The Marriage Act(6)
The diminutive blue flowering plants had been appearing in his garden borders for the four decades he and June had lived in their Old Northampton house. Year after year, he dug up and re-potted clumps, then arranged them on a trestle table on the pavement outside for their neighbours to take. When cash was still used as currency, he’d leave an old ice cream carton for donations to the Fire Fighters’ Charity. However, now that goods could only be paid for with the tap of a plastic card, phone or watch face, it was more trouble than it was worth. The neighbours could take the plants for free if they wanted.
Arthur made his way up the crazy paving path and in through the back door. He arranged the flowers inside a small glass jam jar filled with water and placed it on a tray next to a plate with two slices of marmalade on toast. He added a steaming pot of tea and two mugs before carefully carrying them up the staircase and into the bedroom.
‘I’ve brought you breakfast in bed,’ he said as he placed the tray between him and his wife.
June sniffed at the forget-me-nots. ‘What are they for?’ she asked with a note of surprise. ‘You only pick me these when . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Oh no, please don’t tell me I’ve forgotten my own birthday . . .’
‘I don’t think birthdays really matter at our age,’ Arthur replied. ‘I stopped counting at seventy.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said June, and lowered her head. Arthur placed a comforting hand on hers.
‘Hey, don’t be silly,’ he said, patting it. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
‘I hate that I’m not remembering things. Every day it feels like I’m losing a little bit more of myself.’
Arthur stopped shy of admitting he too had witnessed the decline in her mental capacity. She had also become prone to long periods of silence and glazed eyes.
‘Well, that’s what I’m here for, to remind you of everything.’ He tapped at his head. ‘I have enough memories up here for the both of us to last us a lifetime.’
‘How long have we been married?’ June asked.
‘Forty-nine years.’
‘So, it’ll be our golden wedding anniversary next year?’
Arthur nodded.
‘Do you think I’ll be here to celebrate?’
‘Don’t talk like that; of course you will be.’
June’s face lit up. ‘We should have a party! Just a small do, perhaps hire a room at the Charles Bradlaugh; we could ask Tom to put on a spread.’
‘That’s a great idea.’
It wasn’t the moment to remind her that Tom had sold the pub more than a decade earlier and that it had since closed, another victim of a divided town. Besides, soon, she was likely to forget suggesting it.
‘Or we could take one last adventure in the campervan?’ she continued. ‘How much fun would that be?’
‘Sounds like a great idea. Would you like some toast?’
‘You have it, I’m not hungry.’
‘You need to keep your strength up.’
June rolled her eyes as if to suggest he was nagging. Arthur held his hands up in surrender.
‘Could you turn the news on please?’ June asked. ‘I have no idea what’s going on in the world these days.’
‘Television on,’ commanded Arthur. ‘BBC News.’
The screen was filled with footage of a young woman he vaguely recognized.
‘That’s the girl who told us we should get married again,’ said June. ‘Jem Jones. Has something happened to her?’
‘I think she passed away.’ Arthur squinted at the screen but was unable to read the rolling ticker at the bottom without his glasses. Multiple times he had declined his optician’s recommendation for laser eye surgery, free with his NHS+ membership.
The medical alert bracelet he wore illuminated. He pressed a button so the writing on the display screen became audible.
‘A marriage is made up of two people who have their own quirks, personalities and opinions’, a Push notification read. ‘You don’t have to stop being a one to become a two.’
Arthur shook his head. Thrice daily these electronic messages arrived uninvited, but he knew better than to ignore them. Failure to press the green ‘acknowledge’ button meant the voice repeated itself every fifteen minutes for the rest of the day and night.
‘I think she ended her life, poor girl,’ said June, focusing on the television. ‘What a terrible thing to do. Imagine being so desperately unhappy, that’s the only way you can stop the pain.’
Arthur imagined it all too clearly because he had considered it himself many times. Not that he had admitted as such to his wife.
June picked up on his reticence to respond. ‘I need you to promise me that when it gets worse, you’ll only think of our good times together and not the last few months,’ she said.
‘Do we have to talk about this now?’
‘Artie, I need to know that you’ll be all right without me.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ he replied and then patted her hand again. ‘I promise you. But it doesn’t matter because you’re not going anywhere. It’s you and me until the end, girl.’
And, for a moment, he allowed himself to believe it might be true.