The Epiphany

A retired man has an unusual and life-changing experience.

The Epiphany

 

 

 

On the last day of his life, Norman Burton rose early, pulled back the curtains and greeted the dawn with joy, his ageing heart tired, but happy. Glancing over at the crumpled bed, he smiled as he looked at his wife Maureen, her ample cheeks softly caressed by the golden sunlight. He turned from the window, bent down as far as his sixty-five year old bones would allow, and gently planted the daintiest of kisses upon the forehead of his sweet beloved. 

 

As he reached the foot of the stairs, Norman passed the little oak table on which was arranged an uncomfortable cluster of greeting cards, all wishing him the very happiest of retirements. He smiled to himself as he realised how incredibly lucky he’d been in his friends, family and work. He had also been blessed with the finest of health, having avoided any serious illness or injury throughout his sixty-five years. Working life had been a great source of pride and enjoyment to Norman Burton, but he was now looking forward to a long and happy retirement, in which he and Maureen would do all the wonderful things that they had talked about for so long. Over the years, they had devised a comprehensive bucket list which they were determined to fulfil to the very letter.

 

In fact, they still talked about their plans as they shared breakfast that morning. Norman glanced briefly at his paper while Maureen excitedly related her plans for the following week in between cupfuls of coffee and copious morsels of bacon and sausage. Death, rape and destruction may have leaped out from the morning edition as Norman turned the pages, but he was always too much of an incorrigible optimist to allow such unmitigated horror to dampen his spirits. Whatever was going on in the world that morning, all he could think about was The Derby. He and Maureen were off to Epsom that afternoon to achieve their first visit to the Mecca of racing for twenty-eight years, and Norman was firmly resolved that nothing but nothing would spoil their special day.

 

Norman and Maureen made the short drive to the station, the last of the morning’s fluffy white clouds fading into the blue distance as they pulled into the car park. The day was as glorious as ever, and all was set fair for a truly wonderful experience. The Burtons held hands and gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes like love-stricken teenagers as they waited patiently for the express train. The platform was packed with a generous throng of humanity, basking in a golden aura of happiness and excitement. Pastel shades mingled with gleaming whites as the train eased its way into the station on the stroke of twelve. Yet, as Norman boarded the train, the corner of his eye was drawn to a small figure who seemed somewhat out of place: a frail, elderly gentleman wearing an old black pinstripe suit and trilby. “The poor old chap must be absolutely sweltering” thought Norman as he made his way to the back of the carriage, still tenderly clutching Maureen’s podgy, warm fingers.

 

At last, the short journey to Epsom began, bang on time for once.  Norman took the opportunity to peruse the retirement gift nestling proudly on his wrist. 12.02 pm and thirty-seven seconds precisely. “Nice little watch”, he thought. The train’s gentle motion combined with the searing heat made Norman feel sleepy, and he was just about to doze off when his peace was disturbed by an all too familiar sound:

“Yoo-hoo, Maureen! Over here.”

The loud, bumptious shriek emanated from the capacious mouth of Helen Burrows, Maureen’s regular companion. Norman was renowned as a man who never had an unkind word to say about anyone, yet Helen was one person he simply could not abide: a vulgar, brash and imposing woman with an unhealthy penchant for self-pity. Many’s the quiet Sunday afternoon that had been ruined by her showing up on the doorstep uninvited. However, he still retained a flicker of sympathy for the old girl and understood that since being widowed she’d become increasingly desperate for company, and Mrs. Barton was a very good listener, he reasoned. Maureen responded to Helen’s cheerful greeting with a half-hearted waft of the palm and a hopelessly forced smile. She then cast an apologetic look at Norman, realising that there was no way out of the predicament.

“It’s ok, my love, said Norman, I’ll just doze off for a bit while you two girls have a nice chat. “

Maureen gave Norman a quick peck on the cheek before waddling her way down the length of the carriage to where Helen was sitting, uncomfortably wedging her ample frame between the seat and the malfunctioning toilet door as she sat down.  As for Norman, he once again attempted to drift off, smiling indulgently at the large, boisterous family squatting in front of Maureen as she prepared to be regaled by yet another tiresome litany of woes. “Rather her than me”, thought Norman as he closed his eyes and thought of Epsom. Then suddenly, without warning, the train ground to an almighty halt, pushing a young boy straight into Norman’s lap. Suitably startled, his eyes opened at once to be confronted by the boy’s bronzed face buried deep into his groin. A slight charge of pain in the nether regions was immediately superseded by a profound sense of embarrassment. Norman immediately assumed that everyone was looking in his direction, giggling behind their hands, but thankfully, they all seemed too preoccupied with the aftermath of the train’s juddering halt. Meanwhile, the unfortunate boy extricated himself quickly from the horrors of Norman’s moist khaki shorts, his bright pink face contorted into a semi-apologetic frown.

“Sorry mister” was all the boy could mutter before hastily rejoining his parents at the far end of the carriage.

“That’s alright, son. Don’t worry about it” said Norman as his eyes nervously scanned the carriage, still worried that someone might have witnessed this unfortunate incident. Trying desperately to compose himself, he fiddled unsuccessfully with the overhead air conditioning nozzles while the disembodied voice of the train driver made a garbled, incomprehensible announcement over the public address system.  The looks of disappointment on the faces of so many around him convinced Norman that the news was bad and a long wait was in store before the train eventually got moving again. Ah well, nothing for it but to sit tight and try to relax as best as one could. Norman closed his eyes as the thin breeze from the air conditioning nozzle finally spluttered into life, boring an insistent cool circle into his perspiring forehead.

“Excuse me”,  said a voice to Norman’s right. “Is this seat taken?”

Norman wearily opened his sticky eyes and saw a little old man standing over him. It was the same little old man that he’d seen on the platform just before he boarded the train. A fixed rictus of a smile played across the man’s decrepit features as he doffed his trilby in an exaggerated gesture of supplication, like a particularly obsequious courtier.

“Er, no….no. Please sit down.” Norman beckoned the old man to sit down.

“Thanks ever so much” came the reply as the old man parked his emaciated frame in the seat vacated recently by Maureen. With an audible crack and a brief sigh of relief the elderly gentleman sat down.

“Ah, that’s better. I really needed a nice sit down. I was last on the train, unfortunately, and all the seats were taken.”

“And no one gave up their seat for you? That’s terrible.”

The old man stared into the distance and sighed wistfully. “Well, that’s people for you. Particularly scum like this.” His bony wrist flicked the air in a gesture of utter derision. All of a sudden, the kindly simper vanished from the wrinkled old face, revealing a scowl of the blackest contempt.

“Yes, quite” murmured Norman uncomfortably as he peeped out of the window of the (still) stationary train, wondering precisely what he had let himself in for. As always trying to make the best of a bad situation, he unwisely attempted to humour the old man:

“Not like the old days, eh? People were much more polite then.” 

“Nooo. People were just as bad then as they are now. If anything, they were even worse in the old days. No, you must understand that people never change; they’re fundamentally botched. It’s all in the genes, you know. Fifty years from now, (if the planet’s still here, of course), they’ll be acting just the same way. Scum. Selfish, inconsiderate scum, the lot of them.”

As the old man became progressively more animated, Norman’s embarrassment grew. Yet as his eyes scanned the carriage, he was amazed to discover that no one was looking in his direction, despite the curmudgeon’s increased volubility. It wasn’t simply that everyone was being terribly British about it and choosing to ignore the old man’s increasingly unpleasant rant, it was as if they couldn’t hear a word that he was saying.

“And I tell you something else as well” continued the little black crow, “Standards of personal hygiene are an absolute disgrace on this train. It’s the hottest day of the year and yet half the men haven’t even bothered to deodourise. Revolting! They smell like pigs. And the so-called women aren’t much better, either. It’s bad enough that they’re dressed like w****s; it’s worse still that they have to smell like fat, sweaty pigs as well.”

“Yes, well….” Norman vainly attempted to interject, his level of embarrassment increasing with each additional decibel of geriatric noise. But it was all to no avail; the old man was in full flow now.

“And as for their children” he spat out, “They are an absolute disgrace to this country. A bunch of lazy, arrogant little thugs who think the world revolves around them and owes them a bloody living. All they care about is the latest gadget or toy. They ought to get down on their knees and thank Christ they aren’t down a mineshaft or in some factory somewhere. That’s where I’d put them. That or National Service. Lazy little buggers. They should be up at the crack of dawn and working for a living like they do in the Third World. That’d show them some discipline, the b******s. Not that I give a fig about those guttersnipes in Brazil or Mo-zam-bique, or anywhere else in Ongo Bongo land. Their so-called parents should’ve restrained themselves. There are too many people on this bloody planet as it is and the quicker these buggers start using condoms, the better, if you ask me.”

Manfully, Norman closed his eyes, folded his arms, and simply let the old man get on with his increasingly intemperate rant. At least this way he wouldn’t have to see the looks of shock and horror on the faces of his fellow passengers as they heard themselves being insulted by this unpleasant old bark. Not that they seemed to hear a single word of what he was saying, anyway.

“Bloody kids! Can’t stand them, any of them. All a waste of space if you ask me. And boys are the worst. Take that one that fell into your lap when the train stopped.”

Norman’s right eye half-opened.

“He’s a right little liar, that one. He’s too embarrassed to say anything now, but when he gets off the train he’s going to tell his dad that you molested him.”

Norman turned to the old man, open-mouthed with shock. “What are you talking about? He fell into my lap!” Then, realising that he was in danger of being overheard, Norman lowered his voice.

“The boy fell into my lap after the train stopped. It was just a silly accident. I mean, why the hell would I do such a thing? And in a train carriage packed full of people?”

The old man moved his skeletal face nearer to Norman, his seemingly indomitable scowl replaced by a look of sincerity and concern.

“Of course it was an accident. I know it, and you know it, but we also both know what children are like today. Such lying little brats. Always telling tales about teachers and scout masters interfering with them. Anything they can do to cause trouble to some poor bugger. And everyone just automatically believes them. As soon as you’ve got that mark of Cain on you, that’s it. Next thing you know you’ve got a tattooed mob outside the door throwing bricks through your windows.”

“Come on, don’t be ridiculous” retorted Norman. “How do you know what that boy’s going to say?”

“I know a lot more than you think, Norman” came the reply, the old man’s voice emerging from the very depths of his being, in a tone at once calm and menacing.

“How do you know my name? And who the hell are you, anyway?”

The old man gave a kind, but vaguely disconcerting grin, but said nothing. Instead, he reached down and clasped Norman’s hands firmly in his, peering straight into his startled eyes.

“I used to be like you, Norman. Seems like a long time ago now. Full of the joys of spring, I was. Always happy-go-lucky and believing the best in people. The birds were always signing and the sun always seemed to shine. But then, one day, my life changed. I had what religious folk call an epiphany. You know, like Paul on the road to Damascus. I was on a train just like this one. It was a hot, sunny day, again just like today, and I met this old man. He sat down next to me and we soon got chatting. He told me all about his life. A remarkable man. Some of the things he said you just wouldn’t believe. We must have talked for hours. Although I must say that he did most of the talking. A wonderful conversationalist he was; a real raconteur, as they say. Anyway, when the train reached the station we shook hands and went our separate ways. We both knew that we’d never see each other again. But from that day to this, I’ve thought about him every single day, and that’s no lie. You see, he had what you might call a certain gift; he understood people better than anyone I ever knew. And I firmly believe that on that day he passed this precious gift on to me: the gift of understanding what people are really like.  Since then, I’ve talked to so many people just like yourself all over the world and opened their eyes to what’s going on around them. I’ve made them see. Just like that business with Jesus and the clay. But I’m no swami; I’m just an ordinary man like you, Norman. I don’t have all the answers, but I know you must live, and you can’t do that unless you understand people.”

“Look, old man” said Norman, composing himself as best he could. “I don’t know who you are or how you come to know my name. Maybe this is all some kind of a joke by one of the chaps in the office, I don’t know. But if you’re trying to sell me something I’m really not interested. I was a salesman for forty-seven years and believe me I know a bad pitch when I see one.”

 

A look of hurt pride creased the old man’s face. “Sell? Sell? I’m not selling you anything, Norman. I just want you to open your eyes and live. That’s all I want. Look at me, Norman, look at my eyes.” The old man leaned forward more closely, grasping hold of Norman’s hands in a rapidly tightening grip.

 

“You mentioned the chaps at the office. They haven’t played a joke on you, Norman, but they certainly think you’re a joke. None of them respect you, not a single one. Oh yes, they’ve always seemed respectful to your face, but they’ve been sniggering at you behind your back for years like schoolgirls. The old boys in the office thought you’d stuck around for too long, and to the young Turks you were just a silly old fart. They called you names and criticised your work. They even used to make jokes about your wife’s weight and dress sense. At your retirement party yesterday, they weren’t celebrating your contribution to the company; they were just glad to see the back of you, and that’s no lie.”

As the barrage of unpleasant words rained down unremittingly on his sweating forehead, Norman stared down vacantly at the old man’s rickety knees, attempting frantically to make sense of what was happening. He was sorely tempted to disregard the hurtful import of what was being told to him, yet somehow he could not. Deep within his soul, a chord had been struck which resonated sharply with the vibrations of unsullied truth. Doubts began to cloud his mind, a darkening vapour of poisonous suspicion and paranoia. Paul had not yet reached Damascus, but he was skulking unhappily on the city’s outskirts. The journey, however, was not yet complete.

The old man took a deep breath and said “And then there’s your wife…..”

Norman looked up, his glum countenance defaced by an expression of sharp puzzlement. With his darting eyes he interrogated the features of the old man’s sheepish face.

“What about her?” Norman breathed, each word infused with a measure of suppressed anger and resilience. His chin defiantly raised, he prepared for the latest bombshell.

The old man edged a little closer and began to speak.

“Well, you know Peter Burnham?”

“Yes, of course I do. He’s my best friend.”

“And your work colleague for the last twenty-three years before your retirement.”

“Yes, yes. What about him?”

“Well, about fifteen years ago, he and your missus had an affair.”

Norman’s mouth gaped wide open as he took in the terrible news. In a profound sense of shock he looked over to see his wife chatting amiably with Helen. He’d always suspected that something had happened all those years ago, but had long since put it out of his mind. He was going through a rough patch at work at the time, so naturally he wasn’t his usual chirpy self. Yes, he’d briefly entertained suspicions but he put it down to executive stress and nothing more.

 

Norman looked again at Maureen, who smiled back at him while the old man continued to spell out in increasingly lurid detail every revolting nuance of the affair. Times, dates, places, even positions. It all added up with frightening logic. The whole sordid farce had taken place during the dying remnants of Maureen’s salad days before she unaccountably let herself go, abandoning her previously svelte figure for a more corpulent shape. Now Norman knew why. All that fat and sugar was designed to over-compensate for the fact that she’d been unceremoniously used and dumped by his so-called best friend. The gates of Damascus were now in sight.

 

At that moment, the train's public address system crackled and droned into life with an announcement from the driver: at long last the train would shortly be on the move again. But Norman wasn't listening. His jungle cooked brain positively ached from the barrage of home truths unceremoniously dumped upon it by the old man. As the train finally, but slowly kicked into gear and resumed its journey, Norman's forehead became gripped by a sudden bout of nausea. He tried with all his might to banish from his mind the lurid details of his wife and so-called best friend's betrayal but he just couldn't. And the more he brooded on such details, the worse he felt. In the blink of an eye, he was seized by the overwhelming urge to vomit, and rising from his seat, staggered the full length of the carriage towards the train toilet, next to where Maureen was sitting. As Norman lumbered towards her, his sweating features defaced by a greenish tint, Maureen got up from her seat.

"Are you all right, love?" she said with a look of genuine concern on her face.

But Norman ignored her, pushing her away with the palm of his right hand as he stumbled into the toilet, his forceful shove consigning Maureen to her seat with an almighty thump. Two dozen pink, perspiring heads turned towards the toilet as the suffocating haze resounded to the grim retching noise emanating from deep within Norman's twisted guts.

 

After what seemed like an eternity, Norman dragged himself up from the toilet floor, his aching red limbs snapping back into place as he straightened himself before the cracked mirror. He doused the tired crags of his face with a handful of tepid water and stared at his broken features in the mirror, which hung uncomfortably between the scrawled tags of graffiti. The forlorn look on his sickly face vanished, giving way to a sharp, determined frown. Deep within his tormented soul, something implacable stirred: Norman had experienced a true epiphany, just as the old man had predicted. The very core of his being had changed forever, and at long last, his eyes had opened wide and beheld the unvarnished truth. His whole life up to that point had been one gigantic sham, but he was now possessed with the stone cold certainty that what remained of his existence on earth would henceforth be wholly authentic. “I will live, I will live!” Norman said to himself. He whispered these words over and over again like a mystical incantation. They burrowed their way deeper and deeper into his addled mind, crystallising into an incessant drumbeat of resolution.

 

 Now, squashed into the scorched confines of a train toilet, with his right foot jammed hard against the broken, unlocked door, he had achieved a state of the utmost clarity. In that still moment, Norman encountered the ultimate paradox: an epiphany of both darkness and light. Dark, because his black, sodden heart had been torn to pieces by the terrible truth; light, because the future path his life was to take shone so brightly, painfully adorned by the golden aura of undimmed veracity. A myriad of complex emotions coursed through his haggard mind, yet two in particular lingered long enough to impress themselves upon him. First of all, there was a feeling of profound, unmitigated sadness. The tattered remnants of his life had been scattered to the wind, and there was no way that they could ever be retrieved, let alone reconstructed. Almost every last detail of Norman's life to date had been a lie, a piece of an enormous, crazy jigsaw puzzle which added up to nothing. Yet at the same time, he was immensely grateful to the old man who had removed the scales from his eyes and made him see just what his life had really been and what the people in it were really like. No words could adequately express how much Norman felt he owed to the little old man who had sat next to him on the train. But he would refrain from expressing his thanks; despite all that had happened, Norman was desperate to cling to his few remaining shreds of dignity, and that meant that he simply could not acknowledge the truth of what the old man had said. He would merely return to his seat, sit down and pretend that nothing had happened. And if the old man said anything to him, he'd just ignore him or tell him to shut up.

 

Norman emerged slowly from the fetid atmosphere of the bathroom into the stifling twilight of the carriage as it crawled out of the black confines of a tunnel. Once more, Maureen attempted to inquire about his wellbeing, this time remaining firmly seated, her concern tempered by a visible degree of apprehension. But, as before, Norman ignored her, the frown upon his face hardening into a look of grim resoluteness. A dozen pairs of peeping eyes followed his unsteady progress down the aisle as he waddled uncertainly towards his seat, momentarily stumbling as the train rocked back and forth in a stuttering rhythm. A hushed chorus of whispers breathed life into the broiling cauldron as Norman finally reached his destination. He slumped down into his seat, most of the carriage's occupants still staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and repulsion. He returned their gaze with stern defiance before they averted their eyes and returned to chattering among themselves once more.

 

The seat next to Norman was empty; the old man nowhere to be seen. Norman felt mightily relieved as he would be spared the necessity of talking to him again. He didn't feel much like talking to anyone, and of course he had already resolved not to express his gratitude for the epiphany that the old man's words had brought. Perhaps they would meet again on the platform. Perhaps not. Norman didn't really care. He glanced at his watch: only five more minutes to go before the train finally arrived at Epsom station, he reckoned. But the brief perusal of his watch once again reminded Norman of his working life, with all the pain that that now entailed. Calmly, he unbuckled the watch from his wrist and turned it over. On the back of the gleaming gold disc, he read the following inscription:

 

'Congratulations on your retirement, Norman.. Very best wishes from all your friends and colleagues at Burnham & Woods.'

 

He flipped it over again. Three minutes to one.

 

The public address system began to chime. 'Ding dong. Ladies and gentlemen, we shall shortly be arriving at Epsom…..'

 

Norman stared blankly at the watch as the outskirts of Epsom appeared on the horizon. Then, without a trace of emotion, he dropped his retirement gift gently into the little waste bin next to the adjoining seat. The shining gold winked and glinted as the sun's rays streamed through the carriage window, illuminating as they did the pile of sticky sweet wrappers on which the watch came to rest.

 

The sun-baked heap of metal finally screeched to a stop as it nestled alongside the station platform. With a start, Norman got up from his seat and strode forcefully towards the exit. Quite some way behind, Maureen alighted from the train. Her eyes anxiously scanned the heaving throng of passengers for a glimpse of her husband. Eventually, she caught sight of his balding head bobbing among the crowd, and shouted after Norman, her nervous shrieks fading into the shimmering distance. But Norman didn't acknowledge her cries. He continued on his path towards the ticket barrier without breaking his increasingly determined step.

 

A few feet behind him, the boy from the carriage exchanged words with his father, whose perturbed gaze flitted back and forth between his son and Norman with each word whispered in his ear. His purple face twisted into an expression of anger, then grabbing his son firmly by the hand, led him in the direction of the nearest police station.

 

Norman marched stridently past the crowded shuttle bus and walked the full mile to the racecourse. Once inside the stand, Norman's mind was pounded by the insistent thump of a ferocious heartbeat. At the same time, something akin to a sugar rush drenched his burning brain with a brief, intoxicating spasm of euphoria. Competing emotions battled bravely against each other in the very depths of Norman's being before they dissipated quietly, subsiding into a state of pure, unalloyed calm.

 

 A gentle smile caressed Norman's parched lips as he watched a shapely young woman take her place in the grandstand next to him. She was tall, stately and attractive, the very epitome of glamour. She smiled sweetly at Norman as she sat down, instinctively combing her flowing auburn locks with her bejewelled fingers. Her wondrous golden mane formed an impressive counterpart to the ineffably chic white dress which celebrated and adorned each curve of her perfect figure.

 

 A stiff, confident breeze emerged from the rapidly clouding sky, the powerful gust tormenting the young lady's beautifully-coiffured hair. Yet she remained gloriously serene amidst the sudden tempest. Norman, however, was in thrall to an irresistible urge, his brief taste of adrenaline irretrievably lost. For as the young lady threw her flaxen locks to the fulsome wind, he resolved to take his own life. Norman had just encountered his second epiphany of that tumultuous day. But this time the message was wholly different: no longer would he soldier on to live and fight another day; he would forever remove himself from the field of conflict. There was, to be sure, no anger, no recrimination or even the slightest hint of sadness. There was simply a firm resolution to do what needed to be done. Norman got up from his seat, and looked back at the young lady. But she didn't notice his departure; she merely perused her form guide as the golden tendrils of her glorious locks swept playfully over her sun dappled cheek.

 

As if possessed by a hypnotic trance Norman walked out of the racecourse and hailed a taxi. Thus began his life’s final journey. Staring blankly out of the tinted window, Norman saw his wife, burning tears cascading down her troubled face, her right elbow supported by a sympathetic steward while Helen Burrows chattered incessantly to her left. Norman surveyed the scene impassively, his mind mercifully free of all thoughts. He felt invisible; no one seemed to look at him as he sat in the back of the taxi, yet he could see everything, including the boy and his father from the train, accompanied by a police officer. All three of them were scanning the sweating throng surrounding them like nervous meerkats. The little boy jabbed and pointed his finger several times, only to withdraw each time with great uncertainty. Mounting frustration was etched upon the father's face. His son, meanwhile, was grimacing with ill-suppressed malevolence, a diabolical look smeared across his sunburned visage. The police officer, for his part, merely looked around him, watching and waiting.

 

The taxi finally pulled up outside Norman's front door. The driver inquired about his health as he was paid, but Norman didn't answer; he merely handed over the money and firmly shut the car door behind him. The driver stared in disbelief at the enormous wad of cash that Norman had insensibly pressed into his palm. It was £100, way too much for the journey. He was about to hail after Norman when he noticed that his front door was firmly shut.

 

Norman paused briefly in the hall, utterly oblivious to the trickle of blood seeping out of the scratch on his bare leg. A stray rose bush had been pushed by the wind into the garden path. One of its thorns had sunk into Norman's hot, pink flesh as he brushed past it. He looked once again at the little table crowded with retirement cards, one of which had fallen onto the floor. It was the one from Peter Burnham, his erstwhile best friend. God, how he wanted to die. Lonely and still, with the early summer humidity coalescing outside into the drums of distant thunder, Norman trudged his lonely way up the stairs and into the bedroom.

 

Norman picked up a fresh razorblade from the bathroom shelf, placed it on the nightstand, and began to undress. Vulnerable and naked, he stood before the full-length mirror, scrutinising every inch of his jaded, wrinkled body for the very last time. He then got into bed and pulled the cool crisp sheets over his dampened skin, the scent of gilded lilac momentarily occluded by the hue of stale sweat. Eyes fixed firmly on the cold, white ceiling, Norman tentatively gripped the razorblade in between his right thumb and forefinger, and began to slice deeply into the veins of his left wrist. Much to his surprise, he felt nothing except a momentary stinging sensation. At first, he wasn't sure that he'd been successful, but any uncertainty immediately gave way as large blackcurrant stains slowly spread out, colonising successive inches of space across the frozen white expanse of the soft bedsheet. Insistent droplets of rain rattled tirelessly against the bedroom window as Norman's tormented soul was finally, and irrevocably reclaimed by the ages.

 

A chirruping chorus of happy birds greeted the dark congregation as it made its way from the graveside back to the row of shining black limousines. In the midst of it all was Maureen, shaking hands, hugging and kissing each guest as they said their farewells. One by one, the guests left, leaving Maureen alone as she paid her last respects. She looked down in silence at the little grey headstone as she thought of Norman, meditating on their life together. Happy thoughts mingled uncomfortably with sad thoughts, causing a silvery tear to bulge in the corner of her eye, before it gently rolled down her plump red cheek. Maureen was about to turn round and get into the hearse when she heard a voice calling from behind her.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Burton?"

Maureen looked round. A little old man in a dark suit stood by the side of the road, a trilby in his hand.

"Yes, that's me. And who are you?" asked Maureen.

"I knew your late husband, Mrs. Burton." replied the old man.

"Oh really?"

"Yes, and he told me all about you." The old man grimaced as a sharp pain appeared to shoot up from his knee. He bent down as far as he could and gently began to rub it.

"Are you alright?" enquired Maureen. "You look like you're in a bit of pain. Perhaps you'd like to sit next to me in the car. I'd like to hear all about your memories of Norman."

"Oh, I wouldn't want to put you out, Mrs. Burton."

"Nonsense. Come along with me." Maureen extended her arm and gently guided the old man by his elbow towards the waiting hearse.

"You're very kind, Mrs. Burton. I really appreciate it. You're obviously a good person, just like Norman." The old man then sighed as he sat down in the back of the hearse. "It's a pity about his relatives and so-called friends, mind you. I wouldn't give them the time of day. Scum, the lot of them."

 

A look of horrified bemusement spread across Maureen's face as the old man shut the door and the car began to move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Note

This is a first draft so please bear in mind that this isn't the finished article. All suggestions as to how this work might be improved will be gratefully accepted.