Words of Christ in Red

They gave Jim a Catholic burial, of course they did, never mind that he'd been lapsed for such a long time. There was no-one left to protest, nobody to take his side since his brother George had died the four years previously. The thought that Jim had silently relied on her, taken it as a matter of fact that she would do the right thing by him after his death; that thought was almost enough to tip June right over. She argued with herself again and again. At a bus-stop, waiting, he must've known I couldn't possibly change the family's mind. Whilst soaking the curtains, he knew I don't like to disrupt the status quo. Finally, at one a.m. in bed, lit by the orange shallows of street lamps, he expected too damn much from me. That's all.

* * * * *

She wakes slowly, lets the shape of the world, its rules, the facts, sneak in gradually, layers of sadness gently realised. When she is fully conscious, the numb weight of her flat body against the mattress feels enough to bring the house down. She imagines the four walls falling down, slowly, in perfect unison. The way the barn in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers falls, just after they've raised it. She pictures blowing up the house herself, using a favourite shirt from his younger days to complete a Molotov cocktail like a Bond girl. Anything to make her free.
She thought she should feel liberated as a widow, boundless, but in fact it turned out the opposite way. People drew closer and too close, swarming her into corners, talking and talking with too much sympathy in their eyes.
She dulls her vision to a slit, wrinkles the crows feet in a frown, concentrates on the combed swirls of paint that cover the bedroom ceiling. The truth, she thinks, the truth is that I do feel grief and relief in equal measures. She sees them as liquids, relief floating like oil on top of grief, the big G. Draws her eyes to a close, fights for sleep again, to get away from the day.

* * * * *

The weeks after the funeral, six or seven weeks, were the slowest of her life. She had a role to play, certain functions to perform. She thought it important, for instance, that she visited the graveyard every day for the first few weeks, whether in April showers or under the slow sweating sun. She walked there and back, kept her pace respectable and melancholy, head bowed, dangling flowers by her side. Daffodils were 40p a bunch in M&S. She imagined the people behind the nets every time she went past the house of someone she knew. The whispers, the prayers. She worked so hard to look the picture of grief that there was really nowhere inside her for it to exist. It became a bleary external sensation only, something slow and needless, a dignified void. She began reducing her daily visits at three weeks, when it seemed most appropriate. Everybody knows that life has to go on. She made sure though that she carried on visiting at least twice a week. The flowers were more expensive now, the supply of daffs exhausted. She found it a little bit harder, every time she knelt on the spring grass that had grown so fast, to think about their life together as something tangible. It was easier to imagine him in isolation, just memories of him, a stand alone symbol, a beacon, a husband.

* * * * *

When she reluctantly opens her eyes again, June knows instantly that sleep has retired for the day - they open freely, no clagging, no gritty tiredness behind, just open and clear to bright sunshine light. The duvet is still tucked in to the other side of the mattress, so it's tight around her and she struggles to prop herself up with pillows against the plush headboard. Even now, it hurts in her stomach to look at that side of the bed. Should she fill it up with something? To stop this habit she's developing of looking every few minutes. Cuddly bears, or books, or cushions and a throw. But she does not want to change the personality of the room yet, even slightly. Her husband still speaks to her through the neat whiteness of this room. His fountain pen in the corner writing desk, and the striped paperclips he chose just to be funny. The book he was reading is still over there. She considers for a moment picking up where he left off, finishing it for him, making a connection between them beyond the grave. But, no. She will not touch it.
June decides it's better that she starts saving up for a single bed. Looks at the clock, covers her eyes with a hand for a moment.

* * * * *

She surprised herself in late May by getting a job - a little job in a quiet shop that sold art supplies and all different kinds of paint. She knew it would have surprised Jim. She reduced its potential to surprise friends and the family though, playing it down, explaining and over justifying. She hadn't really applied as such, just helping out a friend of a friend really. No, she didn't need the money, Jim's Navy pension was more than adequate. In fact, she had applied, thinking it was somehow ideal. On the form she had ticked the box for single. There wasn't one for widowed.
Secretly, she thought of a holiday, maybe a cruise or the Orient Express. The pension certainly wouldn't pay for that. And the main thing, the thing she admitted to no-one except her friend Dee, was how it felt to have some kind of purpose again. To look after a plot of earth was no substitute for looking after a husband. She hated cooking only for herself - food tasted of nothing when cooked and eaten alone. She had taken to ready meals from Marks and Sparks.
The job gave her a purpose, something she had to get up early for, even if only twice a week. She liked the feelings that came when she sat behind the desk with tea, all holed up in displays and stock and pine furniture. She was responsible for something. If she wanted, she could spend the day fussing around the shop, keep herself busy with dusting and filling stock and making it all look nice. Or she could read, do crosswords, think about Jim. Sometimes she perched on a stool at the back of the shop, leaning her chin into her hand, letting memories rise and fall, waiting for the giggle of the bell above the door.

* * * * *

She descends the stairs slowly and warily, remembering how Dee had fallen down the stairs last week. Dee had joked about finally feeling like an old woman, after reassuring June that she had only bruised her knee. June knows that it's not the extent of an injury, but the shock that can do the most harm. It riles her today, to be walking down her own stairs so tentatively.
She stoops to pick up the post from the doormat on her way past, rifling through the few envelopes as she enters the kitchen. There's a letter from cousin Chris, no doubt a 'family bulletin', a phone bill, and what looks like an invitation to open a new credit card. She flicks on the kettle and tears the latter in uneven halves for the bin. At my age, she thinks, and feels a widening spot of panic. I do not want to be old.
Tea is soothing, as always, and she switches on radio 4 at a lulling hum. Now comes the question of what to do with the day. She has asked at the shop for more hours, but they just don't have them. Days off are all too often problematic. The time stretches out ahead of her, and she has to live through every blank second of it. Sometimes, this thought is enough to make her get the brown paper bag out of the drawer, to breathe into until her thoughts become grounded once again. Time does things to her, and she would rather not have so much of it on her hands. Recently, she has taken (guiltily - she knows it's wrong) to trying to pin time down. Now and then, on a day off, she checks the kitchen every ten minutes, with the aim of pinpointing the approximate moment when bananas and pears start to rot, or milk begins to turn. She's aware there's a name for it: obsessive-compulsive.
She knows she must commit herself to getting out of the house more. Then, has the idea that she might go swimming, something she used to enjoy doing regularly, a few years ago. She remembers the last time she went - the local swimming pool was closing down, and she never made an effort to register anywhere else, even when the giant new sports centre opened and she could have easily caught a bus. That day, in the slowest lane of the pool, she had lapped a young girl she was sharing it with. The girl must have been in her early twenties, with bright pink hair and a nose ring. June had felt the most overwhelming and unexpected pleasure at beating this girl who was at least four decades younger than herself. She took a rest shortly after, hooking an arm over the edge of the swimming pool and letting the warm rippling water move her gently in swells, when the girl caught up to her and smiled apologetically, saying, I'm sorry I'm so slow. First time here, heavy smoker. June had smiled right back, sympathetic even though she had never smoked herself. It'll come, she had said, soon enough.

* * * * *

After only a few weeks of working at the shop, June began to easily recognise the regular customers, and not only that but the people who frequented the odd little back-street where the shop was situated. The people who walked by at the same time every day on their way to work, the alcoholics who every morning made their way towards the Bull's Head in chiming time with the licensing laws. The street was home to a wide variety of shops, all specialist and independent. A couple of galleries and a pub, two florists, a comic shop, a wedding specialists, a shop selling bondage gear that June couldn't help but scan the window of every time she walked by. Because of this, the street was also home to a wide variety of people - mostly weirdoes, as Jim would have said, never mincing his words. Once, a man with tattoos all up his neck and one side of his face had come into the shop. By this time, June was aware of the many different types of folk who used the art shop, and thought she had seen every kind of bizarre fashion, body ornamentation or hair style, but still he shocked her a little. It was something in the way he moved, sliding forward but sideways like a crab, like he was literally putting his best foot forward. How can I help, she'd asked, and he'd flashed her a wide-eyed grin before offering his wares. Do y'wanna buy some steak? Flustered, she stammered a little as she politely refused. He pulled it out of his overcoat pocket to show her and she'd started to wonder if she should phone the police, but all it took was another courteous 'no', and he left, thanking her anyway over his shoulder. She related it to Dee the next evening over a white wine spritzer in the garden and they'd laughed until their faces ached. It felt good.

* * * * *

The most important thing, June reflects as she steps into the shower, is that I do not become boring. Old is bad enough, and there are too many people my age that are boring. Especially women. Thank the Lord for darling Dee. She pulls her hair back under the spray, wondering if she should stop by the library after swimming. As well as getting something new to read - she must remember to get that Barbara Trapido book set in South Africa, now what was it called? - she could scan the rack of leaflets, perhaps see if there were any appealing evening classes about at the moment. Maybe something she and Dee could do together - glass painting? Yoga? (For seniors!) Or some sort of book club? They were the 'in thing' now, thanks to Richard and Judy.
She decides, while soaping her arms, to - at some point - write down a list of the things that will prevent her from becoming boring. Never give up drinking wine. Join a book club is a good one. Perhaps get a digibox, for BBC News 24 - keeping up to date on current affairs is an absolute must. Something pops into her head before she can stop it, and she knows instantly that she has been fighting to keep from thinking this thought for weeks now.
Why haven't I died of heartbreak?
She knows, just from pure life experience, that it is not unusual, when a spouse dies after a long and close marriage, for the other partner to follow shortly after. Not from a particular disease, or even from old age, just natural causes, because they have been left a half person, because they cannot live without love. Did I not love him enough?
There is such a tide of guilt that she is drowning in it.

* * * * *

She was tucked behind the paper-strewn desk with tea in her new mug patterned with swallows, re-reading a favourite Agatha Christie, when the door's jingle sounded. It being the afternoon, she thought it was probably one of the students from the city's art school, since they only ever came in after lunch. She wanted to believe that it was because they spent the mornings using up their art materials with hard work, but suspected it was really because they didn't get up before twelve. She didn't look up - they usually knew what they wanted - but continued puzzling out a tricky red herring.
"Excuse me? he said, and when she looked up, she simply said, oh, as a sound and not a word. The pleasant surprise in her voice was so evident to her that she instantly blushed.
"I wonder - I was sent here by the music shop on the corner. Presumably I can get everything I need here for my busy life as an artist?
He smiled, joking, looking around the shop. June nodded, eager to recover her dignity.
"And anything we don't have we can order in very easily.
"I see. Thank you.
He turned his back to look at the oil paints and June breathed out a silent sigh. She had found him instantly attractive, and this old forgotten feeling was so surprising to her that she didn't know what to do, wanted him to leave so she could take stock of the situation, regain her balance. He was a petite man with silvered hair. Nothing like Jim, she thought. He looked neat, but wore a beige suit that was on the wrong side of slightly too big.
"I can see I shall have to come back with a list.
His voice was quiet and well-spoken. She smiled at him.
"I wonder if I might leave my card? In case I could ever get my landscapes in the window, perhaps?
"Well, of course, Mr¦
"Holland. Paul Holland.
He shook her hand, and left. He had the sort of face, she thought wistfully, that she would have found attractive even at the age of eighteen, and she found herself wondering if he had thought her attractive too.

* * * * *

At the bottom of the stairs, ready to leave after grabbing her shoulder bag from the kitchen, June notices a piece of paper sticking out of the letterbox. She tugs it out and, after glancing at it, sits on the bottom step to read it.
"ATTENTION! It reads boldly, "WE ARE COLLECTING OLD AND UN-USED BIBLES TO SEND OUT TO NAMIBIA WITH REVEREND BRISTOW NEXT MONTH. PLEASE¦
And June reads no further. She is remembering.

It was her birthday just weeks after she and Jim met. He came to collect her in the evening because they were going dancing. Although they'd already kissed and were used to holding hands, although there had been no gaps in conversation or awkward silences because they seemed to fit together like some radiant new entity, she was nervous because it was her birthday. She didn't expect a present since they'd only just met, yet the thought of Jim's potential gift made a smile jump to her face. She didn't want to appear disappointed in front of him if he hadn't got her anything, she didn't want to get it wrong.
Walking through a park on the way to the city, laughing at squabbling magpies, he made her sit on a bench, and then handed her a present, unwrapped, from the lining of his jacket. It was a new Holy Bible, bound in black leather, one that could be fastened shut to protect the pages within. It was not what she had expected, but she couldn't at that moment think of anything else that she'd rather he'd given her. Opening it up, she thanked him and kissed him lightly on the mouth. He had written their names and the date in the front, in a beautifully sloping hand, with blue ink. She turned to the title page and he chuckled. Amused, he read over her shoulder.
" 'The New King James Version. Words of Christ in Red.' Makes it sound a bit like a play, doesn't it?
He took it from her and opened it up at Luke, holding it between them.
"Right. Words of Christ in red. You be Christ. I'll be the narrator.
She laughed, looking about to see if anyone had overheard their blasphemy, put her hand on his neck under the collar, kissed his cool cheek.