Page 29 of Vengeance is Mine

Anthony Griffiths wrapped himself up against the cold. He was wearing a thick sweater, a heavy coat and his usual matching hat, scarf and gloves set he’d had for years. His socks were thick, and his walking boots were heavy. He locked the front door of his bungalow behind him, checking it was secure several times, before he tentatively made his way along the uneven pavement of Langdale Crescent, treading carefully to avoid patches of frost and ice.

He made his way slowly. His breathing was laboured as the cold breeze cut into his exposed face. His cheeks were red, his bulbous nose shining. He dragged his feet over the cracked concrete, his eyes firmly fixed straight ahead. He knew his destination.

Anthony hated cemeteries. He hated to see the fallen gravestones, whether it was at the hands of youths who thought destroying a person’s final resting place was a good source of entertainment, or just destruction caused by the harshness of the North-East weather.

As he passed them, he couldn’t help but steal a glance. Some were beautiful – black granite with gold lettering, ornate stonework, some even had pictures of the deceased. He offered a sympathetic smile when he read the dates of birth and death. It brought a lump to his throat when he saw graves for people younger than he was now.

He arrived at Carole’s grave and slowly cracked his back as he bent down to replace the wilted flowers with a fresh bunch. He licked the corner of a tissue from his pocket and wiped away the bird shit on top of the marble.

‘Happy birthday, love,’ he said to his wife. ‘I won’t say your age out loud. I know how sensitive you always were about that. I’ve decided to bake you a cake this year. I don’t have your flair, but I’m going to try and knock up a Victoria sponge. I’ve got a Mary Berry recipe.’

Anthony always felt self-conscious talking to his dead wife, as if someone might be listening and sniggering at him for talking to a slab of marble. He looked to his left. Further along the row, a young woman tidied up a grave, talking to whoever lay there. He couldn’t hear what she said, just the mumbled utterances caught on the breeze.

‘Dawn said she’ll pop over later, and we’ll have a bit of a tea. She often asks about you, what you were like and if you’d get on. I think you would have done. She’s a bonny lass, Carole. I often think what would have happened if you’d… well, if we’d have let Rita be a part of our lives, and we’d known Dawn from the beginning. You’d still be here now, I think.’

He looked back at his wife’s grave through blurred eyes as his tears began to fall. ‘I…’ He couldn’t say what he wanted to say. The words stuck in his throat. He stayed silent, staring at the gravestone, his eyes watering as the cold stung them.

Anthony always struggled for things to say when he visited his wife. Alone at home, he’d look at her photograph on the mantel, and he’d not be able to shut up as he reminisced about the good times, the old days, how much he missed her, how much he still loved her. But actually coming to see her here at Blaydon Cemetery, his mind went blank.

‘I’m going to get off now. I’m cold. Your fault for having a birthday in January. If you’d been a July baby like me, I could stay with you all day. I’d have brought some sandwiches, and we could have had a proper chinwag.’ He half-smiled. He remained crouched in silence for as long as he could manage it before his legs began to stiffen. ‘Sleep well, sweetheart.’ He struggled to stand up, using the gravestone as leverage.

Anthony turned and walked away, wiping his tears as he left. She would have been seventy years old today. Fifty-one was no age to die. He kept looking back over his shoulder, until he could no longer see her grave, then he headed for home. A quick stop off at the Co-op, then back to his bungalow. He had a cake to make.