about Duncan?”

“He hasn’t stirred for well over half an hour. I guess the sun sent him to sleep, too”.

Mary sat up straight and remained motionless for a few seconds as her sleepy brain woke up to the fact that she was no longer sleeping. She turned to her husband and reached for his hand which sat between them on the bench. “Duncan”, she gently nudged him. “Duncan, love, it’s time for home”. He didn’t respond. Worried, Mary looked at Frank for support, “Duncan.., Duncan!” she raised her voice louder and slightly panicked “Duncan!”, but there was no response from the prone figure beside her.

When it became obvious that Duncan was wholly unresponsive she felt for a pulse and found none. His hand flopped onto the bench when she let it go and a sickening reality dawned on her. Duncan had slipped quietly and peacefully away. She started to weep and hugged the shell of the man she had shared her life with. People passing by stopped to ask “is everything ok” and a man mentioned that there was a phone box on the corner and went off to call an ambulance. Frank put his arm around both Mary and Duncan and embraced them both as she quietly wept.

The ambulance arrived, it’s bells and lights cutting through the evening shadows and the crew went through their well-versed routine, checking for signs of life and confirming name, age and address of the victim. A Policeman who had seen the ambulance arrive ran up to see if his assistance was required and confirmed everything was in hand. He questioned Mary about the victim and her relationship to him and queried any medical issues. Meanwhile, Duncan was stretchered into the ambulance by the crew after advising Mary that he would be taken to the hospital mortuary before being released to a funeral director.

Though overwhelmed with sadness at his passing, Mary was mortified that he had passed without her saying a last goodbye. Without a last look into his blue eyes, and a feeling of guilt that she had slept holding hands with Frank, her husband had breathed his last. It would take time to heal, she knew. She would break the news to her Doctor Sons who she knew would take the news like medical professionals but also as those who had lost a Father. And of Frank, she was torn between the need for his support and the guilt of their feelings. Maybe she would mention how supportive he had been throughout their father’s illness, in preparation for the big reveal some time later, when the loss was less raw. He had been quick to assure her that she would have his support throughout the hurting and healing process and that he was ready to provide whatever she would need in the weeks and months ahead. He felt it appropriate that she spent some time with her family and without the burden of his presence, until she felt the time was right.

They waited a full two years before committing to a life together in marriage. A small ceremony at the local registry office was planned but to their utter surprise over sixty friends and family turned up for the event, insistent that they celebrate in style after the legalities. As a sign of acceptance, Sons Mark and Philip had conspired to book a celebratory meal at a local hotel renowned for its menu and service. They had booked for fifty but assured everyone that a couple of extra tables could easily be sorted out. The food lived up to its reputation, the drinks flowed and some speeches were made to the delight of the couple. It was a most fantastic, unexpected day.

The honeymoon they had decided could be nowhere else but Italy and, as a nod to happier times in different circumstances they took trains to all the places they had previously visited and shared joyous days eating wonderful food and, in their own individual way, relived moments in their heads that they had spent with their original partners, for one last time. The future was for them. However long they might have together they agreed, each would serve to ensure the happiest of times together, what ever life may hold for them in the twilight of their years.