Fred's End

Inevitably, as most men, turned again to women for an answer knowing at the very least would get some momentum in my existence, whether or not I would like it’s direction, being entirely another matter, a gamble. Saw very clearly why people remarried so very quickly after a divorce or bereavement.

Just at this moment, my friend died suddenly, forty eight, not old for a man. Fred had sunk slowly into death, nothing really wrong with him other than losing the desire to live, having very little to live for, regardless of his comparative opulence ....new car rotting in the street, the chandeliers, the magnificent carpets, his Bechstein piano, the comfort and care of his wife.. He liked to eat, to smoke heavily, to drink, to sit. Possibly, quite possibly, he knew he was digging his own grave. Gave up remonstrating with him. We would all drift off up to the West End in his huge car. The very best restaurants. I had to drive always, his stomach had become so large...difficult for him to get even behind that steering wheel. Besides, once he hit the traffic he would start to sweat, become anxious, and look at me appealingly. He liked the late evenings, when the dot had finally came up on the box, when Vie had gone finally to bed, leaving us alone in the night’s silence. He knew it was time then... to trot out the typewriter, to put words to paper. Hardly ever did, we would sit with our large cut glasses of Gin and tonic, talking about nothing in particular.


Difficult, on occasions, the small talk running quickly out, Fred never spoke of sex… other women, how he fancied this one or that, none of “Did you see her!” and “I would have liked to have given it one” a conversation common to men in every walk of life, whoever they may be. Fred, very uptight in that aspect ... very up tight.
He had a strange, sheltered life, to my knowledge, the only woman he had ever been with... his mother still lurked in the dark downstairs of the house. Lived with her since the day he was born.

Now he was dead. The house remained; the mother remained… his wife endured.
Evidently he had driven down to Wood Lane, to the BBC alone, struggled out of the car and stepped straight into oblivion, his sixteen stone of blood, flesh, sinews, bone slipping slowly, silently down onto the cold pavement, smart trilby hat rolling into the gutter, gold cigarette lighter still clutched between thick, fat, lifeless, manicured fingers.
I had been away. Vie finally managed to get hold of me on the phone. She, in a very anxious state, waiting behind the curtains, street door opening as I approached quickly had her arms round me... then, ushered into the ‘Lounge’,

Fred laid out in his box, head propped up, glasses on, face smooth, untroubled… no more problems. The thing that struck me… how well he looked, how pleased with himself he was, having escaped… most happy in death.

Vie very quickly established that I should take over precisely where her husband had left so unceremoniously off in her life. Looked at her, the massive house sitting splendidly in the expensive part of Woodford, all the trimmings... plus his considerable insurance policies... For me, rather a long step up the ladder from Hackney.