The Love that Pays the Price

The Love That Pays the Price.

He entered the room bringing with him a strong odour of Marmite, stale cigarettes and the smell of the great unwashed. A sickly blue shirt was spotted with small samples of each meal from the preceding week and a thick navy blue cardigan stretched over the apple that was his stomach. I couldn't see the waist of his trousers tucked under the apple, but they matched the rest of the outfit and added to the rich blend of stains and smells.

It was generally an unpleasant start to a consultation and I was ready to get it over and done with as quickly as possible.

"How's the diabetes Mr Chiverton? Diet good? And are you taking the tablets?
"Oh grand Sister, he grinned a toothless grin, "Three small meals like you said, plenty vegetables and lean meat, and no sweeties, and I takes me tablets reg'lar.

I could see from the results of his blood and urine tests that this wasn't the case at all. "Any cakes and biscuits?

"Oh no Sister, no cakes and biscuits since my Jeanie.

As I toyed with the idea of challenging him or letting it go he started to talk and my heart sank. It had been a long and busy morning at the end of a long and busy week. There would be no short consultation with this man today but as I glanced briefly at the computer screen I saw 'death of spouse' had been recorded the previous November.

I looked more closely at him and saw that the little watery blue eyes, almost hidden between a thick brow and puffy purple cheeks, were kind. The words, in a soft country burr, began a story greater than the humble surroundings of this modern medical practice deserved.

"My Jeanie made lovely cakes and biscuits, no shop-bought rubbish matches hers. She did her baking on a Sunday and filled the house with wonderful smells all day. Some cakes went to the church fayre in summer and biscuits always to our old-folk neighbours next door. We used to sit and talk the day away as she baked and then sat in front of the fire all evening, all talked out. It was our way. He smiled to himself at some private thought and I sat back in my chair, waiting for him to continue.

"She kept me alive during the war, if it hadn't been for her I wouldn't be here now, he said and my medical mind wondered if Jeanie had been a nurse and there was some other illness or injury that I didn't know about. "The thought of her kept me alive and brought me home safe.
"The Landin's was the wors' I think. I was 18 years old and it was more than a boy should see. More than any man should see too, I dare say. He paused again as if remembering. "I was in the 16th Infantry, 2nd Battalion, he continued with some pride, "An' we was to hit Omaha Beach an hour after low tide. Operation Overlord they called it. We were some of the first in the landing craft after H-Hour. Rommel said that the war would be won or lost on those beaches. I know a lot was lost and it were a waste of young life. That's what I know. He made nasty traps for the landing troops ' waste-high stakes with a mine attached that would be covered by the sea when we landed, he invented them, did you know that Sister?

He looked at me and I shook my head, leaning forward to hear more.

"There were 176,000 of us that landed, most of us with our sweethearts in our breast pockets and the fear of God in our minds. We were told to keep our heads down below the gunwales or they'd be blown off when the Germans started shooting. The shout went up "All boats way! Our Father, which art in Heaven, Hallowed by Thy name¦ he paused again and his face twisted imperceptibly in horror of the memory. The room was silent and even the noise of the traffic outside seemed to have hushed in honour of this insignificant man's tale of courage and bravery.
"Everything was so loud, the shells exploded like thunder all about, machine guns hammerin' fast and furious from the shore, and then suddenly there was the hum of the B-26 bombers above us and the sky filled up with aircraft. We relaxed a bit then with the air cover. But there was a lot of seasickness, men all puking. And then the doors went down and we jumped into water to our waists with our rifles above our heads.
"Hundreds of them died in the first few minutes, Sister, hundreds.

He looked as if seeing me for the first time since he had begun to speak, almost pleading with me to be there and realise what it had been like. I was there, I couldn't have failed not to be, with the passion and pain in his voice. But my imagination couldn't have done justice to the realisation of what it must have been like for those men who were only just out of their boyhood.

"I saw men falling and some I had only known for a day as we waited on the English side but they were lifelong buddies, you know? I had to push past them bodies through sea that was just waves of their blood. I could hear some of the injured ones groaning and the shallows were clogged up with corpses. Bits of them was everywhere, and feathers from their jackets as they got blown apart was floating in the sea. There was gun smoke everywhere so's you could only see just ahead of you.
"And all I could think of was my Jeanie and how I had to stay alive so that I could come home here have her in my arms and keep her safe. She kept me alive see, Sister. Coz when I came home she was as fresh and lovely as the picture I had in my heart. We had so many happy years together. From the first time I day saw her in the sunshine on the village green in her pretty frock I knew she was the one for me. She just smiled at me and my heart thought the world was just turning for the two of us.
"We courted for a six-month before I got called up. Walkin', watching the sun set from the cliffs and listening for the hiss as it went into the sea. We laughed like children playing when we hid from the rain one day when we got caught in a storm. Soaked to the skin we were ' how her Mam did scold us! No child came to us tho'. But we were content, just us two, 'til she got sick.

He paused again for a long, long moment and as I watched his face it seemed to twitch and smile at the lifetime of memories that were perhaps sifting through his mind. I saw his blue eyes dampen at the edges, as the end of his nose and top lip reddened and swelled with tears.

"She was sick for such a long while, in and out of the 'orspital all the while.
The flashing lights and strange noises there did both comfort and frightened me. 'Oh Jeanie,' I used to think, 'We've been here before.' The smell in the 'orspital was life and death, sickness and cleanness.
"I used to watch other people's bad times as I sat with her. Some folk they got better and some they didn't. I couldn't bear to see her suffer but I was so feared of being without her. I used to think: 'What will I do if you don't come home this time? How will my life go on? How will I manage? What will I do?'

The tears coursed down his face as he spoke and I realised there is something more painful about the tears of a grown man, surpassing even the tears of a child. I could almost feel my heart breaking with his as he relived the loss of his Jeanie.

"I think fear is the price we pay for happiness that a lifetime of lovin' brings us, don't you, Sister?

Before I could answer there was a knock at the door and Maureen the receptionist opened it saying, "Sorry to disturb you Sister, Mr Chiverton's little dog is getting a bit fretful at the front door without him.

"Oh poor Hattie, I must go, it's her lunch time! Thank you Sister, I'll do as you say. And with that he got up to leave, wiping his nose on his sleeve and putting his sad face back in order to meet the world.

"Good thing he's your last for the morning, he's had you there near on 40 minutes. Maureen said after he had gone. "I hope you told him to have a bath and change his clothes. It's not hygienic, he smells dreadful. she continued as she closed the door.

I wanted to tell her about the real Mr Chiverton, his story and that he and his generation fought for our freedom.

As I opened the window I saw him greet his little brown dog. She wagged her tail and whimpered with joy and they gazed at each other as he spoke softly to her, smiling and stroking her head. He picked up her lead and together they walked slowly away.

Turning from the window I thought of my own loss. I carry my grief with me like a stone in my pocket. I know it's there and sometimes I touch it gently to reassure myself, to remember, to keep myself grounded.

Does the end of the hurt in love mean letting the dearest go?