Mrs Jackson (standard:drama, 1198 words)
Author: BritGirl	Added: Jul 20 2003	Views/Reads: 3394/2237	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An old woman's reminiscences

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staring out the window into the garden and he'd say suddenly ‘it ain't 
right, Rene. It ain't right that she should be in the ground before 
us.' And then he would lapse into silence because Mrs Jackson could 
think of nothing to say in reply. Tom hadn't even wanted her buried. 
Said that cremation was more dignified. But Mrs Jackson had been firm. 
Why was it that grief could give one such resolution? Pat had wanted to 
be buried: she said she'd like to be dug up by archaeologists and have 
them speculate about what kind of exciting life she'd led. 

Mrs Jackson looked down at her shoes. They were wearing out. Like me,
she thought grimly. Poor Tom had worn out very quickly after Pat had 
died. His face had gradually changed colour. He used to be a nut-brown 
colour; that was what had attracted Mrs Jackson to him in the first 
place. He was so unlike the thin, pale boys that she was used to. Then 
he'd turned red during Pat's illness and finally he'd gone a sort of 
grey colour, like white socks did after they'd been through the wash 
too many times. And then Mrs Jackson was taking two lots of flowers to 
the cemetery. 

A sudden breeze brought her out in goose bumps. She shivered. How long
had she been sitting here? She didn't bother to check her watch; her 
eyes could no longer make out the numbers. But doubtless she'd been 
wasting time. She smiled suddenly. She remembered the posters they used 
to have during the war, warning everyone against wasting things. Food 
mainly of course, but energy and time as well. Mrs Jackson never wasted 
food. Even now, she would never throw out stale bread but would use it 
to make fried sandwiches. She had no energy left anymore so time was 
the only thing she could afford to waste. And she seemed to have plenty 
of it. Years and years of it, stretching away interminably into the 
distance. It seemed as if it would never end. Mind you, that's what 
they'd said about the war. 

She rose stiffly to her feet, gritting her teeth against the dull aches
that shot through her legs. She shuffled slowly along the path, her 
mind preoccupied with whether or not she would get home in time to 
catch that programme about antiques on the telly. 


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