All the Time in the World

Droplets of rain trickled down the windowpane like giant tears as Gladys sat staring blankly out into the wide-open space of nothingness.

A tartan blanket was tucked around her knees and a plumped-up cushion provided her small frame with some much-needed padding against the back of the care home chair. The sour stench of urine mixed with the odor of boiled cabbage permeated the air.

Her mind drifted back to happier times and she smiled as she recalled her wedding day. It was June 1968. She and Bob were so in love. They didn’t have two pennies to rub together but they had each other. That’s all they needed. And they had all the time in the world, just like the lyrics in Louis Armstrong’s beautiful song that she and Bob used to listen to in their tiny, two-up-two down on the old radiogram that Bob’s mum and dad had given them as a wedding present.

“Come along, Gladys. Time for your pills.” The young carer proffered a small, plastic cup containing a selection of multi-colored tablets and Gladys moved her head slowly round in response. Her grey-white hair needed a trim and clusters of white whiskers covered her chin. Her sapphire blue eyes were rheumy and sad.

She raised her bony hand as the carer patiently waited as Gladys shakily popped them one by one into her mouth, washing each down with a sip of water. It was a laborious process but one which Gladys had accepted without question.

If only she could talk to Bob. Tell him how unhappy she was. He would sort everything out, just like he used to. He always told her he would look after her. ’Til death us do part. His smile melted her heart and she felt overwhelmingly sad as she remembered his touch. He was such a gentle person, very caring and protective. It was what Gladys loved about him the most, his tenderness. He wouldn’t harm a fly.

The day the police knocked on her front door, they ripped a hole in her heart that had never healed.

“What sort of accident?” she whispered at the young officer, her voice trembling.

She turned to get her coat, thinking she would accompany the policeman to a nearby hospital but the look on the young man’s face conveyed everything and she dropped her coat in the hallway before crumpling, just like the coat, in a heap on the floor.

The policewoman stepped forward when the banshee howl broke free from Gladys' body, an eerie wailing sound that pierced the small suburban cul-de-sac on that quiet Monday morning when Bob had left for work at his usual time of eight o’clock. He had pecked Gladys on the cheek before he left, just as he had done every morning for the past twelve years.

They had never been blessed with children. They had both wanted them, desperately, but it just hadn’t happened. They accepted their lot and contented themselves with having each other.

The morning Bob had crashed his car into the back of a №12 bus, he had been distracted by a letter he had received from the adoption agency. He had wanted to make certain that he had read it properly. He and Gladys had been accepted and they had been asked to attend a meeting with Social Services the following Monday at 10.00 am at their offices on Highfield Avenue, when the adoption process would be set in motion.

Bob’s funeral was well attended at Bletchingley Parish Church, the same church they had been married in all those years ago. The vicar spoke beautifully and Gladys felt as though she couldn’t breathe and was floating above her body. It was all very surreal. Any minute now, she thought, Bob would come bursting into the Church, apologizing for being late and touch her arm tenderly.

“Mum! Are you okay? You look so sad.”

Shirley took Gladys’ hand and knelt beside her.

Gladys turned her head when she heard her daughter’s voice and managed a weak smile.

“Shirley! Where’s Bob? Why isn’t he here?”

Shirley bit back the tears as Gladys strained her frail body towards the door in the hope of seeing her beloved husband.

Shirley had never met Bob. Gladys had sacrificed everything for her and with the help of family and friends, had managed to provide a good, loving home. It hadn’t been easy for Gladys to convince the Local Authority that she would make a good mother; being a single parent back in the seventies was frowned upon but Gladys had proved them all wrong.

Dementia had started to set in when Shirley was married with a family of her own and it broke her heart to put Gladys into the Local Authority care home, but she’d had no choice. The fees for the smarter care home had eaten up all the proceeds of sale from the house that she and Bob had scrimped and saved for all those years ago, and it was only when Shirley could no longer cope with Gladys wandering off in the middle of the night that she reluctantly put her into a nursing home.

As the rain continued its relentless pounding on the windowpane, Gladys drifted off into an afternoon slumber. After all, she had all the time in the world.

* * *

This story was first published on Medium, where you can find more of my work. Why not get a weekly update from my village in England by signing up to Rosy's Ramblings?

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