It Would Be Much Better If We Had Never Met…
Opening the rucksack, she took out a plastic freezer bag containing Malcolm’s ashes. She stood near the edge of the Devonshire National Trust path. There was no one around. She opened the freezer bag and standing at the edge of the footpath, turned it upside down and shook it as if she was airing a duvet.
It would have been better if we had never met she thought. Crikey, I was a wall flower back then. He used to call me his little buttercup Those words would come back to haunt him. But it was too late for regrets.
She had booked the hotel in Devon on the web. She was computer savvy. Not like her friends. They wouldn’t know the meaning of internet shopping or Facebook. She had never looked back. A way to keep in touch with her family and friends. Or to find out interesting facts about the flowers and plants her husband loved so much.
She had only started driving in later life. He had driven them everywhere when he wasn’t obsessing in the garden. But she had insisted on gaining a little piece of independence. She passed her driving test first time, just after her fiftieth birthday. She had bought her first car a week or two later.
Now she would drive anywhere. She reached Devon in under five hours. The Hotel at the End of the World. Except it wasn’t anywhere near the end of the world.
There had been an old can of Pepsi lying on the pavement. It had been near the front entrance to the hotel. She wanted to bend down to pick it up. To throw the infected object away. But instead she stared and gagged and leant against the grey stone wall sucking in small gasps of breath. A passer-by asked her if she was okay. She pointed to the can. They picked it up, with their bare hands she thought. She watched them throw the dirty infected can in the bin.
The landlady had offered to take her bag upstairs. She had noticed the lady was overweight. Mable wondered how she could possibly clean in the crevices of all those folds of skin. No offence. But the landlady was pleasant. Nevertheless, Mable had insisted she could manage.
The one bedroom en-suite room was similar to the land lady; and so she put her things down, opened her bag, removed a pair of disposable gloves, put them on and then ran her fingers along the surfaces.
After an hour of cleaning she unpacked her walking boots and placed them with the small ruck sack by the door. She was very tired she had had a long journey.
She changed into her nightie, brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. ‘Goodnight Malcolm,’ she said.
The following morning she got up at 7am, showered and went downstairs. She was alone in the breakfast room.
‘Where have you come from?’ asked the landlady
‘Kent,’ she replied examining the fork.
‘You’re very brave. Especially coming this time of year,’ said the landlady.
‘Oh, well I’m recently widowed, so I have to grin and bear it,’ she said handing the landlady the dirty cutlery.
‘Oh I’m sorry to hear that, ‘said the landlady. ‘Recently?’
‘Two weeks ago.’
‘I’m very sorry,’ said the landlady. ‘You must feel lonely.’
‘To be honest; I’m not alone. He’s with me,’ said Mable.
‘Yes, of course. He’ll always have a place in your heart,’ said the landlady handing her a new knife and fork.
‘No, I mean he’s in the rucksack.’ Mable held up the plate to the light.
‘In the rucksack?’
‘Yes. I’m scattering his ashes.’
Oh God, sorry,’ said the landlady blushing and making the sign of the cross.
Mable stood up. ‘Don’t you want breakfast?’ asked the landlady.
‘No,’ she said, placing the plate back on the table. ‘I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.’
‘Well, have a good walk,’ replied the landlady. ‘And my condolences.’
It was a cold clear day. Peaceful and still. Perfect. The footpath followed the Devon coastal path for a couple of miles. The path was five feet wide and sandwiched between a sheer drop to the sea and craggy cliffs.
‘Honeysuckle. The fruit is a red, blue or black spherical or elongated berry containing several seeds; in most species the berries are mildly poisonous.’ She closed her eyes and inhaled the pungent smell.
She had reached a fork in her path.
There was a bench and she sat and watched a pair of gulls glide along the ridge, soaring on the updrafts. One of them rose and then without warning fell, out of sight, towards the unforgiving sea. It was a sign. This was the place.
And so here she stood shaking the freezer bag. The ashes stayed put. She pinched the corners and again shook the bag, and shook the bag and shook the bag.
‘Get out, get out,’ she screamed. ‘Get out of my life.’
The ashes flew from the plastic bag. She watched them rise on the gentle updraft and form a solid mass, like swarming bees. They floated above the edge of the footpath.
‘Fall,’ she shouted. At once the dark swirling mass smothered her in ash. She tried to turn her head, but the ashes went into her eyes, mouth, ears and hair. She was covered in a cloud of ash that swirled around her, blinding, suffocating, filling every crevice.
‘Filth, filth,’ she screamed, clenching her eyes and retreating against the wall of the path her arms swatting and wind-milling. ‘Dirty little fucker,’ she screamed. She sat back down on the bench and groped in her pocket and pulled out a packet of tissues. She took one and dabbed her eyes. She spluttered and spat. ‘Look at the mess,’ she said. Ash littered the pavement.
She took out a pair of disposable gloves and put them on. She tried to scrape handfuls of the ash. It was pointless. There were still remnants of ash in the freezer bag and she threw the bag over the side of the footpath and watched it float away.
Not exactly as planned. But it was done. As usual Malcolm had made such a mess. He was splattered across the footpath and the overhanging bushes and plants.
She brushed herself down and began to walk back along the path. She felt the wind increasing. She wished it would rain and wash Malcolm away into the sea. The wind grew stronger and she stumbled slightly. As she turned to look behind her she saw the ash rising like haze from hot tarmac. Mable ran along the footpath back towards the hotel.
Behind her the ash reformed into a black cloud. ‘Fuck you,’ she shouted. ‘Fuck you.’ She looked over her shoulder as she ran. The tsunami of black cloud raced towards her. She swatted in a mad frenzy as the cloud of ash engulfed her. She spluttered and gasped as it entered the slit of her mouth forcing its way between her teeth until she choked.
Then something slapped her around the face. Something cold lifeless. It stretched around the contours of her forehead, eyes, nose and cheeks. The smell was clinical, manipulated, familiar. Her fingers cut into her flesh as she tried to rip the plastic freezer bag from her face.
But, It was too late. She couldn’t blame the Vibram outsole on her new Ecco ladies walking shoes. The website had said it generated grip on all surfaces. Her foot wasn’t on any surface. It had stepped into the abyss between the footpath and nothing. For a second she floated in space. Then she fell, like the seagull, out of sight towards the unforgiving sea.
