Tag: bereavement

The priest hadn’t looked them in the eye. He sips his drink alone at the wake, the wine staining his lips a maudlin puce. Afterwards, Beth doesn’t talk to him for two years. Or more. Not one word. On good days she makes a sound. A cough. An intake of breath. A tut. These days are so rare that he takes a note of them, pressing a pencil mark on the calendar he got from the local garage on the kitchen wall.  Mostly they live in their separate rooms in their separate beds in a dark trembling silence. A silence not broken until the circus comes to town. He’s handed a leaflet in the post office queue, queuing to pay the television licence for the TV they never watch, the radio they never listen to. He goes twice for the tarot card readings in the caravan behind the big tent. The third time he returns home with her twins. Later, when he tries to return the twins, the circus has gone. Only a mule remains, tethered to the sign that says no ball games here. He returns home with the mule and the twins. He names the mule Dave. The twins he never names, can never decide, so opts instead for One and Two. Does Beth name them? Eventually. Perhaps. He doesn’t know.  He can no longer hear. He’s lost the ability to make out words. You could ask Beth. That is, if you could find her. If anyone knew where to find her and him and a mule called Dave and the stolen twins.