02:13. The harsh red light of the digital alarm clock glows
in the darkness, a beacon on my barren bedside table. The
usual boulders of rocky air are still tumbling around inside
the radiator, clicking and clucking their disapproval at my
lack of interest in bleeding the air out. I don’t care.
I know full well how to do it, but I don’t have to think
about it anymore. This will be the last time that I have to
listen to their complaints.
I’ll close my eyes and slip into a dream. What shall
I dream of this early in the morning? A trip to the hairdressers
with a tension-softening scalp massage? Tourists milling around
the windy base of the Eiffel Tower? Or taking a walk through
a lush tropical garden in Paradise?
Who am I kidding? I can’t sleep or dream: I’m
too wide awake. I slither my feet out of bed and into my slippers,
grab my dressing gown and scuffle downstairs to put the kettle
on in time-honoured fashion. I grope in the almost empty cupboard
for the last camomile tea bag and wish there was a comforting
digestive biscuit to nibble. Back in bed and propped up against
a pillow, I gaze into the non-distance as I sip the cooling
liquid, willing the infusion to give me some rest, better
still, oblivion. I have nothing to read, nothing to switch
my mind into neutral. The silence around me is both deafening
and boring. I finally drain my mug and snuggle under the duvet
for consolation in my monastic cell. Max, oh Max.
04:32. It’s still dark and there’s a hint, a whisper,
of light rain on the window. It’s too early to get up,
and besides, there are no more teabags, just a scraping of
instant coffee and a slice of curling bread saved for my breakfast.
Did I dream of the Paradise Garden, the hairdressers, the
Eiffel Tower? I’ve no idea. Odds on that it was about
Paris. It’s usually about Paris.
God, it was bone-numbingly cold when we were there, wasn’t
it Max?
‘April in Paris is supposed to be romantic,’ you
complained, as we peered at the tourist boats gliding up and
down the Seine, and we laughed, our sense of humour warped.
April was too far ahead: drab November had to do its best.
But it was romantic, in its own strange way. Our tiny room
was a nest, complete in itself and full of love, hope against
hope. The hotel was cheap and I wouldn’t use the ancient
lift in case it got stuck. I’d wheel you into it and
then race down the spiral staircase to meet you for our petit
dejeuner, taken in the curiously decorated breakfast room
where we could detect the rumbling of Metro trains underground.
Madame, who we decided must be the owner, cook, receptionist,
porter and chambermaid, smiled in conspiracy as though used
to lovers’ strange games.
You had found a thin booklet at the back of your desk about
a month before. ‘I’m not going to need my savings
account,’ you’d said. ‘This has been my
promise of distant travel, my ticket to the unknown,’
you’d said dramatically. Then you giggled, back to your
normal self. ‘Every time I emptied my pockets of loose
change, I’d drop the money into a box at the back of
the drawer. And when the box was full, I’d take it to
the Post Office. I haven’t used it for years. It’s
my Aladdin’s Lamp Fund – a bit stupid to say out
loud, but what great timing, to find it now. Where shall we
run away to?’
The savings in that little book gave us so much pleasure,
so much to look forward to at a time when we dared not anticipate
much of the future. The world was our oyster. Find an atlas.
Stab a pin in a spinning globe. We plagued the very patient
travel agent. Practicalities of cost and access were casually
assessed but our overriding need was to find a destination
that we could devour with all our senses and then lie back
later, replete. Like a good meal, the memory lingered, a balm
for your growing pain and my heartache.
Our feast of memories was as diverse as our short chilly holiday.
The freshly baked smell from the bakery around the corner
from our little hotel drew us in for pastries and coffee even
though we’d just had Madame’s continental breakfast.
Attracted by shouting voices in the market, we enjoyed old-fashioned
access to pavement stalls of glistening fish, succulently
beached in shoals on ice-beds. You were moved by the unexpected
and silent kindness of tourists as they parted to allow you
better access to see the Mona Lisa from your lowly chariot.
And Notre Dame, despite the chatter of others, gave us an
unexpected sense of peace.
‘You must get yourself a Post Office book,’ you
said, as the Eurostar train flashed us back home through countryside
preparing for the harshness of winter. ‘It could be
your own Aladdin’s Lamp Fund, for later.’
I shook my head and looked away across the aisle. I wouldn’t
have him to run away with later, but it was too much to bear
to acknowledge that, even if he could.
‘I’ve read that the Post Office are changing it
somehow, but it’s a whimsical thing, a bit of fun to
look forward to,’ you said. And when we were home, you
worried away, terrier-like, at the idea of me starting my
own travel savings until I gave in and opened a small account
at the local building society, which you instantly christened
my Magic Carpet fund.
‘I wonder how our waiter is this evening?’ you
said to me weeks later, when you could no longer bear to eat.
I didn’t need to ask who you meant. It could only have
been that one waiter, at an unpromising bistro we found near
the hotel. He’d sensed your flagging interest in the
menu and brought you a small platter of French cheese and
fat Italian grapes. You couldn’t refuse and yet you’d
told me that each mouthful gave you the nursery-comfort of
a sick child being fed invalid food. You looked solemn for
a moment, then gave your throaty gurgle of a laugh. ‘A
pity he didn’t peel the grapes though, but he was a
kind man – for a Frog.’ You never were very PC.
07:21. Disappointingly, the anticipated sunshine isn’t
filtering around the curtain edges. Instead there’s
a flurry of wind in the trees and a squall of sharp rain beats
a reveille on the window. I turn to squint at the time again.
I must resemble a cartoon character, with eyes going around
in conflicting Catherine-Wheel rotation until they are able
to focus. I slump back on to my pillow. No need for the alarm
now. I won’t be able to fall back to sleep: my stomach
is grumbling. I stretch out under the duvet. I feel strangely
rested despite my disturbed night. Eventually I turn my head
to look at the emptiness on the other side of the bed: I can’t
get out of the habit, even after all this time. Of course
you’re not there, are you?
My mind ticks through the details of the day ahead, of jobs
planned and new ideas. I have much to do today, Max. I’m
going to the hairdresser first, trying to join in with the
inane chatter that seems obligatory with the baptism of shampoo.
The florists next, and then I have to let myself back into
our home for the last time. I stretch my arm out on to the
cold sheet beyond the duvet. I know I am being weak and feeble
but I need to do this, one more time… just a few more
minutes here with you, Max.
But my muttering stomach and list of things to do are driving
me out of bed. I throw back the duvet and move to the window
to open the curtains and view the state of the day. The squall
has passed, as they do, and there is the glimpse of blue sky
to the west, perhaps the start of the pleasant March day that
the forecaster promised. My new outfit, hanging on the outside
of the wardrobe door, looks good in the freshly laundered
daylight. I’m sure you’d understand and approve
of today, Max. You hinted at it towards the end. ‘Go
to see our friend Robert at the travel agents when you’ve
saved enough and he’ll help to direct your Magic Carpet
to somewhere exciting.’
I know that you’ll come with me, Max, in this new life
that I’m creating with Robert. We both know that, he
and I. After the registrar marries us this afternoon we’ll
come to visit you, and I shall leave my posy of spring flowers
with you, where you sleep undisturbed. Pink tulips and tender
narcissi are for the promise of spring and new life, and the
fragrant purple hyacinths are for your walks in the Paradise
Garden.
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| Shortlisted
Entries shortlisted to final judging stage in the Savings
short story competition were from: Maggie Bonnell, Christow,
Exeter; Patricia Carlton, Haslemere, Surrey; Peter Chadbourne,
Stockport; Stephen Davies, Djibo, Burkina Faso; Lynn Florkiewicz,
Crawley, West Sussex; Sheila Forbes, Okato, New Zealand; Mary
Keyser, Cambridge; Jacquelynn Luben, Pirbright, Woking, Surrey;
Linda Mallinson, Hagley, Stourbridge; Robert Walden, Newbury,
Berkshire.
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