For Mike

Sunday, 14 June 2015 04:19

Geoff Aird
Romance Short Stories E-mail Pri
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The garden was overrun with wild grass and tenacious
the crazy paving. Apt description, I thought as my
ts meandering journey from the back door to near the
hen branched into two then set off again to surround
e grove.
Hola! Beunos dias.
arden.

weeds had pushed up through

view followed the path on i
bottom of the garden. It t
the small flourishing orang

The old woman was peering over the stone dyke wall and into my g

Hola ..eh, morning, Senora,

I replied but she was already making her way to the wicket
gate, her grey shawl bobbing along the top of the wall like a ship s sail on a di
stant horizon.
The fact that I barely spoke a word of Spanish mattered not a jot to this woman.
I d first met her a couple of days after I d moved in. She d introduced herself when
I was cleaning the windows at the front of the cottage. Then she appeared at t
he stone dyke wall a few days later. I didn t know what she was saying but she co
ncluded each sentence by nodding her head and smiling. Then the following day s
he just strolled into the back garden chattering away in Spanish! She was carryi
ng a wicker basket and walked up to me whilst pointing at the orange trees and s
aid Muchas de las naranjas, si.
Yes, eh oranges, yes. Si Senora,
I had replied. It was true. The trees were laden wit
h oranges and many of them had fallen onto the wild grass underneath. She then
announced Voy a hacerte una mermelada!
I guessed the word marmalade was in there so I had nodded vigorously and said
Yes
of course you can. Yes.
With that she d strode down to the trees and began filling
the basket with oranges. Then with a cheery wave she was away! Like she d known
me for years! It didn t seem to matter that I was a complete stranger, a foreigne
r in fact who only took up residence here a few weeks earlier.
I wonder what Ruth would have made of it? I had thought at the time. Ruth, my b
eautiful wife had succumbed to breast cancer six months earlier. Ruth, my child
hood sweetheart, lover, and soul mate. She d fought it of course, but then she wo
uld. She was a fighter with a big heart. But it became clear that she wasn t goi
ng to win this one. Ruth and I had been born on the same day and she made such
an effort to hang on so we could share our fortieth birthday together. It was h
ardly a birthday bash. Just a few close friends round, some nibbles and drinks
but Ruth was so drugged up that the occasion seemed to slip by her in a haze.
The next day she had seemed surprisingly chirpy and even suggested fish and chip
s for tea from the chip shop in town. She d said
Cancer s like pregnancy, Mike. You de
velop strange cravings!
I had read this as a good sign. Maybe her appetite was r
eturning? Maybe she was on the mend? Later, as I was standing in the queue wait
ing to be served I felt a growing feeling of uneasiness. It had unsettled me.
I d ran out the shop and dashed home, bursting through the front door and calling
out her name as I ran up the stairs.
She lay across the bed. An empty bottle of pills were on the bedside table, next
to a note. She didn t want to fight anymore. And she didn t want the cancer to di
ctate when she was going to die. Her note ended with
So I m choosing eternal sleep and will dream of you constantly, my gorgeous, wonde
rful husband. The love of my life. In time it is my wish that you can move on.

Cancer. I couldn t actually say the word out loud. Watching her deteriorate and
suffer had nearly destroyed me. Cancer, the ultimate parasite. It chooses a ho
st then sets to work on it. It s not infectious. It s not contagious. It s not a th
reat to anyone else. It exists to live off, then kill off its host. And in kil
ling its host it kills itself.
And I had moved on. A few months later, despite protests and concern from famil
y and friends I d sold up and moved here to this small, white washed village in th
e province of Seville. A few mornings later the old lady entered the garden and
approached me as I sat reading at the wooden trestle table. I beckoned her to s
it down. She chose the bench seat opposite me and, once she d made herself comfor
table, retrieved a jar of marmalade and a loaf of uncut bread from her basket an
d laid them on the table.
Mermelada!
she exclaimed, excitedly. I smiled and went to the kitchen, returning w
ith a bread knife, two plates and two mugs of coffee.
Caf con leche!
I exclaimed, pleased with my pronunciation. The old lady cut two th
ick slices off the loaf then removed the paper lid which had been held onto the
jar with an elastic band. Finally, she smeared the thick orange marmalade onto
the two slices of bread and passed one to me. We ate in comfortable silence. Su
ddenly the memory of companionship caused a lump to form in my throat. I looked
down as a wave of grief overcame me. The old lady s rough, calloused hands moved
across the table to cover my own. Her face had an expression of understanding an
d compassion. She didn t speak but nodded slowly which somehow soothed me as she r
ubbed her course fingers across the back of my hands. Salty tears slipped down
my face and I nodded slowly in silent acknowledgement.
It wasn t until she d left and I was clearing the table that I noticed the paper lid
that had covered the marmalade jar. I picked it up and smiled. On it the old
lady had written
For Mike.
I lay awake a long time that night thinking about Ruth. Smiling through tears a
s I remembered our countless little private jokes. Then I slept and dreamt deepl
y and vividly. We were at home in the evening and it was peaceful. I was watchin
g her reading a book. I was thinking God, I really love you when she suddenly l
ooked up and caught my gaze. Slow, knowing smiles broke across our faces. Ruth
had a repertoire of smiles and this was the vulnerable, lop-sided one that alwa
ys made me feel so protective of her.
I d kept a long, pink ribbon, its colour a recognised symbol of defiance against t
he cancerous invader. After breakfast the next day I retrieved it from a yet to
be unpacked trolley bag and went out to the garden. Under a brilliant blue white
sky I followed the path s meandering journey down to the orange grove. There wer
e six trees; four almost identical in size and shape were huddled together and o
ff to one side a larger tree with a smaller one in its shadow. This stunted tre
e s main bough had grown out in an unusual angle in order to receive sunlight from
under the larger tree s canopy and had a, kind of, lop-sided look about it. I ti
ed the ribbon tightly round the trunk of this little fighter then slowly retrace
d my steps to the cottage.
Time heals all and today the hurt began to fade.
End

BIO: I was born in Berwick Upon Tweed, a small town on the border between Englan
d and Scotland in 1960. I attended Berwick Grammar School then joined the Royal
Navy as a Marine Engineering Mechanic. I left in 1983 after serving five years
and moved to London where I found work as a doorman, art gallery guide and cons
truction worker. In 1986 I became a firefighter. This was to become my profess
ion for the next 27 years and I finally retired as a Senior Fire Officer in Edin
burgh, Scotland 2013.

I enjoy cycling, tennis, playing the guitar and foreign travel. I also love wri
ting and after a creative writing course began to submit stories and have had one
published. I am now 25,000 words into a murder mystery novel set in my home tow
n.