The Wish

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 THE WISH

   'When you wish up on a star,

  makes no difference who you are,

  when you wish upon a star

  your dreams come true...'

 I've had that tune in me head for days. Not surprising really. It was her favourite tune and sometimes I think, despite her practical nature she really believed that such things were possible.

 I catch sight of myself in the mirror I think  she would be proud of me, would  approve of the way I look but then, when didn't she or if she didn't, when did she ever say that?

 I sit down on the bed. I don't want this, I don't want to let meself down in front of all the relatives and friends but I just can't help it. I miss her. I miss the time she would have taken to make sure we were both just right. I miss her just being there to guide me through it.

 "Dad."

 It's Amy, my daughter. She sees me crying and she starts.

 I say, "I'll be all right," but I don't believe it for a moment. "Just give me a minute. Are they waiting to be off?"

 "There's no rush."

 "Why does it always rain for funerals?"

 "I don't know, dad." She wipes her eyes. "You are thinking about coming back with Malcolm and me. I know it would be a big move but…."

 "I said I would think about it, Amy." Oh I know as soon as I say that, it sounds hard and like I'm pushing her away but I can't stop meself. I can't think about the future, not yet.

 I wipe my nose and my eyes on a big white hanky. They must be anxious to be off if Amy's  come up to find out what I'm up to. If only it would stop raining. Mary doesn't like the rain, not lately when it affects her arthritis.    

. "Right," I say and push the handkerchief back in me pocket, like that has somehow pushed all the feelings out of sight. "Best get it over with, get her …." The tears came again, hot, running down my cheeks. I feel like a little boy and then Amy's arms are round me full of comfort and reassurance. "I'm sorry love." I say.

 "Oh, dad. You've nothing to be sorry for."

 "I'm trying, but every time I think of her…."

 "That's understandable."

 Eventually I stop crying long enough to walk with Amy down the stairs and out through the front door.

 Vaguely, I feel my son next to me, a black umbrella is held up to keep away the cold rain. I feel the comfort of a strong, man's hand that holds my arm as he helps me into the back of the big black car.

 There's not a lot to think about on the drive to the church and any way my mind's too full of her memory to allow any thing else in.

We've  been married  forty years, though we knew each other since the day  Mary was born. We lived just three doors away from each other,  attended the same infant and junior schools,

though I was two years ahead of her. Though our grammar schools were single sex, we spent most of our spare time together. I grew up loving her and there has never been any one else, not for either of us. That's the problem, now that she's gone. It's like someone's  cut me in two and  taken away the one half. Nothing is ever going to be the same with out her and I'm not sure that I can bare that, not even sure if I want to try.

 Somehow, I get through the service. It's a nice service, people saying good things about her and the choir, our big passion, on of them any way. They  sing so well. Competition standard. I'm proud of them. They  even sound good with out her. And then they come to 'When you wish upon a star'. Dr. Braithwait steps forward slightly and there's that deep baritone. "When you wish upon a star"  and then the others join in. Mary's arrangement and it's beautiful. Nobody falters,  nobody forgets their part. Even young Haley, though I can see in her eyes, she's really broken up. It's beautiful. And I feel I want to applaud at the end, but I don't.

 Out side, as we stand around the green and black open grave, the rain doesn't let up. Marc holds the umbrella, a huge, single, black protective wing and I feel safe beneath it. Once, I look up and see the tears in Mavis Gaynor's eyes, tears she makes no attempt to wipe away.

 People loved Mary, I think to myself. Every one here loved her and the flowers from those who couldn't be here, the little tributes from the kids. It's wonderful.

 I'm only half aware of the young man, standing as he is away from the main party, under a tree. He seems to want to be there, but apart.

 There's some thing slightly familiar about his face. It's a clean, almost beautiful face, if you can say that a man is beautiful.

 He wears a black overcoat that glistens with the rain that's penetrating his shelter. He looks to be in his mid twenties.

Maybe he's an ex-pupil come to pay his respects. That's possible. There are quite a few folk here who are only slightly familiar.

 I can't remember seeing him in church. Maybe he arrived late and didn't want to interrupt things.

 I feel Marc's hand under my elbow.

 "I'm all right," I say, but I don't want to push him away so I don't say it over firmly.

 My attention wanders from person to person. This man is a local councillor, that woman is an old friend from teacher training but I still couldn't place the young man under the tree and that worries me a little because if the young man speaks to me I'll be embarrassed by not knowing who he is.

 Somehow, I make it through to the end of the service with out breaking down and for a long moment I just stand and look down in to the grave.

 "Come on, dad," Marc says softly.

 "Can you give me a minute?" I note the slight impatience in my son's acceptance. "You go up to the car. I just need a minute on my own."

 Alone, I look down and wonder how long it would be before they are doing the same for me, digging open this hole in the ground and placing me in it.

 We were married in this church, had our children Christened here, watched those same children get married all from this church.

 I feel a bit dizzy, start to stumble forward but suddenly there's a hand on my arm, small, delicate but strong. I'm not alone after all.

 "Are you all right?" The voice is soft, well educated.

 "I'm fine, thanks, lad."

 "I was so sorry…."

 I pat the hand that still holds my arm.

 "If there is any thing I can do."

 "Turn the clock back to the day I married her." There's no bitterness in what I say and the young man nods as if he's accepting the fact that there's nothing really that any one can do.

 He gives my arm a squeeze and says; "I'll see you again."

 Marc, all concerned, comes down and takes my arm.

"Come on dad."

 "Do you know who he was?"

 "Who?"

 "The young fellow I was just talking to. I recognised him but I couldn't put a name to the face."

 "It'll come back to you. Come on now. This rain is getting worse."

 Ben Lomax woke in the morning to a hammering on the door and a feeling in his head and stomach like he had been very drunk the previous evening. For a moment or two, as the hammering continued, he couldn't think where or who he was, or what he was doing wherever he was. His head throbbed and the hammering only made it worse. He pulled back the bedclothes and got out of bed, just as the door was flung open.

 "God, you look rough."

 Confused, Ben concentrated on the face. "Lonny?"

"Who else, ya daft beggar? Come on, old son. She won't wait."

 "I don't understand…"

 "Get your self washed and shaved and in to your finery. I'll nip down and get you a nice cup of tea. Your mum was just putting the kettle on. Go on."

 Still confused, Ben obeyed. He couldn't clear his mind. Thoughts, dreams, the odd dizzy sensation of drinking too much, all jumbled together to make rational thought impossible.

 He came back to the room from the bath room and, as he opened the door, he realised that he had known the way to the

bath room, had found his way back here with no difficulty. This was his home.

 "That's better," Lonny said, placing a cup on the bedside table before going to the wardrobe. "Get that down ya." He nodded towards the teacup. "Your suit did come back from the cleaners didn't it?"

 "Do I look different to you?"

 "Different to what?" Lonny asked, not turning around. "You don't look so much like you're on death's door step. I didn't think you'd had that much. My fault, or at least I'll get the blame. Ah! Here we are. By! They've done a good job on this, haven't they?"

 Ben picked up the tea. In the bathroom mirror, he had not fully noticed the face he shaved. It's contours were so familiar to him that he had not really looked at it.

 "Do I look older?"

 Lonny was placing the suit, still in its Sketchly's bag, on the bed. "You do ask some daft questions."

 "Only I had this dream…."

 "Now then," Lonny interrupted quickly. "Don't tell me unless it was a good dream. Friday night's dream on Saturday told, is bound to come true be it ever so old."

 "It was a good and bad dream, I think. It's fading now, any way. I just felt like I was suddenly some one different. Well not different… I can't explain."

 "It's nerves, old son, just nerves. This time tomorrow, you'll wonder what all the fuss was about."

 From the moment of his waking, the day seemed to take on a different pace, gather its own momentum and gradually slip out of his control. It was not an unpleasant sensation. He rather liked being a rider on a roller coaster that seemed to have no brake or at least if it did he didn't know where the brake was. It

felt a little as though it was all happening to some else and he was just an interested observer. It remained that way. The feeling of being an onlooker stayed with him right up until right up until the organist began to play 'Here Comes The Bride'. Then, for the first time, the reality of it struck him. He dared to turn his head, as Mary's uncle -her father had died when she was quite small-brought her to his side. Even through the white veil, he could see her beauty. He wanted to take the veil aside, to look at her face but he didn't. She remained hidden from him until the proper time and then the veil was raised and he smiled. She was beautiful.

 The reception, the speeches, the dancing, the people coming up to congratulate them, all seemed to slip by in a second. It seemed as though no time at all had passed before they were changed in to their going away clothes and every one was lined up outside the hotel waiting to wave them off.

 He watched as Mary's best friend Mavis caught the bouquet and he wondered if they had arranged it between them.

 They were married, he and she Mr and Mrs Ben Lomax. It would take a while for them to get used to it. It was hard to believe that they had actually gone through with it, the thing that they had imagined ever since she turned twelve. It was always that certain. Ben and Mary would marry. No one ever questioned it. He turned to her as the car drove towards the airport and smiled.

 Life became good, became sweet,  wonderful.

Their careers as teachers seemed to develop at the same pace and the promotions came, usually him first which they both liked and then one day, she met him out of school and he smiled to see her and said; "You got through early today."

 "I've not been in this afternoon," she said. "I had a doctor's appointment."

 He looked at her uncomprehending, wondering if she was ill and if she was, why hadn't she told him.

 "Do you not want to know what the doctor had to say?"

 "Of course I do, love."

 She looked at him, grinning. "You're going to be a father."

 "What?"

 "Yes. We're going to have to tighten our belts." She nudged him. "Well, you are. Won't do much good me tightening mine, will it?"

 Their son, Marcus, was born on a cold Sunday morning in the middle of winter. Looking at him lying snugly with his mother, Ben thought that life could get no better, that this tiny scrap of

life that had exploded in to their world and turned their lives upside down, was the ultimate joy. Their child, their son, a mixture of the both of them. It was the magic that Mary believed in.

 Then two years later, their daughter was born and Ben knew that life could get better.

 Ben knew that it wasn't just luck. They worked hard at their marriage, at bringing up their children. Of course, loving her as much as he did and she loving him, it was easier but it still took their time and effort.

 Some times he wondered if perhaps there was some thing bad waiting around the corner but as their family grew  together and their hard work paid off, those times became fewer.

 Mary went back to teaching when Amy started school. They had talked about it and it was a mutual decision and the children seemed happy enough with it.

 All through their lives they had wanted what they had got. They had both wanted to be teachers, both wanted to marry and have a couple of children; that they were a boy and a girl was a bonus.

 And they both loved the choir. It was their one big, shared thing. Occasionally they would take part in amateur dramatics but mostly when they did musicals. The choir was different. It was some thing they were both passionate about. They had grown up in it. Juniors,  youth, and finally the adult choir. Even when they were away at college they had managed to get home for the big competitions.

 Mary had a superb soprano voice, Ben an above average tenor, but put them together and they shone.

 The choir sang at their daughter's wedding and at their son's a year later and they sang at the parties the Lomaxs gave when first their son and his new wife went off to New York to live and then when their daughter and son-in-law left for Australia with their first grandchild.

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 When they were alone, Ben had expected that something would change, that they would feel somehow sad and lonely but it didn't happen. They grew closer and he loved her more with each passing day and each new grey hair.

 He knew that to other people, their lives might seem ordinary, perhaps a little dull but he knew too that he would change nothing.

 When the some times anticipated bad thing came, it took them both by surprise. Mary had been having headaches for a while but she put that down to the fact that she maybe needed glasses.

 One night, at choir practice, she collapsed, went in to a fit. The doctors at the hospital, when all the tests were done, very gently told them that Mary had a tumour.

 For a long time, days, they didn't know quite how to handle it. It was some thing totally beyond their control and Ben, for one, was back on the roller coaster, only this time, desperately needing to find the brake.

 It was their love that kept them both from falling apart. They loved each other too much to let go and when the chemotherapy made Mary even sicker than she had been and made her hair fall out, they held together. Even when the therapy didn't work and they knew that she would soon die, nothing could part them.

 She did not die alone. He had not slipped out of the room to relieve himself or make a 'phone call, he was sitting by her bed, holding her hand and he knew that when her grip finally loosened and the soft, rhythmic rise and fall of the bed clothes stopped, she was still aware of him bending to kiss her face gently and whisper good bye.

 It rained the morning of her funeral. For the days between her death and this public expression of grief, Ben had moved through time and space in a dream. He had visited empty rooms and he had filled them with his children and their children and he had tried to be, or at least to appear, positive but on a cold, grey, rainy morning when there was nothing left to pretend and all there was, was a hole in the ground, Ben's life felt over.

 He only half saw the young man standing beneath the tree, only vaguely recognised him and could not for the life of him remember his name or the circumstances of their meeting.

 Even when the young man spoke to him to ask was there any thing he could do, he did not recognise his voice.

 "Turn the clock back to the day I married her," he said and there was no bitterness just a longing that it could be so.