Something Quite Beautiful by Amanda Prowse Page A

blindness, that it wouldn’t make any difference to her. She knew that it would be tough, but she also knew that she would not have loved him any less, confident that they would find a way through it; that they could find a way through anything. At least that’s what she believed.
    One of her many ‘if-only’ scenarios, saw her telling Martin over a glass of wine that he was the one thing that had made her life worth living for so many years. The only constant that she could rely on and she would never regret a single second. She wanted him to know that she would rather have had him for a shortened length of time, than fifty years of average. She hoped he knew that she would miss him every second of every day, that she would never let another man touch her. It was only him, always him, the very thought of anything else made her feel sick. She would be content to grow old alone with her memories; the biggest sadness, of course, would have been that she never got her baby.
    After brooding unhindered for a few days, Poppy was then swamped with guilt. How dare she have fought with him, not given him physical comfort when he was now so far away, facing an enemy in a hostile environment, devoid of love, affection and human touch?
    When these sharpened emotions blunted through the passing of time, she was left with the dull ache of loneliness. Half a year, one hundred and eighty days, it didn’t matter how many times she pictured an event six months previously and thought how quickly that time had passed; it still felt like an eternity, a sentence.
    The officer coughed into his sideways bunched fist, drawing her into the now. She waited for him to speak, not wanting to prompt; there was no hurry. Similarly, she didn’t want to make it easy, hoping he might feel a little bit of the pain that she was starting to feel. Poppy stood rigid, imagining what came next. She heard his unspoken words in her head, wondering which phrase he had chosen, rehearsed. ‘Martin is dead’; ‘Martin was injured and now he is dead’; ‘something dreadful has happened, Poppy, Martin is dead’; ‘Mrs Cricket, we have some terrible news. Are you alone?’
    She’d always imagined what this visit would be like. Try to find an army wife, husband, mother or father that hasn’t played out this scenario. You won’t be able to because this is how they live. Every time there is a lull in contact or a late night when a promise to call is broken, pulses quicken, car keys are mentally located. Muscles tense as if on starting blocks, in readiness to get to wherever they might be needed with the first waves of grief lapping at their heels. Each unexpected knock at the door, or post-nine p.m. telephone call, causes palms to break sweat until the moment passes and breath returns in a deep sigh. The various salesmen mistake the euphoria for buying signals and not simply the relief of those left behind to watch the clock and tick off the days. For the loved ones of these warriors, it is a sweet relief that it’s not their turn, not today.
    Poppy used to practise her reaction in her head. She pictured herself sinking to her knees with fingers shoved into her scalp, ‘Oh no, not Mart! Please tell me it’s not true!’ She thought her practised reaction was very convincing, having once performed it in front of the mirror in the salon. Some might question the need to rehearse, but Poppy worried that if and when it came to it, they might not know how devastated she was, figuring it was best to have this pre-prepared reaction in reserve. She didn’t need it.
    In his early forties, the officer was the younger by a couple of years, but his position gave him confidence over and above his colleague’s experience. He removed his hat as he stepped forward.
    ‘Mrs Cricket?’ his tone was confident, without any hint of nerves. Poppy noted tiny beads of perspiration peppering his top lip; he might have mastered the neutral voice, but would have to work on that sweat