Bearing
Up
by
Judith Williams
Marian was busy. She had been busy
now for three months, every minute of the day. All her household
linen was washed, ironed and neatly folded in the cupboards. The
bottles of medicine, half-used packets of pills, and all the unmentionable
paraphernalia had been disposed of or returned to Social Services.
The now unwanted clothes had been given to charity shops, as had
his old golf clubs, his box of darts, even his books. ‘Get
it over with, Mum, and then you’ll feel better,’ Carol
had told her, before she flew back home to France.
‘It isn’t far,’ she kept saying, to quiet her
conscience. ‘I can easily come if you need me.’ Perhaps,
but she hadn’t, had she? Not till the funeral, too late to
say goodbye and I love you.
Marian dashed her tears hastily away and resumed her polishing.
The furniture had never been so bright. She had washed the loose
covers, even the curtains, though putting them up was a struggle,
balancing on a chair and getting her fingers trapped under the pelmets.
She had done everything. Not a trace remained of poor Bill, except
for the photos. But she didn’t feel better, not at all.
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She sat down to drink her lonely
cup of tea and rest her aching back. What the bungalow really needed,
she thought, looking around the unnaturally neat living room, was
a thorough redecoration. A wizard with a paintbrush, Bill was, in
his prime, but it was a good few years since he had been fit enough.
She had washed the gloss and dabbed at the marks on the eggshell,
but tidemarks had appeared and it looked a lot worse than before.
She didn’t need to get out the savings book. She knew to the
penny what was in there. Must keep enough handy for her funeral,
which didn’t leave much for extravagance. Just a fresh coat
of paint would do, nothing flashy. Perhaps she might find someone
cheap on the board in the shop.
‘How are you, Mrs Smithers? Bearing up?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ she lied, politely: it didn’t
do to complain. ‘Can I look at your board? I need a painter
and decorator.’
‘Oh, left you all right then, has he, your Bill?’
Marian felt herself shrink. ‘It’s got a bit run down
inside - the bungalow - him being so ill,’ she mumbled, uncomfortably.
The shopkeeper looked as if she didn’t believe her, as if
she were embarking on a life of debauchery on poor Bill’s
life savings. ‘There’s only one, here, see. Never had
any complaints. Not that I’ve used him myself. My Fred does
all that.’
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