Anniversary (Lindsay Ratcliffe)

Moving On

by

Lindsay Ratcliffe

It was Halloween 2009. I was newly single and ready to party dressed as a dark angel in a short black dress, stockings, boots, short black wig, Venetian mask and beautiful black feather wings that wouldn’t have looked out of place at Mardi Gras. I almost didn’t go to the party on account that my ex, Tristan, would be there, but I thought it would be a shame not to go having got the costume together. Plus, I looked damn hot in that outfit, even if I do say so, and there’s no better time to face an ex than when you’re feeling good?

I was on my third or fourth glass of punch, by the time Tristan made an appearance. He came as a scary clown wearing an op’ shop suit and a beautifully morbid, latex half-face mask. We both socialised in opposite ways around the party, avoiding each other for long enough to look like neither of us gave a damn anymore. Then at the inevitable meeting we couldn’t help but flirt with each other.

We were still chatting when the silly party games started. The laughter was raucous and the music got so loud it was hard to hear. I can’t remember which one of us suggested it but Tristan and I left the party and went for a walk.

There was a great vibe on the streets in Coogee. The backpackers were out in full force and there was hardly a reveller without glow-in-the-dark horns, a trident or a scary mask. We headed to the Coogee Bay Hotel, however the entry queue snaked to the end of the street, so we jumped in a cab hoping that it was too early in the season for the backpackers to have discovered the Clovelly Hotel yet.

We were singing, laughing and being annoying like only drunk people can when Tristan suddenly changed his mind about going to the ‘Cloey’.

“I’ve got a better idea! Let’s do something a bit more fitting for Halloween!”

I’d no idea what I was getting myself into but being too merry to care shrugged and agreed.

“Turn left here!”

Tristan directed the cab driver and I wasn’t as familiar with the area I was somewhat confused when he asked the driver to drop us on a quiet residential street.

“What are we doing?”

He opened up his over-sized suit jacket and extracted a bottle of vodka that he’d procured from the party.

“Where’s the perfect place to party on Halloween?”

I looked around and saw we were at the edge of Waverley cemetery.

“You’ve got to be kidding?” I was both horrified and excited at the same time, yet I still beat him scaling the wall.

We acted like idiots, hiding behind gravestones then jumping out, scaring the living daylights out of one another. Exhausted and a bit too drunk we sat on the edge of a large memorial looking out at the dark sea, swigging from the bottle.

“I can’t think of a better place that I would rather spend eternity! I love it up here looking out over the ocean!”

He passed me the bottle but didn’t let go when I put my hand to it. He raised the bottle to my lips. I took a swig but I felt his intention change and an uncomfortable feeling crept over me. Suddenly I didn’t want to be alone with Tristan.

“I think I’ve had enough.” I said pulling my arms and legs close into my body.

“You ok?”

“Yeah, just getting a bit cold.”

He removed his jacket and put it over my shoulders.

“Thanks.” I pulled the jacket lapels together to make my chill seem genuine.  “I think we should head back. They’ll wonder where we’ve gone.”

“Since when did you care? Not feeling scared are you?”

I shrugged and started to walk away but he pulled me back and lunged in for a clumsy kiss. I pushed him away.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you mean? I thought…”

“What part of ‘this is over’ don’t you get?”

“The part where you continue to flirt with me and lead me on!”

I know he was right, but it was not what I wanted. The fight didn’t last long as I said some pretty harsh things and he walked off cursing me. I didn’t much relish being left alone in a cemetery in this silly outfit, but somehow it was better than what might have happened had I not stopped him.

The sea winds lashed around me again and almost took my wig. The jacket flapped around my sides and I genuinely started to feel cold, so I slipped my arms into the jacket properly and thrust my hands into the pockets. The fingers of my right hand wrapped around a folded piece of paper. I pulled it out of the pocket and saw it was an envelope. I presumed it was something of Tristan’s, but I didn’t know any ‘Mrs E Campbell’ nor did I recognise the handwriting so I figured it was something left there by the previous owner. I shuddered but fingered the envelope anyway, considering opening it. The wind whipped up again and the envelope was almost whisked out of my hands. It was enough of a reminder to know that I should be leaving. It wasn’t the auspicious night; just reasoning that being a lone female in a cemetery after dark was probably not a great idea.

I looked around, not sure which was the best way out. I became very aware of the dark. There was no street lighting nearby and thick clouds were suffocating any light that the moon might have offered. Panic rose in my chest as all I could see in any direction, which wasn’t very far in the dark, was gravestones, tombs and a headless silhouette of a stone angel. Then I remembered my iPhone. I turned until the sea-wind was blowing into my face so I knew I was facing East, then used the Map and Locate Me function to work out the quickest way out.

The wind whistling through the lines of graves unnerved me. Using my iPhone for illumination I headed south in the direction of the nearest perimeter wall. The wind changed direction and walking headlong into it was hard going. My stomach tightened, as I saw that the nearby trees were not being menaced by the wind in the same way that I was. I tried to calm and centre myself. Not an easy thing to do given the circumstances. Then I felt something brush my cheek and the shriek that tried to escape was strangled by the wind in my throat.

“Leave me alone!” I was almost in tears. I just wanted to go home.

Then I heard a whisper, which was both inside and outside my head at the same time.

“My letter…”

“Tristan I’ll freakin kill you, if I find out that’s you!”

I somehow knew it wasn’t Tristan but I felt better blaming him. I shook my head, seriously regretting having drank so much. Then the noise came at me again, only this time it was stronger and seemed to assault me from all directions at once. Instead of feeling scared, I felt strangely empowered. I figured the problem was not me, but the letter, which in my inebriated mind at that moment, gave me something to bargain with. I held the letter as if I intended to tear it in half.

“Leave me alone or I’ll do it!”

I heard what sounded like a sharp intake of breath and then a localised moan.

“Twelve years! Twelve years I’ve waited!”

In the space two metres in front of me stood a crying man. He was in essence a man but without any mass. I can’t explain how I knew that, except there was no physical energy with his presence. I didn’t feel afraid anymore, just wary.

“Is this yours?” I waved the letter at him.

“Where did you get it?”

“I found it in this old jacket.”

“So! My wife decided to get rid of the last reminders of me?”

“Is this letter to your wife?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Ha! It is if you want me to post it!”

He looked right through me and seemed to tug at my soul. I experienced a kind of pain but not one that I could identify within my physical body. Then I felt a wave of sadness and regret surge through me and the man looked away.

“The letter is to Enid, she was my first love.”

“That’s all very nice but I’m cold, starting with an early hangover and stuck in a cemetery on Halloween in an op’ shop jacket. So not wanting to sound funny or anything, but so what?”

“I wrote that letter to Enid when I knew I didn’t have long left. But I died before I could post it. I hoped you could deliver it?”

He came a little closer but I held out my hand to deter him.

“What about your wife? Does she know about Enid?”

“I wasn’t having an affair!”

“Your wife might see things differently! Did you love her?”

“I was married to her for thirty-seven years!”

“Yes, but did you love her?”

“Yes of course, but she didn’t love me, not in the same way as Enid. Enid adored me. She would do anything for me. She was my first love. You never forget that!”

“So your wife doesn’t give you enough attention and now your planning on spending your eternity hankering after some teenage crush?

“It’s not like that!”

“I won’t post it. I don’t think its fair. How would you feel if you discovered your wife pined for someone else for your whole marriage? Even if I did post it what good can it do?”

He wringed his hands together and pleaded,

“I’ve been waiting twelve years for this! It’s meant to be! Otherwise that letter would never have survived. You have to take it to Enid!”

“Nah I disagree! I think this letter was meant to find it’s way back to you to stop you being an idiot for the rest of eternity. You need to move on!”

“Please! You must!”

“How’s Enid going to feel? What if this letter stirs it all up for her again and then she discovers you’re dead? It’s so selfish!”

“It’s just such a waste to have all these feelings and not to share them.”

“How would your have wife felt if she found the letter?”

He hung his head.

“So she did love you?”

I let him talk. It was clear that he was lonely, but I felt that he’d created his own prison, in both life and beyond because of his misplaced affections and romantic ideals.

“Did you ever think that maybe your wife loved you just as much as Enid, maybe even more, she just showed it in a different way?”

He began to describe his wife and some of the nice things she used to do for him. The more he talked about his wife the less I could hear him and the less I could see him until he wasn’t there anymore.

The wind rushed around me, encircled me, whipping my legs and the jacket against my body, the wings on my back threatening to break. I opened my fingers and let the letter go to the elements. It spiralled upwards in its own private vortex then flipped and flapped, like a fish out of water, as the wind carried it away. It didn’t travel too far before the wind vanished and the envelope dropped, as heavy as a stone, just slightly off the path. There were no other sounds or sensations; the air was now still. The envelope rested on a grave. A bouquet of fresh flowers rested against a headstone.

Michael Mullen

much loved husband

Died 31 October 1997 aged 63