Even Lorraine's bio has the flair of fresh air:
"My heart belongs in the Cotswolds where I grew up, and hope to return one day. I'm a qualified lawyer and reflexologist, and
have recently completed a wine course (purely for the education and NOT the
tasting, of course...?). I started writing in December last year, and haven't
yet stopped. I blog about being a Mum - how fab it is, but also how
hard it is sometimes. I haven't got the time or the energy to want it all -
I just want a bit of everything!"Thank you, Lorraine, for allowing me to post your beautiful short story on Treasured Encounters. 'Even then...' is powerful and continues to touch me deeply, in a more sweet than bitter way.
Even
then…
I remember the first time I saw him - Jack.
The garden at my Nan’s house. The horse chestnut tree. I had a couple of
conkers and was sticking dress pins into them to make furniture for the finger
dolls my Nan had knitted me. He had climbed over the fence from next door to
see what new treasures he could find. He rolled his eyes at my craft. Sparkling
eyes, full of life. Mischievous; playful. Conkers were for baking in the oven
to harden, and then hung on string for playground games. Not for dolls’ houses.
He stuffed a few into his pocket, taking a doll too for good measure, and with
a wink scampered off. I knew he’d be back... Even then.
He was only a lad when he went off to
fight. Sixteen. Full of schoolboy optimism. But he returned hardened by the
horrors he had witnessed on the killing fields of France. A pawn in the
playground games of fat majors with maps spread out on tables, plotting where
young boys would lose their youth. His eyes were flat. Dull; serious. Medals
earned were tossed in the fire. But memories are not so easily extinguished.
They became the ashes that smothered his spirit and cast a dark cloud over his
life. I thought my Jack might return though... Even then.
We were married, and life was hard but we
had each other. And our two children – a girl and a boy to replace us both when
we went on. Time passed, and the flashbacks became less frequent. But, as he
aged, he lost the will to fight the thoughts that blighted his days. And then
his winter years brought with them the coldest of all diseases: Dementia. I
tried desperately to hold on to him, battling his demise. But Dementia is a
determined enemy and, slowly, he slipped further away - sliding into an
ignorance of life post playground. He became a child again. His illness erasing the scars
of time; protecting him from his past. And I knew he wouldn’t be back... Even
then.
But I came to accept our new reality. I
played by the rules of Dementia’s game. I cared for him; mothered him; loved him. Dementia had won, but I would not be
defeated. The memories I chose to cherish were those under the horse chestnut
tree at my Nan’s. I found comfort in recounting those stories to our children,
and to their children. Grandad. Dad. Jack. War hero and conker champion…. I
treasured those thoughts, for it was when he was a child that I had first met
him. And it was how I knew him when he died. In the pocket of the dressing gown
he was wearing the day he left us, I found one of my knitted dolls. And so I
knew he had never forgotten... Even then.
Lorraine's blog, Gin & Cornflakes - Mummy talk for the rest of us, can be visited here.
Connect with her as @gin_cornflakes on Twitter here.
Visit her Facebook page here.
Lorraine's blog, Gin & Cornflakes - Mummy talk for the rest of us, can be visited here.
Connect with her as @gin_cornflakes on Twitter here.
Visit her Facebook page here.
