The little house

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Joe rubbed the window with his coat sleeve, trying to remove some of the accumulated dust and grime. Then he pressed his face to the glass, his eyes shielded with his cupped hands against the reflection. 
      He could see that the room was barren, completely empty except for a few abandoned boxes and some old newspapers. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, and a quick check through other windows confirmed what was more than apparent; that the house was empty and desolate.
      With just one floor it wasn’t really a house, but neither would it be described as a bungalow. It was more like a seaside shack, but without the sea. It had seen better days, and Joe remembered that it had once been a home; and a happy one at that. He should know for it had been his home, which he had shared with Susan his bride. Now it was a sorry sight.
      Memories of that happy day over ten years ago came into his mind. Memories that he tried to shut out, but which returned like a bad penny whenever his soul was troubled.
      He remembered that day like it was yesterday, as he had carried her over the threshold, then quickly closing the door, deftly shutting out a group of friends who had accompanied them from their small reception. They of course were hoping for another drink, and probably keen to see the happy couple tucked up in bed.
      The grin he had been wearing just then was etched into his memory, as, ignoring the cat-calls from outside, but still leaning on the door, he and his wife embraced for the first time as man and wife in their first home. Unintended, but soon unstoppable, the embrace was to become something more as he slowly dropped her to the floor, and hands and lips began to explore. One by one the garments fell and in no time their marriage was consummated right there behind the door, just yards from their unsuspecting friends, but encouraged by their chanting and singing. 
      A little later, there were cheers and jeers from outside when the bedroom light was switched on. The choir renewed its serenading with enthusiasm   and gusto, quite unaware that it was too late.
      The memory faded and the smile changed to a frown, and suddenly his eyes felt wet.
      This tumbled down little shack, destined to collapse completely from lack of care, had been so nice when they moved in. Six months of hard work then, had rescued it from the fate it faced now, but they had turned it into a little palace, so that on that happy day it was a joy. Creosote and paint, nails and screws, fall pipes and gutters, walls and doors, inside and out, blood sweat and tears, everything had been done. Even the grass had been cut.
      Ten years ago.
      And for five of those years they had lived in this little house. Years that had started so happy, but which had changed as they saw their dreams turn into illusion, their happiness to sadness, and their pleasure to pain.
      They had followed the plan diligently. Two years making sure that there would be no children, and as much cash in the bank as they could manage. 
      Their love life had been perfect, adventurous and exciting, hampered only by the need to be careful. Then, when the conception brakes had been removed they went for it like newlyweds again, enthusiastically engaging at every opportunity, impatient to use their pleasure to generate new life.
      What is it in life that decrees that there is no such thing as perfection? Even nature’s most beautiful offerings are mutations, natural selection constantly changing, ultimate flawlessness never attained. Perfection in this case was so near, and, they thought, so easy to achieve, yet in spite of their perpetual attempts, the longed for bump never showed.
      Five years went by, and with them their dreams, and their love.
      Everything had become routine, and gradually they lost their affection for their home and for each other. The sparkle was gone, the house became untidy and run down, revealing the same lack of tender loving care, that they now displayed for each other. In its place was a weary acceptance of decay and apathy
      Joe wiped some windswept hair from his eyes. He felt like crying, it so reminded him of those unhappy times, but he could not find the tears. 
      Such was the depth of misery that they had sunk into he couldn’t remember what finally brought it to an end. Some small incident probably, something that not long before would have had them rolling in each others arms, yet this time it had been the blue touch paper. Once it was alight there was no way to put it out.
      Suddenly they were no longer a couple. It was over.
      Oddly neither of then wanted the little house. Susan packed her bags, took a few small things and moved out, and soon Joe would follow.
      That was five years ago, and as far as he knew no one but Susan had set foot in the place since. And indeed he had only come here in the first place because his mum had nattered him; said she was worried about vandals. 
      “So what,” he had said to her. “they can pull the place down if they want to.” But he had promised her that he would have a look. That had been a few months ago and now he was back again.
      Following the breakup he had not had another girlfriend; he had not wanted one, neither had he looked for any casual relationships; not even a one night stand. He had lived alone since that day, for a while in the little house, but was unable to see any kind of future. He often thought of Susan, but lacked the courage to contact her until somehow it seemed too late. 
      At first his mother would gently scold him, chiding and persuading, to try again.
      “She’s still on her own you know” she would tell him occasionally, ever the romantic; whose optimistic spirit never gave up. But since the split he and Susan had never met. 
      He suddenly felt very weary, and wanted to sit down. Almost without thinking he was through the front door. It opened with little resistance, save a timely mutter, but he was soon inside, and as he pushed the door shut he remembered his wedding day and that encounter just where he was standing. He fancied too that he could hear the shouts of his friends. But no; more likely it was the wind, or some birds on the roof.
      There was a upturned wooden box in the centre of the little lounge, covered, as was the floor all around, with dust. Before sitting down he brushed his hand across this makeshift seat, clearing away some of the accumulated grime, and saw the envelope fall. He had seen it before on his last visit so he was not surprised when he picked it up to find his name on it.
       Joe.  That was all it said.
      He opened the envelope, knowing what he would find, but still wanting to see. Turning a little on the box, so as to get more light, he started to read.

            My dearest Joe,
            I hope one day you will read this, before our little
            home rots away completely, just like our love.
            I come here each year on our wedding anniversary, 
            just to have a look at the place, and each time I cry.
            We loved each other so much, but somehow neither
            of us could hang on to it. When it was too late I  
            realized that I still love you . . . but it was . . . too late.
            God Bless you; I hope you are happy.           

            Susan.

 

This time it was not his hair getting into his eyes. This time it was the tears that earlier he could not find. He had not wept like this for years, and, like that same blue paper, once started he could not stop.
      After a while he stood up, more composed now and ready to leave. When he had visited the little house those few months ago, and had seen the letter, he had not known how to respond. But he knew he must, and now he knew how.

                                                

                                                       -oOo-

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It was  raining hard and Susan’s mother called after her. “Are you sure lass?” she said, “It’s a pity to be going out in this lot.”
       "Yeas mother, I know. I do want to go, but I wonder if I should leave it this time.”
      “I suppose you’d better go . . . you’ll only be upset if you don’t.”
      Susan left the house with a heavy heart, but her mother was right; she would have been upset to have broken her routine. Strange though, that she should be so keen to push her off, as though she knew something that Susan didn’t.
      It was now eleven years to the day since she and Joe had married, and though it was more than five years since they had gone their separate ways, she still felt a ‘pull’ on their anniversary. They were after all still married, and she had developed the habit of visiting their little house on the anniversary. Two years ago when she had gone she was so appalled to see how it had deteriorated, that she burst into tears.
      She knew that Joe had stayed on in the little house for a while, but when eventually she found that he had gone, she had no idea what had happened to him.
      She had planned to go back and clean it up, but somehow it seemed too much for her. A brush and a wet rag just would not do it. The plan was abandoned, and when she went a year ago it was even worse. She resigned herself to watch her little house crumble to dust, and with it her dreams.

      Ten minutes waiting for the bus in the rain, and then a forty minute journey out of town, followed by another ten minutes walking, finally brought her to within sight of the little house. It was still raining hard and she could not see too well, the squally wind causing her to keep her umbrella quite low. 
      But what was that? She could see through the blur that there was a light on in her little house.
      She quickened her step, fearful of an intruder; perhaps a squatter. As she got closer she could see that the gutter, which, at her last visit had fallen to the ground, one end bent and suspended half across the window where it hung as if dejected. Now it was back in place, and all the other signs of dilapidation were gone, and yes, the whole house had been painted.
      She was just about at the gate, rehung on new posts, when the door opened, and there stood Joe. Susan gasped, hardly able to take it in. Joe was smiling and holding out his arms, inviting her into that special place which once had been hers alone.
      She stopped, but Joe’s arms and his smile stayed where they were. She moved forward again, slowly, until she was close to him. One more step and she was in his arms, held tight as he enfolded her.
      Not a word had been said, and she offered no resistance when he picked her up and carried her, once more, over the threshold, into their little house, fully restored to its former glory.
      History did not quite repeat itself that day for there was no hurried and frantic encounter behind the door, but later, when the bedroom lights were turned on they were glad that there was no chorus of well-wishers outside.
      It was not a night of unending passion, though they were both happy to share their hearts and bodies with each other; content with their closeness, love renewed, forever and always.
      When Susan woke up it was daylight, and she was surprised to find herself alone. Having no nightclothes or dressing gown with her she got up and dressed quickly except for her raincoat, which had not quite dried, and went outside.
      Yesterdays rain had given way to a fine morning with just a gentle breeze and a pale blue sky and Susan was able to see the garden clearly. The last time she was here it was overgrown and abandoned, nature greedily taking back what was hers; but now all the beds were resplendent with colour and the small lawn neatly cut. In the far corner some wisps of smoke curled lazily into the sky, the remnants no doubt of a small garden fire. Susan looked around expecting to find Joe busy tidying up, collecting yet more rubbish to dispose of, but of him there was no sign. Curiously she walked to the fire, and was surprised to see that there was nothing burning, just a very thin wisp of ‘smoke’ coming from the soil, next to a small cross set firmly into the ground.
       Suddenly her heart was pounding, as she bent down to read the inscription.          

                                  Joe Wilson 1968 – 2007.
                            Where once I was happy, and                                                                   where my love will always be.

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Susan fled from the garden and the little house just as she was, without a backward glance, while Joe stood in the widow amongst the ruin and the decay, watching her go, her coat over his arm. He hoped that she would come to realise that he too had loved her to the end, when he had finally lost the battle with misery and anguish, knowing that most of the blame was his; and with that realisation he no longer had a reason to carry on.
      “If only I had known before … before I …”  He banished the thought from his mind. 
      “What’s the use anyway; it’s too late, but at least now Susan can go forward … she can start to live again.”
      As he started to fade for the last time, another tile slid off the roof.