THE DESERT
He liked to reminisce about his time in the war, and his propensity to live in the past had increased during recent years.
Gertie was
thoroughly fed up with hearing the same old stories over and over again. It
wasn’t as if there was anything interesting, exciting or thrilling about them.
Roger spent almost all of the war in the desert, and it sounded virtually serene
to Gertie. While she was hiding in the dark, dank bomb shelter, he taught art
to his mates, and perhaps went to see a movie in Cairo. While she heard the muffled
sounds of bombs exploding and pulverizing homes, he listened to ballads
sung by crooners in the hotel he visited several times.
Roger held their
first great-grandchild in his arms, and this gave him a captive audience, who’d
listen without comment on the story of his life. Gertie thought it was just as
well he had no horror stories, that he’d been spared from front-line action,
and had worked on designing camouflage for the desert environment.
Gertie didn’t like
to reminisce at all. If she started to think back to before her emigration to
Canada, the memories disturbed and agitated her. She’d trained herself to
switch her focus to pleasant thoughts, to more recent events, such as their
grandson’s wedding. Unfortunately, she couldn’t talk to Roger about that
because he couldn’t remember anything about it. He’d immersed himself in the
sands of the desert to such an extent - the camel rides, the horses, the tank
he nearly buried by driving it around in circles - that it had become his
current reality.
Gertie had
teetered on the edge and even packed a suitcase, but then changed her mind. If
you can’t beat them, then join them, her father used to say. So, she bought an
old army tent, and cut it up, hanging pieces of it on various walls. She
researched and collected World War II British Army memorabilia and converted
the house into a kind of museum. She never had liked Vera Lynn’s singing – she
was one of the few who wasn’t a fan – but his favourites were played repeatedly
during each afternoon. He was served his lunch in tin containers on a tray.
Not entirely true
to the time, he ate while sitting in his recliner with a cushion at his
back.
Gertie believed
that her acceptance of his short-term memory loss and her encouragement of him
to remember the past, had helped to slow his inevitable decline. Perhaps it
wouldn’t have worked for others whose memories were filled with traumatic
events.
Gertie had no
desire to live in the past. It was just as well that Roger’s early life had
been completely separate, and rarely conjured up bad recollections for her.
They had been in different parts of the world, and encountered different
challenges. Roger dealt with heat and sandstorms, Gertie dealt with cold and
hunger, and shrapnel falling around her. Roger had bedbugs for company at
night, Gertie had a dirty blanket to pull around her as she sat on the cold,
wet floor in the near-dark bomb shelter. Roger swept sand out of the huts.
Gertie threw buckets of water on roofs.
Roger couldn’t
remember where the baby had come from, who he was holding in his arms and
telling stories to. Gertie didn’t push it, but just mentioned he was Simon’s
son, knowing full well he wouldn’t remember who Simon was. He handed the baby
to Gertie, having lost interest, and picked up his pipe. He didn’t smoke any
more, but the feel of it in his hands gave him comfort.
He looked at
Gertie and she knew he couldn’t figure out who she was. His eyes lit up a
little, but Gertie could see that he didn’t really know.
The baby left, and
the sadness at the family leaving her, hit her deep and hard.
Back to her life
in the desert.
He took the cup
and saucer from her but didn’t seem to know what to do with them. After some
encouragement from Gertie, he took a couple of sips.
It happened like a
lightening strike, out of nowhere. But it was as if he’d planned it. In
a flash, he leant forward and pulled out a large kitchen knife. Gertie thought
he was adjusting the cushion.
He stabbed her in
the stomach and then stabbed himself.
He died before the
ambulance arrived, but Gertie eventually recovered after some time in hospital
and more time with her daughter. The house was sold.
The family blame
Gertie. They say, because she allowed him to believe he was still in the army,
he thought she was the enemy. But Gertie says he wouldn’t have killed himself,
and he’d never killed or attempted to kill anyone before.
But her son asked
how she knew that.
Anything could have happened in that desert.
Vicky Earle Copyright 2021
