Dorothy by Gerald Hornsby

The sun disappeared behind a cloud for a moment, and Dorothy pulled her cardigan tighter around her body. Not for the first time, she regretted coming here. She had endured the long train journey, the noisy commuters, and the shouted mobile phone conversations. Had it really been worth it?
She closed her book, pages seen but unread, and held it tight in both hands. She turned her head, looking across the stones, pointing a hundred different haphazard ways, focussing on one. Proudly vertical, it stood in the shade of a tall willow, and Dorothy dearly wished she could be over there, instead of this bench. But she felt reluctance, a kind of invisible barrier between her and … She couldn’t even say her name. Not now. Not yet.
She glanced at her watch. She had more time. Was it worth staying? Maybe another ten minutes. Perhaps fifteen.
Taking a deep breath, she stood, the sun reappearing as if in confirmation. Maybe if she walked in that general direction. Perhaps she’d feel strong enough to … what? What could she do?
The pathways were even and clear, evidence of careful maintenance, and she knew she’d chosen well. All weeds had been removed, nothing to disturb the picture perfect tranquility. She glanced at each grave as she passed, slowly, but she refused to read the names. Not now. Not yet.
And then she was there. Standing, head bowed as if in prayer. She let her breathing settle, her heart rate slow. Prayers had done nothing to save her back then, the little child, born out of wedlock, and into a world of pain. “It’s God’s will,” someone had said, and she’d screamed at them with rage. “Three days old! How is that God’s will?”
Now, here she was, after all this time. She felt more resolute, somehow. She raised her head, from the fresh flowers in the vase at the headstone’s base, noting the carefully-trimmed grass on each side. Her gaze passed up the white marble, reflecting the sun, to the curved top. She read the name.
“Kathy.”
She jumped, her heart beating fast, finding it hard to breathe. His voice, still a deep baritone. “I wondered if you’d ever come.”
She whirled. It was him. He had changed. The hair, once a deep lustrous brown, was grey, and his face showed more lines - none from laughing. But he was still Charles.
“I … I …”
“I come each year, Dorothy.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think …”
“What? You didn’t think I cared?” His voice, which was even before, now rose a tone or two.
“I … I didn’t know what to think.”
“I come each year,” he repeated. “On this day. And each year, I expect … no, I hope to see you.”
“I couldn’t Charles. I just couldn’t.”
“So why now? After all this time?”
©Gerald Hornsby 2016
She closed her book, pages seen but unread, and held it tight in both hands. She turned her head, looking across the stones, pointing a hundred different haphazard ways, focussing on one. Proudly vertical, it stood in the shade of a tall willow, and Dorothy dearly wished she could be over there, instead of this bench. But she felt reluctance, a kind of invisible barrier between her and … She couldn’t even say her name. Not now. Not yet.
She glanced at her watch. She had more time. Was it worth staying? Maybe another ten minutes. Perhaps fifteen.
Taking a deep breath, she stood, the sun reappearing as if in confirmation. Maybe if she walked in that general direction. Perhaps she’d feel strong enough to … what? What could she do?
The pathways were even and clear, evidence of careful maintenance, and she knew she’d chosen well. All weeds had been removed, nothing to disturb the picture perfect tranquility. She glanced at each grave as she passed, slowly, but she refused to read the names. Not now. Not yet.
And then she was there. Standing, head bowed as if in prayer. She let her breathing settle, her heart rate slow. Prayers had done nothing to save her back then, the little child, born out of wedlock, and into a world of pain. “It’s God’s will,” someone had said, and she’d screamed at them with rage. “Three days old! How is that God’s will?”
Now, here she was, after all this time. She felt more resolute, somehow. She raised her head, from the fresh flowers in the vase at the headstone’s base, noting the carefully-trimmed grass on each side. Her gaze passed up the white marble, reflecting the sun, to the curved top. She read the name.
“Kathy.”
She jumped, her heart beating fast, finding it hard to breathe. His voice, still a deep baritone. “I wondered if you’d ever come.”
She whirled. It was him. He had changed. The hair, once a deep lustrous brown, was grey, and his face showed more lines - none from laughing. But he was still Charles.
“I … I …”
“I come each year, Dorothy.”
“I didn’t know. I didn’t think …”
“What? You didn’t think I cared?” His voice, which was even before, now rose a tone or two.
“I … I didn’t know what to think.”
“I come each year,” he repeated. “On this day. And each year, I expect … no, I hope to see you.”
“I couldn’t Charles. I just couldn’t.”
“So why now? After all this time?”
©Gerald Hornsby 2016