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Sarah Hilary
After a Long Illness, Quietly at Home
First, I want to show you his room.
Lemon walls, a bit greasy just there above the bed. And yes I know.
Should’ve washed his hair more often. He hated me to touch him
though, especially towards the end: ‘You’re not my ruddy wife!’
Foreign embassy. Listen to them talk. All about his honourable
service. Surely, I think, someone else knew the truth. How am I all
alone? Formica, the bedside cabinet. Look at the tea-cup rings,
Vaseline and whatnot.
A litter of tissues. Search them for lipstick insignia? Haven't the
heart now, not now. Funny how the light in here makes everything
flatter than it really is. Linoleum floor; I wanted Axminster but he
wouldn’t budge. ‘Axminster? Soon you’ll have us with chintz bloody
curtains.’
How about a rug, I said, and of course he made a comment about my
hair. For a while I thought of leaving him. Longed to, in fact.
Asked at work about relocating. Sunnier climes?
‘Ha ha! Bugger off then.’ Ferocious sod had his pride.
Look.
At the shape of his head in the pillows. Still warm. Half a glass of
water with his teeth in it. French letter. Library book. Andrew’s
Liver Salts. Spectacles, horn-rimmed. Handkerchief, spotty.
For what it’s worth, I loved him. Lonely sort of love. Anyone asks,
I wouldn’t recommend it. See what it’s done to me. Hitting the ditch
from the pillows where his head lay, opening the windows to air a
room where I was never welcome, not even when I brought breakfast
and the post.
‘Flaming bills!’
Language, I’d say.
‘And you can sod off!’
‘Shall I turn back the bed?’
He’d look at me then, all sunken chest and self-reproach, and I’d
pat his hand and pour the tea and two cups later he’d be fine.
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