Epilogue #3
‘In that case, shall we take Margaret some flowers on our way home?’
‘I’d like that,’ Dylan nuzzled into Greta’s neck. ‘Can we have brunch with Lainey and Eddie when we pick Ethel up?’
‘I’m sure they’d love that,’ Greta replied, moving Dylan’s curls aside, her lips finding her skin. ‘Oh God, I hope Mum hasn’t been feeding Ethel cake again. Manchester Dog’s Home would take her back off us if they knew what they bloody feed her.’
Dylan grimaced. ‘Well, I suppose we’ll find out when we walk her later.’
‘We have dinner with Leila and Kate tonight too, don't forget.’
‘What have I told you?’ Dylan pushed herself on top of Greta, settling between her thighs.
Greta smiled softly, running both her hands down Dylan’s tear-streaked cheeks.
‘You might be a posh Mancunian, Professor, but you are a Mancunian first and foremost. Are you not? It is your tea, not your dinner. Your dinner happens at dinner time, then you have your tea at teatime. How many times do I have to tell you?’
Greta reached to the back of Dylan’s head, her grip firm, guiding her down. ‘Oh, shut up and kiss me, Doctor.’
Dylan laughed against her lips before succumbing to her wife’s mouth.
***
Standing at the gates of Southern Cemetery, Greta pulled her ochre woollen scarf tighter as Dylan reached over to pull up the collar of her grey coat and kiss the tip of her cold nose.
Dylan fastened the top button of her own jacket and tucked her chin under the denim while inhaling deeply; she held an umbrella above them both as they made their way in the grey drizzle to Margaret’s grave.
Pushing her hand into the back pocket of Dylan’s brown Carhartt trousers, Greta’s palm pressed against the letter Dylan had written the day before.
Mum,
I feel silly writing this but I feel like I will go insane if I can’t talk to you somehow, so this is it.
The past year has been hell on Earth. Losing you cracked my chest open and some days I am still bleeding from it.
I’m sorry I couldn’t do more and I’m sorry you suffered.
I always thought I’d lost you when you had your accident and strokes but now you’re actually gone and I miss you so much that words don’t really do it justice.
It’s an ache, a deep agonising ache that sits in my soul every day.
I’m so proud of you mum. I love that your last few years were spent living with me and Greta, I hope you were as comfortable as possible in your fancy extension and felt as loved as you were.
I hope that you see me today, doing my first presentation at a conference as Dr St John-Vincent.
My thesis seems to have turned some heads.
I suppose I have you to thank for my big St John brain. I hope I made you proud.
I know I make these silly bargains and wishes in my head all of the time but I WISH you could have seen me graduate again. Priya came, reppin’ Crew Mamacita. Greta was there, of course she was, still fraternising with students still, oh the drama! I wish you could have been too.
Thank you Margs. Thank you for making me who I am. I am the woman I am because of the woman you were. Greta married the woman she did because of the woman you were.
My life is because of you, Mum. It is all because of you.
I miss you. I miss you. I miss you.
Love you more, said it last.
Dyl x
Dylan pushed the envelope into the bouquet of flowers, crouched to put it down and kissed her fingers before running them reverently over her mum’s gilded name on the black granite headstone.
She stood, wiping away her tears with a tissue as Greta leaned into her, linking their arms. Dylan dropped her head to the side, resting it against Greta’s as they both stared at the recently turfed grave.
‘It looks better now it has some grass, doesn’t it?’ Dylan said quietly.
‘It does.’
‘The mud was so depressing,’ Dylan chuckled despite herself.
‘We can look at putting some plants in soon. Do you still want to do that?’
‘Yeah, for sure. The Hellebore from her garden will look lovely near the headstone.’
‘Winter Rose?’ Greta said softly, squeezing Dylan’s arm. ‘Perfect.’ A silent beat passed as Greta held on to her wife. ‘She knows, Dyl. She knows and she’s proud.’
Turning her head, Dylan pressed a kiss into Greta’s hair. ‘I hope so, G.’ Long moments slipped by before she blew out a sharp breath. ‘Right, let’s go. Edwardo’s got some new films for me.’
‘Are you sure you’re ready? We can stay for as long as you want to.’
‘No, it’s okay.’ Dylan sniffed, wiping away the last remnants of her tears.
‘Anyway, Lainey texted me. She’s making pancakes…
those fluffy little bastards that melt in your mouth, so we better go before your dad eats them all.
You know how his diabetes is suddenly non-existent when your mum’s pannies are on the table. ’
Greta chuckled, as Dylan kissed her head again.
There was something painfully dichotomous about the normalcy of Dylan’s words, and the conversation, all spoken while she was riddled with such an intense internal ache.
Greta’s own grief for Muriel, although less raw, was simply carried better.
It was no less cumbersome or heavy. The all-consuming weight of their grief never got easier as people said it would.
It became a shapeshifter; an insidious entity fitting into the spaces of their lives, filling every crevice.
They lived with the constant push and pull between the people gone and the life that was still happening.
The sorrow that consumed Dylan was sometimes hard for Greta to look at, but she never looked away.
Neither of them ever looked away. Under the crushing force of their combined grief, the golden glue keeping their hearts whole, beating and strong never faltered.
‘I love you, Mrs. St John-Vincent,’ Greta said softly.
‘I love you too, Mrs. St John-Vincent.’ Dylan brought Greta’s ringed finger to her lips and kissed it. ‘Right then. Pancake o’clock! To the Mothership.’