Memories are made of this

Pamela Field felt little emotion as she stood at the bus stop on that cold, dismal February morning. To look at her no one would think that, twenty minutes earlier, she had been standing in the Chapel Of Rest looking down at the dead face of her husband Joseph.

The years had gradually drained all of her feelings out of her heart until she sometimes thought of herself as an empty shell of a woman, an automaton creature. But she knew that, deep within her, like the seeds waiting in the ground for spring to appear, there lay passions which had been buried for so long that she sometimes dreaded that they would wither and die. But she knew these feelings were still there, waiting to be tapped. But now her years of bondage were over, she felt nothing, neither joy nor sorrow. She did feel a immense sense of relief, but that was all. As she stood looking at Joseph that morning she had tried to analyse the face in a detached sort of way, as if she were a stranger meeting him for the first time. She tried to find kindness in the marble features but she could not. There was malice there and cruelty and contempt. Of humour there was none. She could hardly believe that, for twenty years, she had been this man's slave.

As Pamela stood, tapping her feet to keep them warm, people gave her sympathetic glances as they passed her. She tried to look suitably grief stricken, and she cast her eyes low as they looked at her. She wished the bus would hurry up so that she could get away from the village for a few hours. In Easthampton no one would know that, twenty four hours ago her husband had collapsed and died. No one would know that had last she had been set free. She felt like a bird whose cage is suddenly opened so that she could fly away into the cloudy sky.

In truth Pamela loved the village and wanted to stay there for the rest of her life, but just for to-day she wanted to escape from the kind, sympathetic glances. Tomorrow; the pretence would have to begin again, she would have to act out the part expected of her, but today she must get away.

She heard the bus approaching. As she boarded it few people spoke to her. She felt her way to the front of the bus and sat down. the noise of the engine lulled her into a kind of stupor, but her spirits rose as they sped away from the village and she was nearer to the chance to be unknown.

Why had she married Joseph. She had asked herself that question for the thousandth millionth time. Was it because of the terrible isolation and loneliness she had felt after James had died, she suppose it was. She had been so blissfully happy with James as they began to rear their little family that she could not visualise a relationship such as she had suffered with Joseph.

Even now, twenty five years after James death, she still felt great longings for him. She would lie in bed and imagine how wonderful it had felt with his arms around her, holding her tight.

Most of the time she had been a buffer between her children and their step-father, shielding them from his angry outbursts and taking the blame herself. She did this in a desperate desire to protect her children. As for herself , she soon discovered that Joseph was a hard, sadistic, cruel man and she had to endure long tirades of angry, virulent speech. He tried to almost keep her a prisoner in the house. If she went out on a shopping expedition then she would dread the reception she would get when she returned in the late afternoon. The years had slid away. Pamela had felt more and more dejected and empty until she felt like the shadow of her original self. But now Joseph was dead. She was free. At last, the never ending nagging had ceased; her house was quiet.

When she reached Easthampton it was twelve o'clock and the church clock in the market place was playing oranges and lemons as she passed. She had loved the clock since being a little girl. She had worked in a office, close to this church, the chimes of this comforting clock guiding her through the monotony of her days.