Chapter Three - Lewis Mark Noble #2
Never a violent man, Lewis listened to Chen spout his bullshit about time and felt his fingers flex into fists, quietly confident that, if they hadn’t been on his work premises and he didn’t need this job, the one bit of stability in his topsy-turvy life, he’d have shoved him hard and watched him fall on his arse.
The prick! Did he look like the kind of person who would fall for such a scam?
Not that he could figure out the bloke’s angle – what was he after, money?
Or maybe it was a hoax, considered funny when it was anything but.
Who would put him up to such a thing? Gus in packing, possibly, or Mario in logistics, they both liked a laugh.
Not that this was amusing, not even remotely. It bothered him, bothered him all day.
Driving home now after his shift, how he hated the lift in his sprits and the bunch in his gut at no more than the imaginary possibility of seeing Jane, touching Jane, feeling the presence of Jane.
What had the bloke said, fifteen minutes, my God! Fifteen minutes with her! What would he do, when would he pick?
It would be an easy decision. He’d choose the time before she got sick.
Before pills, lotions, potions, pillows, medicine, rubber gloves, disposable aprons, tubes and the sincere words offered by medics invaded their bedroom and wrapped them in gloom.
Before their room took on the slightly chemical smell of chemotherapy and he had no choice other than to tend to her like a nurse and not a lover.
Before she lost the roundness to her cheek and the twinkle in her eye.
Before he had to lift her diminished frame from the bed to the bathroom and back again.
A journey of a few steps that left them both exhausted, beaten and so very sad. A marathon no less.
The traffic light turned red, and he stopped the car, hating the bloom of tears that threatened.
No, there was nothing funny about anything Chen had said.
It was like handing a starving man a lunch box with nothing in it or giving a poor man an empty wallet.
It was cruel and made him want to punch the steering wheel.
He might have done so too, if he wasn’t in busy traffic and could have been confident that it wouldn’t damage his motor.
The lights changed and he trundled home, wanting to arrive, but dreading, as he always did, the opening of the door into the darkened, quiet hallway.
Standing in the kitchen, Lewis tipped the tin of spaghetti hoops into the saucepan and watched the thick orange/red sauce start to bubble, just as the toast popped up.
And bingo!
His bloody phone rang. He turned the gas ring off and answered the call.
‘Hello, Margaret.’
‘Hi, love, it’s me, Margaret.’
‘Yep.’ He took a deep breath, deciding in that second to forgo his planned supper and go straight to bed. He was tired. Too tired for spaghetti hoops.
‘Work all right?’
‘Yeah, you know, nothing to report.’
‘I got a postcard today, from my cousin, do you remember me talking about Linda and Jeff?’
‘No, I, not really.’
‘They were at school together in Hartcliffe. Anyway, she got in the family way, and they married when they were ever so young. Her dad, my dad’s brother, my Uncle Gavin, do you remember Gavin at your wedding? He was the one with the toy cat on the parcel shelf in the back of his car.’
‘I, no, no, I don’t.’ He had no idea what she was wittering on about.
‘Well, he was furious, as you can imagine, more or less marched poor old Jeff up the aisle in a borrowed suit. They was only babies themselves really, no more.’ Margaret let out a small laugh, as if at the memory.
‘Anyway, they’re still together, nigh on forty-five years!
Happy as larks they are. In’t that lovely? ’
‘It is,’ he managed, and there it was again, that flare of anger, underpinned with misplaced jealousy. How come Jeff and Linda got all that time when he and Jane had only been given six years. Six measly years! It wasn’t enough, could never have been enough, even if they’d got a lifetime.
‘Anyway, they’ve got a caravan in Mevagissey, and they sent me a postcard, in’t that nice?’
‘It is.’
And then it came. The awkward silence that made his teeth grind.
‘Right. Well. I’ll let you go then, Lew.’
‘Yep, see you later.’
‘Yep. See you later.’ She ended the call.
Lewis leant on the countertop, arms outstretched, breath coming in gasps.
He exhaled slowly. When would this get easier, when would he hurt less?
He thought of Chen, the weird guy who had approached him in the queue and waffled on about time and his bizarre suggestion.
He smiled, warmed at no more than the idea, what wouldn’t he give for fifteen minutes with his girl.
***
It was Saturday.
Despite having slept for most of the day, Lewis toyed with the idea of going straight to bed and ignoring what the bloke had said. It was mad, he knew it. A ruse, impossible, a joke, and yet just the thought that it might be possible…
‘You absolute plonker!’ He took a sip from his can of Thatchers and settled onto the sofa, closing his eyes as the clock raced towards eleven.
He knew he’d feel like an idiot when nothing happened, yet still felt the pull of attraction at no more than the imagining of it.
Besides, what was the harm, no one would ever know.
With his eyes closed, he lay his head back on the cushion and waited, breathing slowly.
Then came the oddest of sensations. The first thing he heard was a sound so glorious, so beautiful it took his breath away: his wife laughing.
He’d almost forgotten it, the sweetness of it, as her laughter in the latter stages became wheeze riddled and forced, a throaty rasp that disguised only briefly what she was going through.
He opened his eyes immediately!
And there she was.
Oh!
His Jane!
His… his love!
Sitting on the end of the sofa, her legs curled beneath her, a cup of tea resting in her palms. She had her glasses on, her hair, still thick was piled messily on top of her head. She was wearing her pyjamas and the fluffy, pink socks her sister had bought for her birthday.
He daren’t move, didn’t want to break the spell.
My God, she was beautiful, so beautiful!
To his horror he realised that he had forgotten some of the detail of her face.
A realisation that hit him like a stone in the throat.
The pain was sharp, and he swallowed. The small mole on the side of her chin had slipped entirely from his memory.
The way her two front teeth were fractionally misaligned, meaning they rested by a millimetre on her bottom lip.
‘What you staring at?’ She pulled a face at him, a mock frown, as she kicked out with her socked foot to jab him in the thigh. Her blue eyes belied her delight, her joy!
‘You,’ he managed, heart racing, remembering what Chen had said, that he mustn’t let on the reality of their interaction, and only had fifteen minutes.
He’d chosen this Saturday night, a few months before she got sick.
They were watching TV, had ordered Chinese food that would be delivered in a little while.
The last, ordinary, perfect evening in his memory, before a sudden pain and then the lengthy investigation and diagnosis that would send them into a tailspin.
The last night they would make love without him being fearful of hurting her, causing her discomfort or inconvenience, before cancer eventually robbed them of that too.
It was a hateful illness that took her piece by piece, dismantling their routine, their life and their future until he was all alone with an empty fridge and a desire to hide away with his sorrow.
Tentatively he sidled close to her, removed the mug of tea from her grip, placed it on the table and took her hand into his own.
‘Oi! I was enjoying that!’ she tutted before lifting their conjoined hands to her lips and kissing them.
Next, he muted the TV and sat as close to her as he could, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Her head resting on the top of his arm. He inhaled the scent of her. She’d had a bath with those lemony scented bubbles that she loved. He breathed it in deeply.
‘I love you, Jane,’ he whispered, doing his best to keep the tremor of emotion from his voice.
‘I know.’ He could tell she was smiling, a fact that filled him with joy!
The certainty in her response, the comfortable nature of their positioning.
It was just as magical, as perfect as he’d imagined.
‘My gentle giant!’ Tilting her face, she kissed his neck.
A kiss from those lips that had formed vows, spoken of love and made promises that he alone knew she would not – could not – keep.
‘Do you want to watch a film?’ she asked.
‘No. I just want to sit here with you.’
It was the truth. This his greatest desire, a quiet moment of normality, side by side, as if they had all the time in the world.
His understanding in that moment that this was what he had craved, and what he now mourned, the contentment of living a small, simple life with someone to love, who loved him in return.
‘Spoke to my mum earlier.’ His wife yawned and his heart flexed, that tiredness that dogged her, was this the start?
Why had he not noticed, acted, done something!
‘She breaks my heart. I know she misses my dad and tries her best to hide it. That’s why she calls at tea-time, told me she can’t bear to see the clock reaching six and not have him at the table with his tea in front of him.
She misses having him to chit chat to about her day, the ordinary stuff.
I know that’s when she misses him the most. How sweet is that, but sad, right?
I get it, though, when the rest of the street are feeding their loved ones and she’s stood by herself in the kitchen, it’s hard for her, d’you know what I mean? ’