As Time Goes By Ch 02 1

This is a long love story in three chapters but you'll have to wait for the sex. If you want a plotless quick thrill, then there are plenty of those elsewhere on this site. Some characters from my earlier stories make an appearance in this chapter (although it is not necessary to have read those stories, it might help to know the characters). Characters in sex scenes are eighteen years old or over. All characters are imaginary—any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 to the author.

*****

Pancreatic cancer stole my Dot.

Although we didn't know at the time it was a symptom, an early indication was when Dot started to suffer back pain. At the time we put it down to a combination of her age and work, assuming that she wasn't as limber as she used to be. After all, she was fifty-one. "Guess the clockwork's starting to run down early," Dot grinned. We left it at that as the backache just came and went at intervals.

Then when we undressed one night I noticed that her ribs seemed a bit more prominent than usual. "Are you losing weight, Dot?"

"A little, perhaps. Nothing to worry about, I don't think."

"How long's that been going on?"

"Week or two, maybe."

"Just take care," I warned, "You're slim enough without losing more. I think you ought to see our GP." When I first moved in with Dot, I found that she wasn't registered with a GP. Her plea that she never got ill cut no ice and I virtually bullied her into joining the practice where I was listed.

"Now you know I don't like going to the doctor." Dot cupped my face and gave me a gentle kiss. "Don't worry about it love, I'm okay."

It was when her skin became slightly jaundiced that I lost patience with her. "Right, Dot Barrow, you're coming to the doctor even if I have to knock you down and drag you there. And you're going to tell her everything." Dot could see that I was serious and nodded her acceptance.

When it came to it, I didn't quite trust Dot to tell the full story so I did the talking. After I had explained the back ache and apparent weight loss, Doctor Llewellyn, our GP, took it more seriously than Dot. Her expression suggested that she knew what was wrong but she said nothing, simply arranged for us to see a specialist and for various tests and scans to be carried out. The upshot was that several weeks later we found ourselves in a hospital oncology clinic speaking to a consultant, a tired-looking elderly man with kind eyes.

"Right, Miss Barrow, I'm not going to be evasive because you strike me as the kind of person who likes straight talk. I'm afraid you have pancreatic cancer."

"It doesn't look good, then?"

"I'm afraid not. One trouble with pancreatic cancer is that all too often symptoms don't show until it's too late. That's the way it is with you." The doctor sighed, obviously unhappy with what he had to say. "I'm sorry—it's very aggressive and it's spreading."

"There's nothing can be done?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Nothing of any good. I'm afraid it's inoperable and it's a bit late for effective chemo- or radio-therapy."

I started to weep quietly. Dot put an arm around me. "Don't cry, Fran, else you'll set me off. Can't complain, I've had a good life—a good family, a great home, a job I love doing and the best wife in the world." She turned back to the doctor. "How long have I got?"

He shook his head. "I really don't know. It could be months, it could be weeks."

As we left the hospital, Dot became brisk. "Right, my love, we've got a lot to get sorted quickly. One thing, Fran, I don't want anyone to know about this until I'm gone. Not even my family. I don't want a fuss made. Promise me—please, Fran."

I promised.

* * * * *

It was weeks rather than months. Seven weeks after our meeting with the oncologist, Dot's condition had deteriorated considerably and Doctor Llewellyn arranged a bed for her at a nearby hospice.

They were wonderful there. Although I understood the principles of palliative care, the nurses took great pains to explain their purpose to me. Hospices are not there to provide a cure but more than anything to ensure that the terminally ill die as easily and as pain-free as possible. I was grateful for the loving care shown to Dot while fully aware that she was not singled out for special treatment—every patient there was treated equally. The loving care was extended to me and to other patients' families. Although Dot was sedated and remained asleep much of the time, in the brief periods she awoke she was lucid. Once she kissed my hand and said: "Don't stay alone, petal, don't be lonely. Find someone else and be happy."

I was allowed to stay with her. They set up a camp-bed in her room for me and save for meal breaks and calls of nature I made sure that I was always beside her, holding her hand, talking to her. She was there for six days.

It almost tore me apart when she came awake early on the sixth day and said: "I love you, Fran Roberts—always will."

"God, and I love you," I choked, "so very much." Dot saw my tears flowing and smiled her sweet smile. "Please don't cry, my pretty lass. I'll be waiting for you upstairs when your time comes." She slipped back into sleep. She awoke again some time later and squeezed my hand. "Darling Fran, you've made me so very happy all these years."

Another short while and her eyes opened for the last time. "Here's looking at you, kid," she murmured. A few minutes later she died in my arms. I slipped off her eternity ring and put it on next to mine. Then, holding her hand and stroking her hair, I wept.

* * * * *

The young woman administrator at the funeral director's office was excellent at her work. She was forthright and friendly, business-like and matter-of-fact, not oily and obsequious as I had initially feared. She offered genuine sympathy without crocodile tears. The first time that I visited the parlour to discuss arrangements, the woman had offered a firm, brisk handshake and introduced herself as Marjorie. She had guided me through the essential procedures, had liaised with the GP, had done everything she could to make an essentially distressing matter as easy as possible.

Now I'd come to say farewell to my lover, my partner, my best friend. Marjorie led me through to the chapel where Dot lay at rest. "I'll leave you with her, Miss Roberts. Take as long as you need."

I nodded thanks and went to the open coffin. Dot looked peaceful now, the lines of pain wiped away. Her work-worn hands were folded in front of her, those hands that were so skilled and could produce items of great beauty from plain lumps of wood. I gave a small, rueful smile. Dot had stopped smoking long ago, for my sake, she said, but I had brought her a small present to go into the coffin, her old tobacco pouch with some cigarette papers and a book of matches. I slid them down beside her. "For the journey, Dot, you deserve it." I reached out and gently touched a cheek. "Goodbye, Dot. I love you."

I knew that Dot had loved me too, and that made worthwhile all the years we had been together. I appreciated, too, the fact that Dot had told me she loved me several times a day. Demonstrative affection was not the norm in her part of Yorkshire. Mother Barrow held the old school view that as long as you gave your children plenty of warmth and nourishment, then that was ample indication of your love. I shook my head and added: "Here's looking at you, kid," as I bent to kiss Dot's brow.

I left the chapel and thanked Marjorie. "You can close the coffin now, please," I said, "Dot wouldn't have wanted anyone else to see her."

* * * * *

Perhaps needless to say, my Mum and Dad were there for me as soon as they could make it. Over the years they had come to love Dot a lot. They took a room at a guest-house in the village. And then Dot's mother and brothers turned up the day before the funeral. I think it must have been the first time that all three had left the farm together and I doubted that they'd trust their farm-hands alone for more than a day or two. I guessed that Mother Barrow was in her eighties now and the brothers well into their sixties but they all still worked hard.

I apologised for not having told them Dot was ill but explained that was her wish. Charlie took one of my hands in his big one and said: "We understand, love. Even when Dot were nobbut a little 'un she hated to admit it when she were poorly."

I surrendered my bed—our bed—to Mother Barrow and slept on the sofa. Charlie and Geoff, having been told how small the cottage was, had brought camp-beds and sleeping bags and settled themselves in the small flat above the carpentry shop. I took them all down to The Monk's Head that evening where we met my folks and quite a few people stopped by our table to offer condolences and praise Dot. I hoped that the trio appreciated the sentiments. As always, the Barrows were poker-faced much of the time and it was nigh impossible to tell what they were thinking.

The funeral was well attended as many people from the village turned up; I think they were split pretty evenly between those who had genuinely liked Dot and those nosey small-town old women who would go to just about any funeral that happened along. Several businessmen who had bought her furniture came to pay their respects; all of them gave me generous sums to donate either to cancer research or the hospice. There was a short service at the local church, then another for family only at the crematorium, followed by a wake in the church hall.

Fighting hard to control my voice and tears, I spoke of my love for Dot and the happiness we had brought each other. Several others gave their memories of her: Mary Little told of 'Prince Charming' who lurked in a Land Rover so that she couldn't spy on him; one businessman doubted he'd live long enough to see Dot's furniture become sought-after antiques but hoped his great-great-grandchildren would benefit; to laughter, Jack, still landlord of The Monk's Head, recalled Dot's last visit to the pub, about three weeks before she died, still pouring scorn those who drink "...fizzy horse-piss, oh excuse my language..." Old Joe Brownlee said that renting land from Dot was about the best thing he had ever done because she had turned into such a good friend. It was a consolation to know just how highly thought-of Dot had been.

I was pleased that my dear friend Emma Wainwright had been able to come, together with her wife Samantha—Dot and I had been to their civil partnership ceremony, a wonderful, happy occasion. They had been together... what...? four or five years now and it was obvious in so many small ways--a touch of the hand here, a fleeting glance, a little smile there—that they were still besotted with each other. Sam had had a little girl by artificial insemination, my goddaughter Amanda, two years old, and now Emma told me that she was planning pregnancy by the same method.

Funny thing about Emma, I'd always thought her looks pleasant but rather ordinary in a girl-next-door kind of way, not exactly plain but certainly no beauty although she did have lovely eyes. But since she had been with Sam she seemed to have acquired an inner glow which made her almost beautiful.

I wondered if Emma had ever told Sam about us. We were what you might term each other's first love, both of us being teens at the time although Emma was a year or two younger than me. She stayed on my parents' farm for a week while her mother was in hospital and had to share a double bed with me. I knew full well at that age that I was gay and I took a chance with Emma on our first night together, giving her a hesitant kiss and half-expecting her to run away screaming. Instead, she had leapt enthusiastically into my arms and there was no turning back.

After that one week there was nothing more between us but we stayed friends. Years later Emma told me that she had recognized her sexuality from a fairly young age and had been thrilled when I made that pass at her. In turn I confessed to her that she was my first experience as I was hers and that my know-how had been gleaned from a sex manual I'd found in my mother's bedside cabinet. Of course, the manual was aimed at straight people but I'd been able to adapt.

Emma and Sam spent some time talking with the Barrows, for which I was grateful. The family's taciturnity didn't seem to bother them at all and it was good to see even the old woman cracking an occasional smile with them. At one point, Mother Barrow came over to me and whispered: "Yon two, Emma and Sam—are they like you and Dot?"

"Yes," I told her.

"Thought so, they're wearing matching wedding rings." The old woman considered for a moment then nodded. "Whatever, they seem to be really good lasses. I like 'em." High praise indeed from Dot's mother. Then she confided: "I've started going to a different church at home. There's a new minister in our old chapel and he's been saying some real nasty things about homosexual people, as how they're all wicked and doomed for eternity, but lasses like you and those two show he knows nowt. If anybody's wicked and doomed it's him, the miserable old bugger, and I told him so."

Before they left to return home, Emma and Sam each came to hug and kiss me. "You know where we are, Fran," Emma told me, "Just pick up the phone if you want to come and see us or if you just need to talk." She touched my cheek gently. "You'll always have friends in us." I felt tears well up. "Thank you," was all I could manage to choke out.

My Mum and Dad had to leave about the same time as Emma and Sam. They had tried to persuade me to go home with them but I felt that I needed some time to myself. I knew that they, or Emma and Sam, would smother me with loving attention but I believed that right now that would do me more harm than good.

I was right about the Barrows—they didn't trust their farm-hands to be in charge for too long and they were setting out for home that evening. As they were getting ready to leave, Charlie and Geoff put their muscular arms around me. "You come and see us when you can, lass," Charlie said, "Tha's our little sister now. We'll all go down to The Shepherd and raise a pint of Speckled Hen to Dot."

"We'll do that," Geoff added, "And if tha's not too hung-over next day, I'll let thee do all the morning's milking."

I managed a smile. "Dot would have something rude to say about that. Then she'd excuse her language."

The brothers laughed. "That's true."

Mother Barrow intervened. "Go and get the Land Rover, you two," she ordered, "I want a word with Fran."

"Well, lass," she started when her sons left the church hall, "Tha's on thy own now. It'll be tough, although I suppose not as tough as if you had kids. But the lads were right--tha's got family in us, so be sure to come and see us. If you don't come often before I die, then I'll bloody well come back and haunt you.

"I'll be honest with you, Fran. I've never really understood your lifestyle but I know the good Lord must have his reasons for making some folk the way you and Emma and Sam are. And the way Dot was. I reckon you and Dot were good together, as good and better as many married couples I know. What are you now, thirty-three, thirty-four...? You're young yet, lass. When you think life's looking better, when you're ready, you find someone else to love. Dot wouldn't have wanted you to be lonely and you'll get no objections from us." I recalled Dot saying virtually the same thing the day she died.

Then the old woman did something unprecedented. She threw her arms about me and gave me a short, fierce hug. Again I could feel the tears welling—coming from her, the hug was the height of approval. She stepped back looking vaguely embarrassed. "Dot was a good daughter and I loved her. I think she knew that without it being said. It probably seems odd to you, Fran, but in our part of the country most folk don't talk about love—it's considered soft." Here the old woman's voice lowered, almost as if she was muttering to herself. "Don't you dare tell anyone I said this but I love you too, lass—you made our Dot happy. You likely don't know this but every time she phoned me she spent ages boasting about you. Now think on—come and see us... lots..."

"I will Mother Barrow," I promised.

"Tha'd better—I think I'd make a bloody good ghost."

Other people gradually departed and so eventually I was left alone. And now I had the rest of my life—my lonely life—to get on with.

When Dot first died, I thought that I wouldn't be able to sleep yet strangely I slept very well. I think perhaps I'd spent so many nights in light sleep recently, alert for Dot's needs, that nature was now being kind to me. For about a week or two I cried myself to sleep but that eased off. I did find myself weeping at odd times, only natural I suppose. Usually something small triggered it such as coming across some possession of Dot's or hearing a piece of music she had liked. And every night I spoke to her in my head, telling her of my day and anything else which might interest her. I don't know if there is an afterlife and if there is, I don't know if Dot could hear me. But it gave me some comfort to think she could and that she was happy where she was.

I also determined to live the way I know Dot would have wanted. Some people just cannot cope and let grief crush the life out of them. Others accept that life is for living and determine to overcome their loss. I'm one of the latter, a glass-half-full sort of person. Life

is

for living. Anyway, if Dot thought that I'd given up she'd probably come back and kick my backside, hard. So I got on with it.

* * * * *

I was feeding the chickens early one morning some months later when Joe Brownlee came to see me. "Fran, can I say something without you taking offence?"

I didn't know what could cause offence. Joe was a sweet old man who had always gone the extra mile for Dot and me. I think if I'd asked him to crawl over broken glass for me he would have done so. "Go ahead, Joe—what is it?"

"You, girl. You're working yourself into the ground and unless you're careful, you'll end up ill. Do you reckon Dot would have wanted to see you do that?" He thrust his chin out, as if daring me to contradict him.

"Joe, I've had a couple of breaks."

"Yes, you have that. You went up to Yorkshire to see Dot's folk, there and back in a weekend. You probably spent more time travelling than you did visiting. And you've been to see your folks and your pals Emma and Sam once or twice. Each time it was off in the late morning, back before nightfall. Now don't you try to kid me that they were proper breaks. You need to take at least a week off, girl."

"But Joe, I can't leave the smallholding right now."

"Don't give me that guff. I can look after the place and so can my boy (his 'boy' was at least ten years older than I am). Look, Fran, I always considered you and Dot honorary daughters and I ain't going to stand back and watch no daughter of mine work herself into a breakdown. Now you take a proper holiday or I'll... I'll piss all over your vegetable crops, see if I don't."

I realised then just how serious Joe was. He was old school and never used vulgarities in front of a female. I started giggling and pulled the old man into a hug. "Okay, Joe, I promise I'll take a week off very soon if you'll promise to pee anywhere but on my vegetable crops."

The deal was done and there was no backing out. I thought about it and decided on a few days in London. I wasn't a great fan of the big city but I'd always loved museums and they had some of the best in London. I knew most hotels in Central London were ridiculously expensive but a careful search on-line led me to a place called The Balustrade in East London. By London standards it was a reasonable price and so I booked a few days there. For the sake of my vegetable crop, I let Joe know straight away.