The Last One Left
My grandfather was one of 11 children. Two didn't survive childhood and one lost his life at Arras in 1917.
Of those left, not one was ordinary, to know them was to never forget them. I may tell you more about them in the future.
In the mean time.
The Last One Left
They were playing “do you remember” and I listened, rapt, as they recalled lives and names that were little more than twigs on the family tree of my knowledge.
Even the passing of many years could not keep the whisper of South London from Jean’s Canadian accent, an echo from their childhood which still rang clear and true in May’s voice.
Here at the end of the twentieth century I sat in the airport and listened to stories from its beginning; and to others from the nineteenth century told to them and now told to me, while overhead the great jets that had not even been thought of when they were born, thundered the news of their arrivals and departures.
They sat side by side, one arm around the other’s waist as they had in those sepia pictures I had of them as children. They were the last two of my great grandmother’s long brood to arrive and now they were the last remaining. As I watched them it seemed as if years fell away and for a moment in time two very old ladies faded away and were replaced by two little girls in identical white dresses.
The demands of the announcer brought the stories too an end and I helped Jean to the wheel chair.
“Damn thing,” she snarled.
“You’ll drop your scotch if you try and walk,” I warned.
Her eyes sparkled as she cuddled the bottle.
The moment had come at last and they took each other’s hands. Cheeks with skin transparent with age touched. They whispered something to each other; then kissed. The tears were mine.
May and I watched until the plane was no more than a point in the sky.
“We’ve made a promise to each other,” she said.
“Next time in Canada?” I suggested.
“No” she replied calmly. “To never see or speak or have news of each other ever again”
“Why!” I demanded, appalled.
A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.
“Because that way neither of us will ever know we were the last one left.”
© Bev Allen 2013
Of those left, not one was ordinary, to know them was to never forget them. I may tell you more about them in the future.
In the mean time.
The Last One Left
They were playing “do you remember” and I listened, rapt, as they recalled lives and names that were little more than twigs on the family tree of my knowledge.
Even the passing of many years could not keep the whisper of South London from Jean’s Canadian accent, an echo from their childhood which still rang clear and true in May’s voice.
Here at the end of the twentieth century I sat in the airport and listened to stories from its beginning; and to others from the nineteenth century told to them and now told to me, while overhead the great jets that had not even been thought of when they were born, thundered the news of their arrivals and departures.
They sat side by side, one arm around the other’s waist as they had in those sepia pictures I had of them as children. They were the last two of my great grandmother’s long brood to arrive and now they were the last remaining. As I watched them it seemed as if years fell away and for a moment in time two very old ladies faded away and were replaced by two little girls in identical white dresses.
The demands of the announcer brought the stories too an end and I helped Jean to the wheel chair.
“Damn thing,” she snarled.
“You’ll drop your scotch if you try and walk,” I warned.
Her eyes sparkled as she cuddled the bottle.
The moment had come at last and they took each other’s hands. Cheeks with skin transparent with age touched. They whispered something to each other; then kissed. The tears were mine.
May and I watched until the plane was no more than a point in the sky.
“We’ve made a promise to each other,” she said.
“Next time in Canada?” I suggested.
“No” she replied calmly. “To never see or speak or have news of each other ever again”
“Why!” I demanded, appalled.
A tear rolled down her wrinkled cheek.
“Because that way neither of us will ever know we were the last one left.”
© Bev Allen 2013
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B.A.
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Mar 07, 2013 07:03AM
Beautifully written...but oh, so sad...
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Babs wrote: "Beautifully written...but oh, so sad..."It was sad (yes, it did happen, not quite like this, but something very near), but they both died believing the other was still alive.
So beautiful. But I don't think it's sad. Not really. It's just right. And am I right in thinking they don't want to know not for them, but for the other that's left ?Still, I had tears in my eyes. Again.
Liexo wrote: "So beautiful. But I don't think it's sad. Not really. It's just right. And am I right in thinking they don't want to know not for them, but for the other that's left ?Still, I had tears in my eyes..."
They both said on several occasions they dreaded being the last one left. They were both very old when they came up with this scheme, only just on the sunny side of 90. I think it was mutual, a way to stop the other's hurt and to stop being hurt themselves. In the end Jean was the last to go, just a few weeks short of 100th birthday, May, her elder by a scant two years had died about 5 years before.
Thank you for sharing this, Bev, I appreciate. Did you see Jean again ?
Liexo wrote: "Thank you for sharing this, Bev, I appreciate. Did you see Jean again ?"No, not after that last visit. She was far too old to make the journey again, but right to the end, she drank a quart of bourbon every month and smoked 20 Marlborough every day:-)) She put her longevity down to best butter, taken liberally.
Oh Bev, that's beautiful, really!So glad I'm reading it while I'm on my own!!
