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Never Such a Time as a Child by B.P.Smythe
Playing with dolls cross-legged on the lawn. The smell of grass. Plastic tea sets all set out. Imaginary sandwiches and real dolly mixtures. Feeding baby and tipping her to cry, mummy…mummy.
The cash register with its chocolate money. Playing doctors and nurses. Wrapping up the wounded with mums old spare sheets.
Swinging round the garden by daddy. Feeling dizzy but pleading with him to do it again.
Daddy all upset one day, in tears. Saying mummy had gone to see the angels. Asking him if I can see mummy? Daddy not answering, can’t explain.
Riding with daddy in the white Rolls Royce. Looking out of the window. Time to think. Wishing mum could be here, on this great day.
Happy thoughts beginning to fade. Looking tense, nervous, clutching the bouquet. The bright midday smile slipping a notch. The scent of her father’s cheap cologne, heavy and thick in the car.
The time, twenty minutes late. The groom nowhere in sight. Coming round again for the seventh time. Being waved on by family. Shaking heads. Serious looks.
The driver, impatient. Tutting! Looking at his watch.
Now the tears. Mascara running. Flowers being crushed, discarded. The shame, the humiliation. Can’t look at them again.
It was supposed to have been the honeymoon. All paid for, too late to cancel.
Sitting on her own in the Italian square, clutching his, I can’t go through with it letter. Tears running off her cheeks. Head shaking in disbelief. Passing waiters falter, unsure, then continue their business.
The smell of Italian coffee and pastries, thick in the air. Around her, couples smooch, in love. They glance furtively at her; shake their heads in sympathy.
The late afternoon shadows heighten her sadness. As if knowing it’s growing late. Her sorrow, old and alone – just history.
The band in the square putting their instruments away. The day coming to an end. Waiters clearing tables. Looking over, wanting her to go.
Now taking money out her purse. Not looking. Far too much on the table. Not caring. The waiter rushing over with his big cheesy grin. Thanking her. Then holding up the forgotten letter. Calling her. Not listening. Her mind back to when he said, he loved her.
Lying in her down stairs bed. Her commode at its side. Grandsons sitting with her. Hard of hearing, but she smiles when they speak to her. Pretends to understand. Can’t quite make out. Too polite to say…just glad to see them.
The care lady has been. Limp white hair carefully combed over bald patches. A stained cardigan, replaced just for visitors. The slight smell of urine masked by cheap perfume. Bandaged legs, heavy and still with old pink slippers capping them off.
A grandson points to a little framed photo on the sideboard. He gets it for her. They want to know, inquisitive, waiting for a story by grandma.
She holds the photo with a distant look, trying to remember his name. Cant now, lost in memory - for ever and ever.
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