David Cooper shaved and showered while Margaret was asleep. In their bedroom, he put on the suit she’d got him the previous Christmas – the black one with the wide pin-stripes – a luxury from before they knew she was pregnant and decided to tighten-up their spending. Babies were expensive. Life was about to change and every spare penny would be needed.
Choosing a tie wasn’t an easy decision; eventually, he went with the blue one. When he was ready, he inspected himself in the mirror. Not bad, considering. Margaret would like it. That was the only thing that mattered.
Downstairs, he picked his way through their CD collection until he found what he was looking for. “The Four Seasons” – her favourite piece of music – and put it in the player. They’d bought it after a concert in Sainte-Chapelle in Paris, where a young female Japanese violin virtuoso moved them to tears with an unforgettable performance. They’d held hands and gazed at the stained-glass windows, while Vivaldi’s famous work filled the historic room that had once been the private chapel of the king of France. It had all been so wonderful and David Cooper had n ever been happier.
That was then. Now, his wife’s eyes were empty. She might not even be hearing it.
David combed her hair, tied the plastic bib round her neck, and put a spoonful of chocolate ice cream in her mouth, moving her jaw with his hand to help her swallow, speaking to her as if he was expecting an answer. Old habits.
They’d been great talkers. And great friends.
He pulled a chair next to the wheelchair so they were side-by-side and opened the photograph album. A younger Margaret Cooper stood in Trafalgar Square, laughing at the camera with a pigeon on her head.
‘Remember that? Our first trip to London. Walking at night through the streets back to the hotel. I wanted us to move down but you said it wasn’t somewhere for children. Too big and too busy. Not the place to bring up a family.’
He looked at his wife’s dead eyes.
‘Of course you were right. I was always a dreamer. You were the practical one. We would’ve trailed round the world like a couple of hippies if it was up to me. You insisted on planting roots.’
David dipped the spoon into the ice cream, and tried again to get her to take it. Dark rivulets of melted chocolate dripped from Margaret’s chin onto the bib. He pointed to photographs of them in Rome and Barcelona, chattering over his tears.
The woman who had been the light of his life went back to sleep. Margaret Cooper didn’t know it, but she’d had a good day.
Her husband gently slipped the pillow from behind her and laid it on the floor. He couldn’t do it. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. He put his head in her lap and let the music run to the end. When it finished, he kissed his wife, and gripped the pillow in both hands.