in less than an hour she would be underground. Somewhere he and Nellie could never reach her, buried beneath the dirt, in the eternal darkness.
Tommy was at his side, and behind him four other men from the street who were acting as pall-bearers. He was about to carry his wife for the last time. The moment was coming when she wouldn’t be there any longer, when his mind would have to let go and accept there was nothing else he could do for her. He had chosen flowers for her grave, picked a dress from her wardrobe for her to be buried in, combed her hair when she lay in her casket.
Every little thing he had done since the moment she had died was for her. He had given their baby her bottle, for her. He had cleaned the house, for her. ‘She would want me to keep the place clean, Jaysus, she would go mad if I didn’t,’ he said to Kathleen who was making a good job of cleaning up whilst he insisted on feeding the baby.
He was about to take Bernadette in his arms for one last time and then she would be gone and there would be nothing left for him to do for her. He wouldn’t be carrying her as his bride, shrieking and laughing down the street. Not as the girl he sometimes playfully carried upstairs and threw on the bed with her squealing, ‘Put me down, put me down, you animal,’ as she pounded on his back, unable to squeal for long, laughing so hard she had no breath left for words. None of that would ever happen again. It was gone forever.
He also knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that distraught with grief and desperation as he was, Bernadette would never forgive him if he didn’t look after their precious daughter with every bone in his body. Bernadette would never rest if Nellie wasn’t well loved and cared for by him and him alone. His life was to be a living nightmare as there was no escape for him. He could not die. He couldn’t follow Bernadette. He could not stay with her. He had no option. Here, looking after their child, was where he had to be. There would never be a way out.
He knew this because he had dreamt it, as though Bernadette had lain next to him and whispered it with imperative urgency into his ear when he slept last night. The dream was so real, it had given him some comfort. It hadn’t taken away the pain, but he felt as though she were, somehow, somewhere near. When he woke, he thought he could smell her. The room felt as though she had just walked out and was standing at the top of the stairs. He was sure that if he shouted her name, she would shout back, ‘Yes, I’m here, Jer,’ with her tinkling laugh.
Only in the dream, she hadn’t been laughing. She had been urgent, imploring, instructing him to take care of Nellie. He had felt her fingers intertwining with the hair on his chest. He had felt her leg cross over his as she kissed his ear and her free hand stroked his hair, just as she always had. She was loving him in his sleep and giving him a list of instructions. These instructions were about Nellie and, when he woke, he could remember every single one.
The dream had given him purpose. He had been starving with grief and, in his sleep, Bernadette had fed him. That was his job now, to look after Nellie in the way Bernadette would have wanted. She was their legacy. This was his purpose. When he felt sorry for himself and trapped in a living nightmare, he would remember that dream.
Nellie began to whimper against his chest.
‘It’s yer beautiful mammy, don’t cry,’ he croaked. His throat had closed; it was on fire, thick with distress. He could say no more. His legs felt like jelly and his arms began to shake. ‘Oh God, make me strong, let me cope,’ he quietly prayed. He looked up and could just make out all the familiar faces around him, down the street, at the top of the steps and on the green. Neighbours who had spent hours talking to Bernadette. She had been in every house and had dispensed her own kind words to almost everyone in front of him.
For every woman who had
Tommy was at his side, and behind him four other men from the street who were acting as pall-bearers. He was about to carry his wife for the last time. The moment was coming when she wouldn’t be there any longer, when his mind would have to let go and accept there was nothing else he could do for her. He had chosen flowers for her grave, picked a dress from her wardrobe for her to be buried in, combed her hair when she lay in her casket.
Every little thing he had done since the moment she had died was for her. He had given their baby her bottle, for her. He had cleaned the house, for her. ‘She would want me to keep the place clean, Jaysus, she would go mad if I didn’t,’ he said to Kathleen who was making a good job of cleaning up whilst he insisted on feeding the baby.
He was about to take Bernadette in his arms for one last time and then she would be gone and there would be nothing left for him to do for her. He wouldn’t be carrying her as his bride, shrieking and laughing down the street. Not as the girl he sometimes playfully carried upstairs and threw on the bed with her squealing, ‘Put me down, put me down, you animal,’ as she pounded on his back, unable to squeal for long, laughing so hard she had no breath left for words. None of that would ever happen again. It was gone forever.
He also knew, without any doubt whatsoever, that distraught with grief and desperation as he was, Bernadette would never forgive him if he didn’t look after their precious daughter with every bone in his body. Bernadette would never rest if Nellie wasn’t well loved and cared for by him and him alone. His life was to be a living nightmare as there was no escape for him. He could not die. He couldn’t follow Bernadette. He could not stay with her. He had no option. Here, looking after their child, was where he had to be. There would never be a way out.
He knew this because he had dreamt it, as though Bernadette had lain next to him and whispered it with imperative urgency into his ear when he slept last night. The dream was so real, it had given him some comfort. It hadn’t taken away the pain, but he felt as though she were, somehow, somewhere near. When he woke, he thought he could smell her. The room felt as though she had just walked out and was standing at the top of the stairs. He was sure that if he shouted her name, she would shout back, ‘Yes, I’m here, Jer,’ with her tinkling laugh.
Only in the dream, she hadn’t been laughing. She had been urgent, imploring, instructing him to take care of Nellie. He had felt her fingers intertwining with the hair on his chest. He had felt her leg cross over his as she kissed his ear and her free hand stroked his hair, just as she always had. She was loving him in his sleep and giving him a list of instructions. These instructions were about Nellie and, when he woke, he could remember every single one.
The dream had given him purpose. He had been starving with grief and, in his sleep, Bernadette had fed him. That was his job now, to look after Nellie in the way Bernadette would have wanted. She was their legacy. This was his purpose. When he felt sorry for himself and trapped in a living nightmare, he would remember that dream.
Nellie began to whimper against his chest.
‘It’s yer beautiful mammy, don’t cry,’ he croaked. His throat had closed; it was on fire, thick with distress. He could say no more. His legs felt like jelly and his arms began to shake. ‘Oh God, make me strong, let me cope,’ he quietly prayed. He looked up and could just make out all the familiar faces around him, down the street, at the top of the steps and on the green. Neighbours who had spent hours talking to Bernadette. She had been in every house and had dispensed her own kind words to almost everyone in front of him.
For every woman who had
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