Days 10 and 11 – Writing exercise

…

Standing over the grave, staring down at the coffin that held the body of my wife, there was only one question.  “Just who the hell were you?”

I was there when Mary Antoinette Davis died.  I wasn’t expecting it, but who does, at any time?

It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.  Simple, fast, a blink of an eye, and she was gone.

It wasn’t fair, but then, most of life isn’t.  It hands you a deck of cards, and you put them in the order you want them to be in.  And sometimes you get it right, and sometimes you get it wrong.

Like that morning.

The same as every other morning when Mary was home.  We slept in till ten, wandered around the house for an hour, had coffee, toast and marmalade, home-made by the neighbour next door.

Dress and go shopping, or sometimes to the cafe to have tea and scones.

Not this morning.

It was to the village grocery shop.

It had been raining.  The side of the road was wet, so we were walking on the edge of the road when there were no cars.

And then, within sight of the shop front, a car came, rather fast, and we got out of the way.

Just.

But she slipped on the wet grass and fell down.  Shaken.  She thought she had hit her head, feeling a little faint, but then, after a few minutes, she was back to her old self again.

We bought oranges, apples, some rhubarb, and bananas.  A fruit salad.

Then it happened.  I turned to pay Silvia, the storekeeper, and when I turned back, Mary had collapsed on the floor.

Quietly.

Not panicking, thinking it might be some residual effect from the slip, I took her hand and squeezed it, saying, “Are you alright?”

There was no response.

I shook her shoulder gently, but there was still no response.

I turned back to Sylvia.  “Please call an ambulance.  This might be serious.”

I heard her go over to the telephone and dial the number.  I turned back and decided to test for a pulse.  Not that I could remember how.

That was when Doc Adams came in, saw Mary on the ground, and came straight over.  He had been her doctor for most of her life.

“What happened?”

“She slipped and fell outside, avoiding a speeding car, and I think she hit her head, but she wasn’t dizzy for long.  She just collapsed just now.”

I watched him as he checked everything I’d forgotten to, and then for a pulse.  He was shaking his head.

Sylvia yelled out, “Ambulance here in five, they were just up the road.”

Otherwise, it would take twenty from the nearest depot.

“There’s no pulse, her eyes…”

He leaned down to see if she was breathing, then started C.P.R.

I didn’t want to ask, but in that moment I felt a chill run through me.  I knew she was dead because part of me had just died with her. 

That’s when I felt the room start to turn, and moments later, nothing.

…

I woke in the small hospital in the nearest town.  It handled non-serious cases, but mostly acted as a triage centre before shipping people off to the city an hour away.

Mary wasn’t there.

Angelina, the matron, nurse, pseudo doctor when Doc Adams was not there or in transit, and general factotum, was sitting beside the bed, knitting.

Nobody ever knew what she was knitting, and they never asked.

“You’re awake?”

I hoped I was recovering from a nightmare because my first thought was horrifying if it was true.

“Mary?”

“Doc couldn’t revive her.  I’m sorry, Evan.  Doc said she had taken a blow to the temple area, found an abrasion, went back to the accident site and found the rock.  Delayed reaction, or some such.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes.  The police will be here soon and ask you some questions.  Routine, whatever that means.  Doc had her taken to the city hospital, and you will have to go and identify her, for the record.”

She put the knitting aside and stood.  “Doc told me it would not be a good idea if you drove anywhere, just for a day. It’s been a huge shock for you, for all of us.  Doc asked me to bring you, unless…”

“It’s fine.  I don’t think I could concentrate.  How is it possible…?”

“Simple things sometimes trump the more complex.  The odds are a million to one that she would fall and hit her head in that exact spot.  A billion to one even.  I can’t believe it myself.  None of us can.”

She continued with her checks, ticking boxes and making notes with the fountain pen that Mary had given her last Christmas.  They were old friends.  Angelina had known her long before I had, and they had their secrets.

“Can I go now?”

“Sorry.  No.  Not yet.  Have to monitor you for a half hour.  Doc’s orders.

…

I felt fine, but then what I thought I knew was not what Angelina was taught to expect.  Her medical training was extensive, proving a handy backup for the Doc.

He had asked her if she wanted to go to med school; he could arrange it, but she had shied away from fully committing because she wanted better.

What could be better than being a doctor?

I would be one in a heartbeat if I had the talent, but I did not.  I was destined to be an agricultural labourer, with no qualifications and no prospects.

What I couldn’t believe was a brilliant girl who could be anything she wanted, wanted to marry me and live in the village.  When she was not away being brilliant at her real job.

She explained it to me some time ago, but it was all double Dutch to me, well, some of it anyway.  I was a little smarter than I looked, and I think Mary knew, just decided not to rock the boat.

Her friends certainly thought I was just this farmer guy, punching above his weight.  It was true, if not unexpected.  She was the belle of the ball, the pick of the crop, and I ran last in the stakes for a date.

Until I saved her from one of the upper-class boys.  That day, I became her hero and their whipping boy.  Until one day it stopped.  Henry Turbot, son of the local laird, considered her his property because his parents owned everything, even us pathetic farm workers.

And then went about proving a point.

Until he disappeared.

The mystery of the missing Henry Turbot.  The police came and asked questions until they were satisfied I had nothing to do with his disappearance.  Apparently, according to some, there was a portal near the bakery building, painstakingly rebuilt when transferred from a local Stonehenge to the common.

Somehow, he had activated it and disappeared into the ether.  People preferred mumbo-jumbo to the truth;  he had disappeared to his grandmother’s in America. 

I was the luckiest man in the village.  Now I was the saddest.

…

It was painful to visit her in the big city hospital morgue.  It was her, she was dead, and I had half an hour before she was taken to the undertaker.

The funeral was in a few days.

She had no family, so there was no one to call.  We had no family, she was unable to have children because of a riding mishap when she was younger, and I was an only child of now deceased parents.

She had friends all through the village.  They were all devastated.  Most treated me with indifference, and now she was gone, as though I didn’t exist.

I rang her work, picking a number off her phone that oddly said work.  It was strange.

“Identification?”

“It’s Mary Antoinette Davis husband.  I’m calling to tell you she died yesterday.”

“Who is this?”

Didn’t they listen?  “I’ve already told you “

Silence for a moment.  “Wait.”

I waited.  For five minutes, then a woman answered, “Who is this?”

“The husband of Mary Davis.  I’m calling the number on her phone that says work. Who are you?”

“Irrelevant.  She’s dead.”

“Yesterday.  An accident.”

“And you are,”

“Her husband.”

“Of course.  Thank you.”

The line went dead.  I put the phone down, and a minute later it looked as if self-destructed.

What the hell…

What a strange bunch of people she worked for.  But what did I know about medical research and finding cures for complex maladies?  It was ironic that a medical condition other than a serious disease killed her.

Slipping and falling on a rock.

I thought no more of it and went down to the local pub.  Rex, one of the other farmers, asked me if I wanted to talk.  I didn’t, but perhaps a drink or two might have eased the pain.

Outside the pub, I arrived at the same time as a black Audi.  I don’t know why it caught my attention.  Perhaps it was the four men sitting in it.  Suits, big, men who’d seen a few bar fights.

They didn’t get out.  I went inside.

Rex was sitting at the side of the bar where we farmers say, away from the village folk.  Rex was nibbling at the remnants of a pork pie.  There were two large ales sitting in front of him.

I went over and sat.  He slid one over.

“You should be looking sadder,” he said without looking at me.  He was watching the door.

“I am.  I’m just hiding it well.”

The ale was not bad.  It was one the publican brewed himself.  He was getting better at it.  Rex and I were his Guinea pigs.

“Shell be missed.”

“Especially by me, Rex.”

“Damn horrible way to go.  It just goes to show we can all pop off at any moment.”

If been thinking about that, the randomness of it.  I’d also been reliving the event over and over in case I missed a detail, a sign that would tell me everything wasn’t alright.

There wasn’t any.

So, we talked.  People came, and people went, some who knew her, some who didn’t.  No one had a bad word to say about her.  Her friends, though, nodded but didn’t have anything to say.

If I could read minds, they’d probably be saying it was my fault she was dead.  If it came to that, they were probably right.  If she had not come home, it would never have happened.

It was, quite literally, my fault.

…

I left the pub after one too many drinks.  I didn’t drive, I walked, and I took the back path behind the pub that cut through the thicket and the bottom of Giles’ farm, two up from mine.

It was a public access path, and there had never been any trouble about it.  There was none tonight, except that as I approached our house, I saw two men walking towards the road, and a car drove off at speed.

That was unusual for these parts.

I went around the front, and when I got to the door, I could see it was ajar slightly.  I didn’t remember leaving it unlocked or partly open.

I pushed it open and looked in.  Someone had trashed the place, tossing everything out of cupboards, off shelves, off benches,  drawers emptied, seats slashed, and the stuffing ripped out.

In the other rooms, it was worse, clothes and belongings tossed everywhere, walls smashed in with gaping holes.

Someone had been looking for something and not found it.

I called the village constable.

…

Constable Jack Dwyer was close to retirement and ready to hang up his hat; that realisation, he said, was after trying to chase down a young offender on foot.

Neither the speed nor the stamina these days for the requirements of modern policing.

He was old school.

He arrived at the door where I was waiting outside, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any more than I already had.

I watched all the police shows and knew the jargon.

“Evan.”

“Constable.”

“Jack, please.  You and Mary are friends.” 

He had a slight wheeze from the walk from the lane up to the door.

He peered in the door, and I heard a sharp intake of breath.  “What have we here?’  He pushed the door open further and took a few steps into the room.

I followed.

“When?”

“I came home a half hour ago, so it happened in the three hours before that.  I was at the pub.  Came home, this was what I found.”

“Touch anything?”

“Very little.”

“Anything missing?”

“Nothing obvious.  Why would people be looking in walls? That strikes me as not your average thief.”

“It does not.  I’ll call it in.  This is serious.”

“Do you think it might be something to do with Mary’s death.  She was a cutting-edge researcher, brought something home?”

He shrugged.  “Can’t say.  Let the experts work it out.  Above our collective pay grade, I think.”

He went back out onto the porch and made the call.

I took another look.  I tried to recall any episodes of the dramas I watched for similar incidents.  The best I could come up with; she was a spy and had secrets hidden away, on hand in case she had to run.

And then I laughed at the stupidity of that assessment.  She was a medical researcher.  Her work took her all over the world.  She was going to cure cancer.  We spoke about it often.  If anyone could, I knew it would be her.

When I came out of the bedroom, Jack was by the front door examining it, then looked at me, “Who has a key to the front door.”

“Both of us.”

“Anyone else?”

“No.  Why.”

“This door shows no signs of tampering.  It was opened with a key.”

Mine was in my pocket.  I had her bag, collected from the hospital when I identified her.  I fetched it from the car.  The key was on a key chain with other keys we shared.

“Both accounted for.”

He shrugged.  “Can you stay somewhere else for a few days?”

“Of course.”

We went out, and I locked the door and gave him the key. 

“I’ll let you know when the forensics are done.  They should be here tomorrow.  Bad business, Mary going like that.  One in a billion, the Doc says.  I’m sorry for your loss.”

I thanked him, and he left.

I refused to believe this had anything to do with Mary’s death.

…

The funeral service was attended by everyone in the village and some from the surrounding villages.  There was no one out of place, or I didn’t recognise.

No one from her work turned up.  I had met some of her colleagues fleetingly, first names only and only briefly to the point where I wouldn’t recognise them again.

The rebuff from the telephone call still lingered, and the fact that the phone self-destructed, well, no explanation made it sound plausible.

It was a beautiful service, a tribute to the fact that everyone loved her.  I got to say a few words before I couldn’t.  Others were equally overcome by emotion.

It was a short trip from the church to the freshly dug grave, where another little service was conducted, and the coffin was lowered into the grave.

Flowers, dirt, done.  Handshakes, hugs,  muttered condolences and then nothing.  I was alone by the grave, staring down at what had been the love of my life.

Then my cell phone rang.

No name, no number.

“Hello?”

“Evan, Mary’s husband?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t go home.  Leave, now.  Don’t look back.”

“What?  Who is this?”

“I worked with Mary.  She was murdered.  They’re after me.  And now you.  They think we have it, but we don’t, and no one will believe us.  Run.  Now.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone.  That voice on the other end.  Near hysterical.

I stared down at the box in the grave.  “Just who the hell were you, Mary Antoinette Davis?”

The truth was, I didn’t know, and what I thought I knew wasn’t even remotely true.

In that moment, a montage of scenes popped into my head.  The knowing looks between friends, the nuances and double meanings of her conversations, the way the policeman, the doctor and the matron acted.  They all knew.

A loud bang that sounded very much like a gunshot came from behind me, and I jumped, almost slipping into the grave.

I ran.

…

©  Charles Heath  2026