One sock and no handkerchiefs

One sock and no handkerchiefs?.

It was at the end of John's funeral that Gillian
realised that she had still loved him. It was his
betrayal that had bustled her love, like a spare sock,
into the back drawer of her emotions.
Gillian squeezed the small cold hand that had felt for
hers and slotted it with her own into her coat pocket.
She looked down at her youngest daughter who was
staring glumly at the bunches, posies and wreaths of
flowers at their feet. She heard the girl sniff
loudly. Beside them, her eldest daughter was standing
with her arm around the shaking shoulders of another
young woman who was not sniffing but sobbing almost
soundlessly into a pair of woollen gloves held up to
her face.
'I haven't brought my daughters up properly' she
thought 'none of them have handkerchiefs.'
She had only pretended, although believing it at the
time, that she no longer loved her husband. And he had
believed it, his daughters had believed it, the world
had believed it.
It wasn't the grief that was surrounding her that had
caused this change, this realisation, that really,
yes, she had still loved him. If it was the outward
show of grief, a sort of mass hysteria, that had
induced this change of heart, she would have felt it
during the ceremony, while the kind but meaningless
words were said, as the music played and as the coffin
disappeared silently behind the curtains. But it
hadn't happened then.
So now, with her feet amongst the flowers, she still
didn't cry but the grief of her lost love seemed to
take her by the shoulders, shake her slightly and with
a gentle push moved her forward.
A man in dark clothes caught her attention and
beckoned to the group. Their time was up, another
service was starting. They returned slowly to the
waiting cars , others followed, but some dispersed
into the frost covered car park beside the crematorium
building.
They sat in silence in the car hardly looking at each
other, but hands were held and at one point Flora
handed Bryony a crumpled tissue and Gillian swept a
stray hair from Rose's tear-filled eyes.
Only a handful of people returned to the house where
Gillian and her daughters had prepared some sandwiches
and a small selection of drinks.
John's brother Henry came for a short while as a
personal friendly gesture but no-one else from John's
family came back. They had disappeared from the
crematorium without any words to Gillian or the girls.
And Gillian had very few relations, other than her
children. Those that were still alive were dispersed,
too far away. There were immediate neighbours, a
couple of Gillian's friends and a small crowd of
people from John's work.
The morning dragged on, the crowd from work melted
away, shaking Gillian's hand and muttering words of
condolence as they left leaving only the family and
friends. The girls were sitting together on the settee
in the living room looking like the three wise
monkeys. Rose had stopped crying, but Bryony was still
sniffing, making Gillian realise that it was just as
much the result of a cold as sorrow for her father.
There were still no handkerchiefs, not even the
crumpled tissue but Bryony was clutching a piece of
what looked very much like lavatory paper.
Eventually everyone left.
Gillian wanted to be on her own, she had enough of the
play acting, of being the not distraught wife. She
knew that virtually everyone in her life, was aware
that the marriage was over, that the divorce was being
planned and that most of them were uncomfortable,
uncertain as to whether they should treat her as the
grieving widow which the situation demanded or the
relieved divorcee.
They had, as society requested, all kept their
knowledge of her supposed loss of love silent. Most of
the real sympathy expressed had been towards the
girls.
As the door closed on the last guest, Gillian walked
into the kitchen. Flora followed.
"You alright Mum?" she asked.
'Yes.I'm fine. How's Rose?"
"Oh she's OK. I think Bryony has got flu or
something."
"And you?" Gillian asked, her hand stretching out.
Flora ignored the hand.
"I will miss him." She said, her voice breaking
slightly. She cleared her throat. " I know you were
divorcing, I knew about the other woman?"
Gillian sighed.
" Dad told me about her." Flora said "Rose knows as
well."
They busied themselves with the washing up, clearing
the food debris.
After a minute or two, they heard the sound of the
television from the next room and then the sound of
footsteps scurrying upstairs.
Flora looked through into the sitting room.
"Rose has disappeared without helping." She said. "
Bryony's watching TV."
"No change there, then" Gillian replied.
"She was really crying." Flora said
"Who? Rose? Bryony? Just now?they seemed fine."
"No, the woman. At the funeral."
Gillian stared at her daughter ,and aware that her
mouth had fallen open , physically closed it with one
hand, whilst the other continued to wipe the
worksurface with a J cloth.
"I didn't see her." She said
But she had seen her, she realised, because she had
wondered who the woman was, crying openly if
soundlessly, the tears glistening on her cheeks,
making no attempt to even dab them with the white lace
hankie she held up to her nose. Gillian had assumed
the woman was from John's work, his new assistant
perhaps. She had not even imagined that the woman,
this person who had not only stolen her husband but
had stolen her right to be a grieving widow, would
come to the funeral.
But why not? Why should she not be there? Perhaps
she was the real grieving widow, the one who had been
robbed of the expected life with John. Her, not
Gillian, who was not expected to grieve because she
was not expected to still love, whose life with John
was over. She was meant to feel bitter, to feel
betrayed.
"You wouldn't have known her, Mum. You didn't know who
she was."
Gillian smiled at her daughter. No she didn't know who
the woman was and now she never would. She could leave
the woman to her grief and get on with her own life,
supposedly free of the burden of love. She could leave
the sock in the back of the drawer or maybe bring it
out from time to time, wash it, keep it from rotting.
She threw the J cloth into the sink and wiped her
hands on her skirt.
"Let's have a drink." She said.