by Robin Wrigley
A Lost
Lover
Gin &
Tonic
Rosie Walsh lay back in her easy chair basking in a
warming shaft of April sunshine shining through the side window. Having just had
her elevenses of coffee, made with milk and two chocolate digestives she was
feeling relaxed and ready for a small nap before lunch.
“You alright in there, Rose?” Her carer poked her
head around the door and was pleased to see that the old girl was fast asleep in
her chair. The steady rise and fall of her cardigan assured her all was
well.
Rose slept soundly dreaming of days gone by when
Albert first called to take her out. Course she was Rose Edwards then and
everybody called her Rosie even though it was in fact her second name. She was
really Nellie Rose Edwards, the same as her grandmother but she couldn’t stand
Nellie. Her main objection to it was the boy next door, Frank Kimber, always
used to sing ‘Nellie put your belly next to mine’ whenever he saw
her.
She hated that boy Kimber almost as much as she
loved Albert, yet it was strange how she always dreamt about both of them in
equal amounts. Funny really because she had been married to Roger Walsh right up
to his death and hadn’t seen neither hide nor hair of the other two in donkey’s
years.
She did have one disturbing dream where the Queen
Mother made a visit to the town and met Roger pushing Margaret’s pram up the
High Street and he told her it wasn’t his baby.
It was the war that messed her life up. She and
Albert were going steady when he got his papers and was shipped off first to
Aldershot and then to North Africa. Two months later she discovered she was
pregnant. He was sunning himself by the Suez Canal and she was trying her best
not to let her parents hear her being sick in the toilet.
Though she never particularly liked the family
butcher’s son Roger, she knew he carried a torch for her and she was desperate.
Within six weeks of returning his smiles they were married quietly in the local
church.
A few tongues wagged behind her back. She was well
aware that nobody believed she was four months early when her daughter Margaret
Rose was born. She never knew whether her husband ever realised the baby was not
his right up until the day he died.
As the years slipped by the question of who was
Margaret’s father was never queried until Albert was demobbed at the end of the
war. They met in the recreation ground one Tuesday morning as she was sat
watching the child on the swings.
She almost fainted when Albert put his hand on her
shoulder and said, “Hello Rosie, you’re looking well.” She hadn’t seen him
approaching
Her face first went shock white and then bright
red. Words failed her and she looked up and down the park to make sure there
were no witnesses to the meeting. Margaret continued swinging, lost in her own
little world while her mother fought back potential tears at the sight of the
man in army uniform who was her father.
Rose continued her silence and Albert said, “I’ve
been watching the little girl on the swings. She’s mine, isn’t she?” Before she
had chance to reply he turned on his heel and left as quickly as he had
appeared. She was going to call out for him to stop. She could explain, but the
words wouldn’t come; but quiet tears did and rolled down her cheeks. The cheeks
that were crimson with embarrassment, shame and sorrow all mixed into
one.
She walked Margaret often to the recreation ground
in the vain hope that he might try and find her again after that brief
encounter, but he never did. Apparently, she found out he had left the town the
next day and she later learned he had emigrated to New
Zealand.
She and Roger never had any more children; it
wasn’t for lack of trying on his part and she was more than a little relieved
when he took up bowling and seemed to lose interest in trying to make a friend
for Margaret.
Roger actually died at the bowling green. It was a
grudge match against their main rivals from the next town and he missed on his
last bowl. It would have won them the match and the trophy but he missed by a
whisker. They told Rose the disappointment had hit him so hard he’d simply
rolled over from the kneeling position and died of a massive
stroke.
The whole club turned out to his funeral and many
of the town’s folk; as the last surviving family member of Walsh’s butchers he
was well known and liked in equal measures. Margaret, her husband and two sons
escorted Rose to the funeral and they gave him a good send off. She felt
confused but really not truly sad. He was a good man, a loving father to her
child and she never wanted for anything throughout their married life. But like
is not love.
She survived him by fifteen years living alone in
the family home until Margaret persuaded her to go into the retirement home. At
first she didn’t want to but she was glad that she had done so. She was able to
chat to both residents and staff and it stopped her thoughts returning to Albert
all those years ago. Strange as it might seem but Roger’s death somehow released
her from having to be grateful to a man she really didn’t
love.
Noon came and Rose slept on. The carer came back calling
along the hall, “Mrs Walsh, Rosie there’s a call for you. Says he knows you
well, sounds a bit like an Australian, Rosie.”
But she couldn’t wake her. She died peacefully in
her sleep.
About the auhtor
Robin is a regular contributor to CafeLit and a member
of the Wimborne Writers’ Group
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