Memories in Silver and Gold (Short Story)

MEMORIES OF SILVER AND GOLD

Anne had always been a solitary child, happy in her own company. Her nearest friends Mr Floppy, a raggedy, velveteen rabbit; Blackeyes, a panda whose stuffing poked out of its chest and Miss Florabunch Flower, a china headed doll who  gave out a ‘Mama’ when inverted. Together they acted out little dramas which Anne had heard on the television, from earwigging her parent’s conversations and from the font of all knowledge, her copy of ‘Girl’s World’, a weekly magazine that came with Daddy’s Thursday papers.

 An average pupil, Anne’s schooldays passed uneventfully. She acquired some indifferent friends in primary school, who fell away when they moved up to secondary, attracted to rising stars among their peers and pop idols current at the time. Anne plodded on and sat her exams coming out with ‘ok’ results, but nothing to ‘write home about’.

She entered a career in banking and became one of those pretty ladies behind a glass screen who wore a badge giving their Christian name on it, in an effort to give out a cosy, familiar ambience to the customers.

Anne moved from her parent’s house to a flat quite near to the bank. She furnished it herself and was pleased with the result. She adopted a cat from the Cat’s Protection League and called it Mr Grimble after a cartoon characted that she had seen on television.

Mr Grimble would wait for her in the flat until she returned from work  and either rub himself against her legs whilst awaiting his tea or sulk terribly if she decide to go out later on an errand or to the cinema and leave him.

One day in the bank Anne had smiled at a tall dark customer who having found her quite appealing, had waited outside the bank to walk her to her flat door.

He had made the meeting seem like a chance encounter to allow him to invite her for a drink, but Anne turned him down and after politely saying goodbye, had closed her door. She had stood in the vestibule for a few minutes while she got her breath back and allowed the blush to fade from her face.

The following day, a Saturday, a bunch of long stemmed roses were delivered to Anne’s door with a little card attached. The card read: ‘Please give me a chance’.

They had married a year later after a courtship that had been full of long walks, pleasant conversation and romantic interludes.

His name was Max and he ran a small printing business two streets from the bank. He came from a big family with two older brothers and three younger sisters. His parents were dead and the siblings had spread out over the country, some marrying and creating their own families and others enjoying their singularity.

Anne and Max’s wedding day had been a joyful and exciting day. Full of introductions, hugs and kisses. The speeches were all of a high calibre and displayed a genuine feeling of warmth and love that Max’s family felt for them.

Anne’s family had consisted of her mother, father and a sprinkling of aunts and uncles. A few of her colleagues from the bank attended the evening reception and were immediately ‘adopted’ by both sides of the family and made to feel very welcome. A truly happy experience.

The married couple’s honeymoon took them to Canada. They climbed the Rockies and paddled their feet in Lake Louise. Crossed the water to Vancouver Island and drank wine in the vineyards of ???. Stood in a blizzard in Calgary and ate steaks in a restaurant in Whistler. The month’s holiday was action packed and left them both breathless.

A camera that Max had bought for Anne captured their exploits and happy moments on film and promised golden memories when they reviewed the resulting photographs in the months and years to come.

They bought a house soon after, in a small rural village close to the town where Max and Anne worked. The house when they saw it originally was very dilapidated and in need of some real tender, loving care, but with a bank loan and some hard graft, the property was soon restored to its former glory.

Anne decide to call it the ‘ Hideaway’ and Max agreed with her choice. The village was secluded and quiet, the perfect hideaway to return to after a busy, stressful day at work.

Max and Anne travelled each year to countries abroad for their holidays. Malta, Tenerife, Cyprus and Madeira to name just a few. They would book bus trips during the day of their arrival for the days to come. They intended to explore and see as much of their holiday spot as possible.

Anne’s camera clicked away incessantly with pictures taken of Max in various foreign locales or displayed in front of some scenic landmark.

Time passed and sadly Anne’s parents died and their respective families drifted apart, divorce, death and indifference becoming predominant.

They would exchange cards at Christmas but for the rest of the year a silence grew. People were just getting on with their lives. Their children growing up and lives becoming complicated by social events and other demanding events.

During the winter evenings Anne and Max would make up their holiday photographic albums from the summer holiday before, revelling in the memories they evoked.

“Do you remember that old man……?” Max would begin, holding out a photo.

“The one that had the puppets?” Anne would finish.

They would light a fire and load it up with logs, then sit back in the light from the flames.

Often on wet, windy days, Anne would make some hot chocolate and they would savour the rich flavour as the photos were glued in. The rain would batter into the windows leaving long trails as they ran down the panes.

Gradually the number of photo albums increased and Max had to make shelves to hold them. Anne got sticky labels to put on the spines to write on numbers. One whole wall of their living room was given over to the shelves.

One spring day while Anne was at the bank, she received a phone call from Max. He had been sent home from work with a bad headache. He told his wife that he would take some aspirin and go to bed. They concluded the call by deciding that they would have a pizza for tea and Anne went back to checking some documentation.

As Anne made her way home that afternoon the birds were singing in the trees. A light breeze blew ruffling the leaves and gently swaying the branches. Anne was humming a tune as she walked along, happy to be out of the stuffy bank.

As she unlocked her front door and pushed it open she shouted:

“Max, I’m home!”

A deathly hush hung about the house and for a moment a cold shiver ran down Anne’s spine.

“Max!” she screamed as she ran up the stairs and into their bedroom.

The paramedics assured her that she couldn’t have known that Max had suffered a cerebral haemorrhage from the symptoms of a headache. He had died some time in the late afternoon just after he had gone to bed. There would have been no pain just an increasing drowsiness as he lapsed into death.

The funeral was a nightmare. The doctor had given Anne some sedatives and her head felt full of cotton wool. Friends, colleagues and family members drifted up to her offering their condolences, hugging and kissing her in sympathy. The day was endless. Later that night when alone, Anne broke down and sobbed herself to sleep.

After a month of mourning, Anne looked out all Max’s clothes and shoes and sent them to the charity shop. It broke her heart, but she felt that it would be better to get it over with right way than let it drag on.

The house felt empty without Max. The household duties that they would share now fell to Anne to do on her own.

Every time she moved from room to room she saw things that reminded her of her late husband. She carried a permanent lump in her throat.

                                                                            

As autumn approached Anne decided that she couldn’t stay in their little house any more. Her heart still ached for Max, but she felt that the pain may reduce if she moved away although she knew that it would never totally leave.

Over the next few weeks she checked advertisements, haunted property agents and visited a large number of potentials before settling on Rose Cottage.

The property was situated in a small market town on the south coast. An old woman had lived there until she felt it was necessary to move to residential care. The interior decoration of the house had been renewed upon the old lady’s departure and one of the local gardeners had tidied up the garden and cut the grass. All Anne had to do was move her furniture and clothes in, which would take no more than a day.

A life insurance that Max had taken out two years previously left her very comfortably off and with her bank pension Anne felt that she had no need to work for the rest of her life. Her financial situation would also allow her a short foreign holiday each year which would help to ‘recharge the batteries’.

Sadly after only two years, during which Anne holidayed in Cyprus and Italy, she developed a debilitating illness which curtailed any possibility of future trips out of the country. The muscular disease was so aggressive that Anne eventually became house bound and had to employ a carer, a no – nonsense dour individual called Mrs McCabe. This woman although strict in her demeanour had a heart of gold and worked tirelessly for Anne. The two ladies became close friends and would spend endless afternoons discussing aspects of the local and world news.

As the end of October approached Anne illness took a turn for the worst and the local doctor was called. Dr Thomas was one of the ‘old, dependable’ physicians and throughout the town was held in great respect by the citizens.

After checking all Anne’s vital signs he pulled up a chair by her bed side.   

“Now Anne, you know me and what sort of man I am. I call a spade, a spade.” He said sadly. “Your illness has run its course and I am sorry to say that you are in the final phase.”

Anne took the old man’s hand in hers and said:

“Yes, I can tell. Soon I will return to my dear Max’s side. How long do I have do you think doctor?”

Dr. Thomas looked down at his patient. Anne could see tears in his eyes.

“I would say no more than a few days at the most. I am so sorry.”

The doctor offered to move Anne to the nearest hospice but she refused saying:

“No thanks, I think I will just see it out here.”

After the doctor had gone and Mrs. McCabe had gone down to make some tea, Anne lay looking out over the Common that bordered her house.

The children of the town had been scrounging and collecting wood, cardboard and other flammable items for their bonfire. The pile now stretched ten feet into the air and was topped with a very well dressed Guy Fawkes.

When her carer returned with the tea and biscuits Anne asked when the bonfire would be lit.

“It will be lit on the night of the fifth of November and not a day earlier. Why, that is in two nights, Anne” replied Mrs. McCabe.

“Are the children still collecting material for the bonfire?” Anne asked.

“Oh, they’ve stripped the area of everything that’s burnable but I’m sure they can always use more,” the carer retorted.

Later that night when the window outside Anne’s window darkened and Mrs. McCabe drew the curtains the wind began to blow quite strongly. It whistled round the house and tickled the slates on the roof.

Anne looked up at her large collection of photographic albums sitting on the shelves that Max had built.

“Mrs. McCabe, would you be as kind as to hand me down a few of my albums please?” she asked.

Before her carer left for the night she propped Anne up in her bed and laid a selection of albums on her quilt.

“Thank you Mrs. McCabe,” said Anne. “There’s one more thing that I would like you to do for me please.”

“And what is that my lamb?” replied the carer.

“Could you bring some of the children in to see me tomorrow?” asked Anne.

“It’ll tire you too much Anne,” pleaded Mrs. McCabe.

“Please, I need to ask them something.” Anne replied.

Anne poured over the albums. The pictures of their holidays. Happy golden days spent together on sandy beaches, climbing grassy slopes and sliding down snow covered hills. Anne felt as if Max was standing by her looking at the pictures. In fact the feeling was so strong that a couple of times she turned as if to speak to him.

“Oh Max,” she murmured to herself. “I miss you so much.” Then the wind outside blew as if was replying “Soon, soon, ……..we’ll be together.”

Next morning dawned bright and cold. Anne watched some of the children collect and return bits and pieces which had blown off the bonfire overnight.

Mrs. McCabe came in with Anne’s breakfast and set it on her bed.

“Good morning Anne,” said the carer.

“Good morning to you Mrs. McCabe,” replied Anne. “When are the children coming to see me?”

The carer turned to Anne and smiled.

“You will have your way, wont you? You are lucky November the fifth falls on a Saturday or else they would all be at school.”

Later that day a motley crew of children threaded their way into Anne’s bedroom and stood looking at her lying in bed.

“Hello children, I am Anne and I am in bed because I am not well,” she said.

“Will you get better soon?” asked a little girl who wore her hair in pigtails.

“No love,” replied Anne. “I am afraid I won’t.”

“Are you going to die?”  a little boy asked, with all the bluntness of youth.

“Yes,” said Anne. “I am afraid I am going to die, but I wondered if you would all do something for me………”

Later that afternoon, Mrs. McCabe came up to Anne’s bedroom to shut the curtains; the evenings drew in so quickly now that the clocks had gone back.

“And how are you this evening my little lamb?” asked Mrs. McCabe.

“I’m fine, “said Anne. “Please don’t close the curtains; I really would like to see the bonfire.”

Anne watched as people moved across the common as the lighting time for the bonfire approached. Fathers, mothers and over excited children gathered in front of the massive pile of wood, paper, cardboard boxes, tree branches and …….. photographic albums. Anne turned round to look sadly at the empty shelves.

Mrs. McCabe sat down next to Anne and the two women watched the spectacle that was beginning to unfold.

Mulled wine was handed out to the adults and fruit juice to the children.

Then an expectant hush fell over the crowd as a dark figure approached the bonfire holding a burning torch. The figure bent forward and touched the orange flames to the base of the pyre and flames shot up into the air.

Quickly the fire took hold of the tinder dry wood and soon the whole heap was burning. Large clouds of smoke rose into the night sky.

Fireworks were let off and the sky filled with colourful sparks and flames. Catherine wheels spun round like burning snakes, roman candles spouted golden sparks and rockets rose high in the sky and then blossomed out like fiery petals.

It was a glorious sight, but too soon over.

The crowd began to disperse, people making their slow way back home and to bed to dream of all the wonders that they had seen.

The bonfire burnt on and continued to reflect its angry red glow off the louring sky.

Anne felt a hand on her shoulder and turned slowly. Max stood their in the reflected light of the bonfire. He looked young again, as young as he had been when they had wed. Gone were the frown lines and crows feet from his brow and eyes.

“We have to go now Anne,” he said. “No time to dally here.”

Anne rose and took her husband’s hand and together they walked forward and were suddenly standing by ……..the bonfire.

In the glowing centre of the pyre Anne could see the burnt photographs from her album. She felt sad that she had allowed them to be burnt.

As if reading her mind Max kissed her on her cheek and said:

“You were clever to have the children put the albums on the fire……for now, they are released!”

A large flame shot into the air and Anne could see fire pictures in its colours.

It was the beach on Paphos in Cyprus where Max and she had swam in the blue Mediterranean waters.

Then it was a sledge ride down a snowy slope in the Rockies. Max was sitting behind her as they plunged down the hills.

The next picture was of them walking on a path in the volcanic hills of Tenerife. The sun was bright in the sky and white fluffy clouds chased each other over an azure blue sky.

“Don’t rush them my love,” whispered Max. “We have all eternity to enjoy them together.” And they were suddenly walking along the path Anne had seen in the flames

“Oh Max,” she cried, looking at her husband. “Tell me this is real!”

Max smiled into her eyes and gently kissed her.

Mrs. McCabe closed Anne’s eyes and laid her down on the bed.

Anne was smiling and looked at peace with the world.

The suffering was over and now she could rest.

“Oh my wee lamb,” crooned the carer. “Oh my poor wee lamb!”

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