The Widow's Tale by Mick Jackson Page A

felt as if the house’s fortifications had been breached and that I was overrun by the barbarian hordes. People were ringing and booking themselves in for a little visit. Others wouldjust show up, unannounced. And they all needed to be fed and watered. Or at least to have their solemn half-hour in my company. My home became a sort of shrine. Until, after four or five days, at Ginny’s insistence, I just let the phone ring. Then crept out at midnight and locked the front gates.
    Putting aside the actual intrusion, I simply didn’t have the strength to be dealing with other people’s emotion. Not that they came around, I’m sure, with the intention of offloading all their grief onto me. They would just start talking and within a couple of minutes they’d fall apart. It was all quite genuine and heartfelt. But after it happened for the tenth or twelfth time I began to think to myself, What the hell am I doing counselling all these bloody people? I’ve got my own grief to be getting on with.
    And, I must admit, I pretty quickly got pretty sick of hearing all the wonderful things people had to say about John. What a wonderful raconteur/good listener/generous soul he was. Really ? I’d think to myself. My John? It was quite something to witness this man I’d known all my adult life being sanctified. And to such a degree that once or twice I was sorely tempted to point out a few of his less appealing habits. Not that it would’ve done any good.
    And everyone had their own little story of when they last saw him and, in their own clumsy way, was determined to try and draw some significance from that final conversation. As if John had somehow known what was coming and had dropped something prescient, and even valedictory, into their exchange, regarding that newcheese shop up on Malden Street or the possibility of getting the house rewired.
    But what I wasn’t expecting – and, frankly, why on earth would I have been? – were the offers of sex. Five in all, and all five made within ten days of John dying. Two from close friends or relatives on John’s side; the other three from husbands of friends of mine.
    I’ve since had apologies from two parties. Mumbled, stumbling little speeches, with minimum eye contact – just like most apologies, I suppose – but neither one offering any real insight into their motives. I mean, were these offers made on a charitable basis? As a sort of little pick-me-up? Or should I conclude that all five of them had had their eyes on me for years? Had just been too polite to make a move whilst my husband was still living and breathing, but now suddenly saw me as fair game?
    Who knows? In my kinder moments I’m inclined to think that it must just be some strange phenomenon born out of the circumstances. Sex being the only obvious refuge in the face of Death. And perhaps I’m not in a position to be too critical. All the same, allowing me to complete my first month’s mourning might have been an idea. Just to show that they were, y’know, the sensitive type.

I’ve come up with a new way of eating
    I ’ve come up with a new way of eating, which I shall henceforth refer to as The Japanese Style. I guess it’s just sort of evolved over the last few months, and these last couple of weeks in particular, and is down to the fact there’s no one around to actually watch me eat.
    Whereas I have always done the traditional eating-at-a-table and using-a-knife-and-fork routine, in London lately I found that I was just plonking myself down in front of the telly and eating my dinner off the coffee table. And up here in Widow’s Cottage, I’ve got into the habit of just bringing the brim of the bowl right up to my mouth and gently shovelling in the necessary amount of food. Like the Japanese do when they’re eating noodles. It makes much more sense if you think about it. Rather than the whole