The Anniversary by Lesley Palgrave
I am sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in complete, deep silence. Small specks of dust drift through shards of sunlight. I feel intensely alone.
This is the time I have promised myself, and my counsellor, Ellen, I will put aside to face the memories and feelings which are bound to be triggered, on this, the first anniversary of Roger’s death.
Yet again, I find myself thinking that surely it’s better to avoid opening myself to painful reflections, but I can hear Ellen’s voice telling me that this is part of the healing process which will enable me to move on with my life. I steel myself to remember.
It was a lovely day, cold but dry, with late winter sunshine holding the promise of spring. Tentatively, I suggested to Roger that we go for a walk. He readily agreed, and after a few “jovial” comments about my laziness and need for exercise, he donned his ghastly old red hat.
We took the car to Morton Point, and set out to follow the designated track across the Downs. A few other walkers were visible, evidently taking advantage of the enticing weather, which followed several days of steady rain and dreary mist. In spite of the sun, the ground was still wet and the unsuitability of the fashionable boots I had chosen to wear soon became obvious; I slipped frequently, and although I managed to stay upright, Roger had to hold on to me in order to prevent me from falling. Once I slid some distance and nearly had us both over.
“Careful,” he warned. “What on earth possessed you to wear those silly boots? Do you want to turn back?”
I meekly admitted I had made a mistake with regard to the boots, but assured him I wanted to go on. Privately, I thought: “what possessed you to wear that aweful, shapeless, bright red hat?”
The track was becoming steeper, and now the other walkers were few and far between. I guessed that a stroll was enough for most of them, and I imagined those other couples ensconced in a welcoming country pub, or on their way home for a convivial lunch. However, as Roger disapproved of pubs and did not “do” conviviality, these options were closed to me. So, I did my best to hide the discomfort caused by my sodden boots, which were rubbing my cold feet painfully.
Suddenly, I started to slide, and grabbed hold of Roger, who slid with me. Mercifully, I managed to regain my balance just before the ground fell away to a sheer drop. I took several deep breaths, and then I realised Roger was not with me. Panic gripped me and for what seemed like minutes, but was probably just a few seconds, my mind froze. Then I made myself look over the edge. I caught a glimpse of something red, and I saw Roger lying motionless, a long way down.
I was still fumbling ineffectively with my mobile phone when a lone walker appeared at my side. He took over, called the emergency services, spoke soothingly to me and stayed until the air ambulance arrived.
Roger was pronounced dead at the scene; his neck had been broken, and I was told he probably died instantly, so did not suffer. I am glad Roger didn’t suffer – although, he deserved to. During our ten years of marriage he had made my life a misery, constantly putting me down and demeaning me. Whatever I said, or did was wrong. The night before he died, we were going to a dinner dance. I dressed with care and was pleased with the end result, but he only said,
“We are going to a formal dinner dance, not the Tramps Ball.”
I was too upset to go, so he went alone, which I suspect is what he wanted all along.
None of our friends suspected the true state of our relationship, as Roger behaved well in front of other people. I had always suffered his taunts and sarcasm passively, never retaliating, in case I made matters worse. However, on this occasion, I suddenly felt flooded by intense and overwhelming anger as the truth hit me – there was nothing wrong with the way I looked, Roger was a controlling, abusive bully, who was ruining my life, and enjoying it!
That was when I decided to kill him.
Nobody saw the twist I gave his arm, followed by a push, as I straightened up and let go. The look of shock and outrage on his face was extremely gratifying.
One year on, life is looking up. Friends have been very supportive, and I have found it relatively easy to play the part of the greef-stricken widow.
To my surprise, I have really enjoyed my counselling sessions with Ellen and, although I do feel a little bad about having to constantly lie to her. It’s nice to have someone who is there just for me. I shall go a few more times and then bow out, clearly well on the road to recovery.
I’ve kept in contact with Andrew, who came to my rescue on that fateful day, and who sweetly mistook my delaying tactics as the result of shock and panic. I like him and, after a decent interval, I think I may encourage something more than friendship. It’s fortunate that he was too late on the scene to witness Roger’s “fall”.
So here I am. On the table are two glasses and a bottle of rather expensive Champagne. I fill both glasses, and drink the first greedily. Picking up the second glass, I pause to appreciate the delicate golden colour, heady aroma, and the lively bubbles leaping to the surface. As I start to sip slowly, I relish the new sense of optimism and self-confidence I can now allow myself to feel.
In an unfamiliar, assertive voice I say out loud “happy anniversary!”