Chapter 16

The Passing Years

Once again John returned to his empty house, but the feeling was not as depressing as the previous times she had departed. In fact he smiled to himself thinking This is becoming a habit! Things were now more on an even keel and he could sense Claire’s marriage was on track for the future.

He reflected she was more at peace, and comfortable with her life. Having thought the last time she left that it was the final time they would see each other, he now wondered if and when she might turn up again.

Lfe returned quickly to normal this time, having been disrupted only for a weekend. While he felt more balanced, and more at peace in himself now Claire was settled back into her marriage, there was still a wistfulness underlying his feelings, a feeling of love lost.

So Spring turned into Summer.

Previously when he went to the barbers the inevitable question ‘Going away?’ as in ‘Where are you going for your holidays?’ had occurred.

“Not going away,” he had replied to the barber’s surprise. “I’ll visit my children, but since my wife’s death, I don’t feel like going on holiday alone.”

Then came the man’s embarrassment and his condolences.

John resolved that in future he would say he hadn’t made a decision yet, which saved discomfort.

He did visit his children, staying a few days with each and enjoying the discomfort on James’s face when he wondered about grandchildren!

“All in good time, Dad,” his son would say.

“Don’t leave it too long,” John would reply. “I want to be still young enough to play with them!”

James would rapidly change the subject.

For the rest of the summer, John drove to beauty spots or stately homes, or went hiking in the hills. He realised that were he to stay in a hotel, he would feel the absence of his beloved Elizabeth all the more keenly, and it was still too soon.

Autumn gave way to winter with its grey wet days, and a low sun in the sky, shining through skeleton trees.

Of course, Claire came to mind, as she did when he sent off her Christmas card, addressed to both her and Peter, and when her card arrived, it had a short letter enclosed.

My Dear John, (that tugged at his heart strings a little, and he grinned at the feeling).

John held the letter and re-read it. It gave him a warm glow of satisfaction, of happiness that Claire had found peace in her marriage, but mixed with a deep feeling of emptiness. He knew why. He had fallen in love with her anew, and there was always that secret hope, which he had always firmly rejected and tried to suppress, that she would return to him. The clear knowledge that now she never would, and the loss of her, was mitigated by the knowledge that he had helped and supported her in her quest to save her marriage.

He sighed and made his own plans for Christmas. On Christmas Eve he went and helped prepare the homeless hostel for Christmas dinner the following day. That year his children joined him on the day, and though Elizabeth’s absence was still felt, everyone agreed that while spending the feast at Grange the previous year was wonderful, and helped so soon after her death, this year it felt good to be home again.

Life went on and gradually he had become more used to sleeping and living alone. He never lost his feeling of loneliness but stoically bore it. He knew after Claire that he would now never want or search for another woman to take Elizabeth’s place; he would live out the rest of his days alone. In a strange way that gave him a sense of contentment and enjoyment of the simple things in his life. He became quite an expert gardener and often commented to Elizabeth (to whom he felt especially close in ‘her’ garden), that he hoped she liked what he had done.

Three more years passed, and then his life was changed again by a phone call one Thursday mid-afternoon in late September.

He had always sent Claire and Peter a Christmas card with a brief message detailing news of his children, including James and Julie’s first baby boy and Clare’s marriage to Luke, and while receiving cards in return, those contained nothing but a signature. That was the sum-total of their communication, which disappointed him.

The phone call set in train a new course of events and more emotional upset for him.

It was of course Claire and she was panicking. “John it’s Peter! I don’t know what to do!” she shouted down the phone.

“Tell me,” he said quietly.

“He’s collapsed he’s lying on the floor. He’s making noises.”

“He’s alive then. Have you called an ambulance – told them what you saw?”

“Yes, they’re coming.”

“Is he conscious?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Talk to him, stroke his cheek. Does he react?”

There was a short pause.

“He’s sort of straining, mumbling, he’s staring but I don’t think he can see anything.”

“What does his face look like?”

“Sort of lop-sided.”

“It sounds like a stroke. Just be with him, talk to him, soothe him. You did the right thing; there’s nothing else you can do. He needs to be in hospital within an hour.”

“The ambulance is here. Thanks.”

The call ended abruptly, at which John was not surprised. What he half-expected was a follow up call giving an update on Peter’s condition, but when none came that day or the next he shrugged and let it go. He knew that recovery can be very slow and not always complete, and assumed Claire was wrapped up in visits to the hospital and then the process of helping him recover at home.

Weeks later, on Tuesday of the third week of October to be precise, he received an email in the afternoon.

John sat and read the email again, then a third time. He wondered what to do, and, should he answer it, what he could say? In the end he shut his laptop and made his evening meal.

Over the following weeks his thoughts would turn to Claire from time to time and the terrible situation in which she now found herself, but he did not send any reply, thinking there was nothing he could say. Nevertheless, whenever the phone rang his first thought was that it was Claire giving him the worst possible news, but it never was.

As Christmas approached, John sent a card as always, adding a note expressing his sadness at Peter’s illness, and assuring them of his prayers, and received one from Claire, but as usual it simply said ‘Love from Claire and Peter’, nothing else, and he understood she had no time or inclination to write. He was touched that Elizabeth and Mary both sent him cards, which he was able to return with thank you notes since they put their sending addresses on the back of their envelopes.

After spending Christmas Eve at the hostel, he attended the Vigil Mass and remembered his own dear Elizabeth. It was then that Claire and Peter also came to mind, and he said a prayer for them and their family.

Christmas Day was spent in the same way as the previous year, and this year he visited James and family with the girls and Luke, since James’s was now the family with a youngster.

Again he kept Elizabeth’s anniversary in January, and was comforted by his children who visited him at that time. Catherine stayed with him for a whole week.

Winter turned into Spring and Easter came and went. He became busy tending to the garden as growth took off and weeds grew faster than flowers, as they always do. Summer followed and he again faced the question of whether to take a holiday away, or stay at home. This year, he felt like a change, though he had done nothing about it.

It was at the beginning of August when his daughter Clare made a suggestion which got him moving.

“Dad,” she said, “After your generous help with the deposit for our house, and now that we have a huge mortgage to pay, Luke and I can’t afford to go away this summer, and Catherine doesn’t know Gerry well enough to take him on holiday alone with her. We’ve all got time off next week. We were going to spend it at home, but then I had a thought.

“Didn’t Claire say we could use the house at Grange? I loved that Christmas when we were up there all together. You need a break Dad, wouldn’t you like to invite us to stay there with you for a week if it’s vacant?” She grinned cheekily at her impudence, and the idea suddenly appealed to John.

He phoned Ellen.

“Ellen it’s John Pollard, I wonder–”

“Oh, John, isn’t it so sad? And everything was going so well.”

“Sorry? Sad?”

“About Peter?”

“You mean his stroke?”

“Claire’s not been in touch?”

“She emailed me last October, but I’ve heard nothing from her since.”

“Oh dear! John, I’m sorry to say that Peter died just over three weeks ago. We’ve just got back from the funeral. I’d have thought she would have ... I wondered why you weren’t at the funeral, I mean after all you did for them.”

“No, she’s not been in touch. Was it unexpected? I knew about the stroke, because she rang me when it happened, and she emailed afterwards to say initially he was in a bad way. But usually people recover, at least in part, and with medical support they can usually stave off any recurrence. I assumed he had recovered at least to some extent.”

Ellen sighed. “Peter had a second stroke in March. It further affected his speech and his ability to find words. He was very distressed and how she coped with him then I don’t know. He was incontinent and though he could feed himself slowly he often left his food, so she had to feed him. The children rallied round, but she’s worn out.”