Anne Thomas

Ernest and Anne Thomas had been happily married for six years, and as the old joke goes, unhappily married for a further thirty. The union had been blessed with three children, two boys and a girl, who in time grew up to be responsible adults with good prospects. When the youngest of the children left home for good, Anne promptly divorced her husband and set about enjoying the rest of her life. Her first task as a divorcee, she found, was to explain why she had split from her partner of the best part of half a century.

“I don’t understand, mum. You don’t divorce someone on a whim. You can’t end it, just like that!”

“That’s true. I’ve been planning this divorce since I was pregnant with you.”

“But why?”

So Anne Thomas told the children of the 20 years of abuse, verbal and occasionally physical, the alcoholism, the gambling, sparing them as many of the details as possible.

“So if Dad was that bad, why stay with him for so long?” There was scepticism in Adam’s voice. Anne regarded her eldest son over the rim of her coffee cup.

“For you, dear. I thought about the effect that our separation would have on you, growing up. I thought it would be best for you to have a stable family life. Of course, then Sally came along, then Stephen, and I couldn’t very well deny them an opportunity that I’d extended to you. Besides, your father always doted on the three of you.” She did not add that he seemed to save up his bitterness and cruelty for her. “If he’d been cruel to any of you, that would’ve changed things. The three of you were always my priority. Now that you’re old enough to look after yourselves, I think I can afford to think of myself a little. I’m sorry if this is difficult for you to understand, but better that you should deal with it now than when you were little. If it helps, I love each of you, and I did love your father…” She paused, unsure as to how to proceed. “… but somewhere along the line, he changed. And I felt that I didn’t know him any more, so I stopped loving him, but that will never happen with you. You’re still my children, you’re still his children, and that’s that.”

As Anne had hoped, her children had accept the divorce without too much fuss, and without too many reservations about their father. She had not wanted to spoil their relationships with him – she was not, after all, a bitter woman, she simply wanted nothing more to do with him. And that was exactly what she got. She also got most of the furniture before the sale of the house, on top of her share of the proceeds. In the weeks and months that followed, she was happier than she had been in years. She had married young, and Adam had been born a year after, so she had never had time to enjoy her youth in the way that her kids had. This thought did not displease her – the children had been allowed to experience something that she had not had a chance to, and besides, now was the time where she could relax and make the most of the freedom. And freedom it most certainly was. Ernest had gone without a whimper, and since leaving, had only phoned twice, on each occasion to tell her that he found something of hers mixed in with his possessions. She marvelled at how completely 34 years of marriage had been blown away, and then reflected sadly that Ernest couldn’t have loved her much to have let her go so easily. This reflection did not make much impact on her high spirits, though. She spent whole days just sitting in her small garden, reading or simply enjoying the sun, free from distractions of family, valuing the peacefulness of her new life. She kept in regular contact with all three of her children, and was gratified to find they seem to wish her well, and that they were still in touch with their father. Little by little, she grew accustomed to this lifestyle, and then bored.

“Silly old besom!” she chided herself, “You’ve waited all these years for this and how do you spend your time? Reading books about places you’ve never been to. Well, that’s just not good enough!”

First thing next morning Anne Thomas was to be seen marching purposefully down the High Street, and into the travel agents. Half an hour later, she had delightedly booked a round-the world Cruise. She marched back down the High Street and into a little teashop to meet her friend Gladys.

“Oooh, you lucky thing!” trilled Gladys when she saw the ticket and the brochure. “caravanning again for us this year. Lake District. Still, at least we don’t have to take the kids this time. How are your lot?” The conversation moved on through familiar territory, but Anne was only half there. Her mind wandered around the world, all the countries she would be visiting, all the sights she would see… The moment she got home, with travel books on a dozen different countries added to the cruise ticket, she signed up to a teach yourself Spanish course online, and made a list of all the things she would need to buy before the cruise. She was in seventh heaven, planning something for herself, by herself.

“It makes such a change,” she told her daughter Sally on the phone, “not having to plan what four or five people will need. It’s easier, and, because it’s only me, I can splash out on a few little extravagances.”

The next few weeks passed happily for Anne as she shopped for bits and pieces to take away with her. She set aside an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening for her Spanish lessons, and she applied herself with relish. “Cómo estás?“ she asked her reflection as she polished the mirror, and “muy bien. Muy, muy bien, gracias!” she answered, and it was true. She was excited about the prospect of trying out her Spanish in Spain, Argentina, Chile and all the other places she could. She was mildly disheartened by watching a Spanish film on the tv and finding that without looking at the subtitles she was totally lost, but nonetheless persevered and eventually fell ready to move on to the ‘advanced’ section of the course.

It was a month before she was due to sail that the news came through. Ernest had died. Anne received the news from a tearful Sally. She did her best to comfort her daughter, but only felt a mild regret herself. She had mourned Ernest 20 years ago, when she realised that the man she had fallen in love with was long dead. That night, Sally stayed in Anne’s spare room. Before she went to bed, Anne took her daughter a mug of warm milk, just as she had when Sally had been little. Sally took the mug with a melancholic smile.

“Thanks, mum. I mean… for everything.”

Anne bent over and kissed her daughter on the forehead.

“Don’t mention it, dear,” she said, and closed the door quietly behind her.

Alone in her bedroom, in bed that she had shared with Ernest for all those years, Anne searched herself at some semblance of remorse, but again, found none. She wondered vaguely if perhaps she was in shock and would later break down, but then dismissed the notion. Where there might of been grief in her, there was indifference. This lack of sorrow in her at his passing troubled her though. She knew it was the guilt of not having the feelings she was supposed to have such a situation.

“Well, I can’t help that,” she said firmly, as she plumped up the pillow and pulled her quilt up to her chin. Minutes later she was asleep, and dreaming.

The sun shone on the young couple as they spread their picnic out on an old blanket. They sat on a lush, grassy hill which overlooked fields stretching away to the horizon. It was a scene of perfect tranquillity, harmony and peace. Bees buzzed lazily amongst the lilies-of-the-valley and there was not a cloud in the sky. It was the perfect English summer day, and they were in love.

Anne smiled in her sleep. “Of course…” She murmured into her pillow.

“Of course… Oh, Ernie, of course I’ll marry you!” said the girl. The smile on the young man’s face widened and, taking the girl in his arms, he kissed her. The world belonged to them, and they belonged to the world.

Anne woke with a start and shivered. The memory of the dream was already fading, being replaced by a strange, unplaceable disquiet. The room was cold, and Anne shivered again under the duvet.

“I must’ve left the window open,” she thought, and as if to confirm her suspicion, the curtain moved. She still felt uneasy though, as if she had just woken from a nightmare instead of a pleasant reminiscence, and found that she could not bring herself to reach out from under the bedclothes to switch on her lamp. After a couple of seconds listening to her own breathing, she composed herself and reached for the switch. Before she reached it, the light came on. Anne stifled a scream. She could feel the beat of her heart in her throat. Slowly, she sat up in bed, edging her way up the wall, clutching the covers to her chest. By the light from the lamp she saw the window was tight shut. Although she was by now very frightened, Anne took a deep breath, and summoned up the last of her courage.

“If that’s you, Ernest,” she said in a no-nonsense voice, “you can pack it in right now!” The room was absolutely still. “Look,” she went on, “ this is not your place anymore. In a way, it hasn’t been for years. I’m sorry, but there you are.” Anne paused, and in the silence that followed, it seemed to her that she heard a soft sigh, and for an instant the room was filled with the scent of lilies. Anne smiled gently, her fear now gone. “I know. But that was a long time ago. I wish… I wish it could all have been like that…” A tear formed, rolled down her cheek.… Such a lovely day…” As she uttered the words, she sensed the light from the lamp getting dimmer. “Goodbye Ernie,” she whispered, and the light was gone. She remained motionless in the darkness for a while until a soft knock on her bedroom door interrupted her reverie.

“Mum? Are you alright?” Sally‘s face appeared round the door. “I thought I heard you talking?” Anne smiled at her daughter.

“I’m fine dear,” she said, “I’m fine.”