Love is ...

Love is ?

George carefully placed another small log onto the dying fire before
prodding it with his burly strength built up through years of manual
labour. He watched the small eddies of smoke rise before gently sinking
his large frame into his armchair. Within a few moments the cold,
bluish moonlight that shone into the 18th century farmhouse was
overwhelmed by the warm orange glow that bathed every corner of the
small but cosy sitting room. Brass ornaments, which Martha had
collected over the years, twinkled like stars in the night as
flickering flames reflected from their well tended-to surfaces. 'The
Archers' drew to another close and George, as always, hummed along to
the familiar tune before reaching for the radio's on/off switch. The
serenity of the surrounding Yorkshire countryside was punctuated only
by the crackling and spitting of the fire as it gathered ferocity,
while the constant ticking of the mantelpiece clock reminded him that
time did not in fact stand still. It would have been pretty much like
any other winter's night of late had it not been for the anniversary.
One year to the day ? three hundred and sixty five days ? three hundred
and sixty five nights. Especially the nights ? they had been so
hard.

Pushing himself up and out of the chair, George slowly made his way to
the far side of the room. Martha's faded photograph stood proud on the
polished sideboard alongside her favourite brass figurine of a Welsh
lady in traditional costume. Tears began to flow as fond memories came
flooding back of the week they spent together in Llandudno only two
years earlier. Taking the brass-framed photo in both hands he paused
and admired her beauty.
'Why, Martha? Why did you leave me?' he whispered.
The dark eyes he had fell for all those years ago still sparkled behind
the faded emulsion of the sepia toned portrait. He raised the frame to
his lips and softly kissed the cool glass that came between himself and
his beloved Martha. A feeling of sorrow transformed instantly into an
air of excitement as the thought of meeting her again, after a
torturous year, became more of a reality. He knew where to find her but
undoubtedly the meeting would be a surprise. He ran the carefully
prepared apologies through his mind yet again, and thought of minor
annoyances that he could have put right but never did. They would be a
thing of the past. The time had come to put things right. He would tell
her how life was impossible without her and how empty and meaningless
it had been. It would never be empty again after tonight.

His best suit draped neatly over the back of his chair together with a
freshly ironed white shirt. The navy blue tie was Martha's favourite
and always brought comments on how smart he looked. She had bought it
as a present while on a day trip to Whitby, knowing that with his
passion for maritime history he would appreciate it's single sailing
ship emblem. His black brogues smelt of the freshly applied polish that
he took such care with earlier in the evening. With heart racing, but
actions at a more leisurely pace, he undressed and carefully placed his
casual clothes in a neatly folded pile on Martha's chair nearest the
window. He took his time changing into his white shirt and suit, making
sure there were no unnecessary creases, the whole operation taking the
best part of fifteen minutes. He readjusted his tie in the dim
reflection of the mirror to ensure the knot was perfectly formed and
the emblem was neither too low nor too high. He stood up straight and
pushed his broad shoulders back as he eyed himself up and down. He
didn't think he looked at all bad for a man sixty years of age. Maybe
it's the dim light, he thought. The bracelet of his gold watch snapped
against his wrist as the final touches were carried out with military
precision. Satisfied, he turned and looked across at Martha's
photograph.
'Won't be long now, Martha,' he said. 'If only you knew the trouble
I've gone to. I'm coming to see you.'
Slowly but deliberately, he turned the door handle and entered the
hallway. The tall steel cabinet was to his right, at the bottom of the
stairs and looked out of place amongst the ornate timber furniture that
decorated the hall. Nevertheless, it served the purpose it was designed
for. It's door was already unlocked and George reached inside, gripped
the cold metal of the double barrels with one hand, while reaching up
and taking two cartridges from the shelf with the other hand before
carefully closing the door behind him. The weapon looked all the more
sinister in the darkness but he slid a cartridge into each of the
barrels and snapped it shut with a firm metallic click. Casually
re-entering the sitting room he picked up the photo and settled back
into the chair to think again of the enormity of the actions he was
about to undertake. A tear ran down his cheek.
The distant bleating of sheep could be heard from the surrounding
fields, and the flames that performed a lively dance just a few moments
ago had began to die back. The clock ticked relentlessly as it edged
closer to ten o'clock. George waited for the chimes to sound.
'Martha my dear, the time has come,' he said with a smile. 'I'm coming
for you.' He looked up to the ceiling as the clock struck the first of
ten chimes, his softly spoken words suddenly become angry outbursts as
he shouted.
'Lord! Forgive me! ? For I do know what I do! ? I do! ? I ? DO!
?'

He was still shouting right up until the seventh chime when he thrust
the barrels into his mouth and pulled the trigger as Martha's blood
covered photo fell onto his lap.

***