THE WIDOW NEXT DOOR

The house next door had been empty for what seemed an age and was probably about a year. The old man and his equally old wife had lived there since the second world war when they’d married at an absurdly young age (their description) and proceeded to live a completely happy life together over all the years snce then. I knew that was true even though I hadn’t been in my house for anywhere near as long.

They died within days of each other, he going first and she, unable to bear life without him and having no reason to even try, followed hot on his heels.

So the house was empty.

I was used to it being empty, for the light of life not to shine electrically from windows after dark, used even for the postman to stop walking down its path every morning. I imagined what dereliction was doing to it, an imagination fed by my knowledge of what it had been like when it was home to a couple of nonagenarians. Because they did their best with everything they did but age had limited that best to be little more than barely adequate, and their furniture showed it. They were even proud that their bed was as old as their years in wedlock! And that Simon had been born on it, Simon their onely son who had predeceased them when he was in his seventies.

But to move on. Then it wasn’t empty any more.

I didn’t see who moved in because at the time I was wasting my life at the local pub. I didn’t do that too often, but I dared say my late wife would have called it often enough. Peggy died ten years ago and she hated me going for a snifter at the pub. She said it was bad for me and I’d live a healthier life if I cut all sorts of things out of my diet, including beer.

Funny that, what with her being a pile of dust in a pot urn and me still being hale and hearty. I buried the urn in the garden, contents still in it, put a flagstone down to mark the spot and then got on with my life by catching up on most of the things I;d been forbidden when she was alive.

Don’t get me wrong: I did love her. Not sort of: deeply, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t aware of some of the shorcomings of her philosophy.

It was when I was on my own and Peggy spending eternity in her urn that I got to know the Spencers, the nonagenarians next door. In fact, I was the only mourner at their funerals, the only person they had known during their last few frail years. Everyone else in their lives was already gone.

But back to the empty house and someone moving in.

The first I knew was the sound of a bin being trundled down the path to the pavement outside their house because it had to be trundled past my back door and it made the sort of noise I hadn’t heard for a year or more. I peered between my curtains to see who it was. It was dark outside and my eyes don’t work so well any more and I couldn’t even tell whether the bin had been pushed by a man or a woman. But I did notice that lights were on in the front room, and that confirmed to me that there was somebody living in the house.

“Tomorrow,” I said to myself, “I’ll go and introduce myself and welcome my new neighbours to the street!”

Then I got lost in a repeat of Midsomer Murders (the second Barnaby, if you must know, the one with the more desirable wife) and pushed my new neighbour to the back of my mind.

Then, television over, I went to bed.

Living on my own as I do it doesn’t matter one jot what I wear in bed, so my option is nothing, though in the winter I may deign to pull a pair of boxers on in order to keep my jewels warm. But at this time of year, summer and warm, I opt for my birthday suit. Not that it matters one jot to what happened next because that was a dream and made history to me because I could actually remember it when I woke up. And it went like this.

I called at my neighbours, the new people, and the door was opened by Sandy. I knew it was Sandy because she smiled at me (perfect white teeth) and said, “Hello there, I’m Sandy…”

Then the dream proceeded like this.

“And I’m Peter,” I said, “I thought I’d welcome you to the neighbourhood.”

“So sweet of you,” she smiled, and I couldn’t help noticing that besides her teeth her eyes joined in with the smile as well. Her whole face, and that included a cascade of almost peach hair that tumbled past her shoulders, was smiling at me.

“Can I offer you anything?” I asked, “a cup of something hot or maybe something a bit stronger as a welcoming beverage?”

“That’s sweet of you, but I’m alright,” she said, “so don’t bother. Thanks for welcoming me. Now if you’ll excuse me I think I’ll go and finish what I was doing. You see, I’m killing my husband.”

Now, if this wasn’t a dream I’d have no idea how to respond to that, but it was a dream, so I wasn’t quite so stumped.

“Kill him dead?” I asked with a smile, knowing it must be a dream-joke.

“Deader than dead,” she said, her bright eyes luring me into her world, “you see, he’s a b*****d and he’s screwing my sister, and she’s prettier than me. So he deserves to die.”

“I’m hard pushed to imagine anyone prettier than you,” I said, trying not to sound all pervy.

“You are sweet,” she said with a little giggle, “when he’s dead why don’t you and I get together?”

“I’m a great deal too old for a pretty young thing like you!” I grinned, still not sounding pervy, Ii hoped, “how are you killing him?”

“I’ve doped his whisky,” she explained, and when he’s fast asleep I’ll finish him off with a cushion. Then I’ll make sure he isn’t breathing before I phone for an ambulance and tell them he’s ahd a stroke. They’ll believe me because I’m a doctor.”

It was while I was digesting that gruesome speech that I woke up on account of Zoe Ball on my clock radio urging to me join in and sing along to a rubbishy record that she thought was great.

And my dream neighbour was gone.

The dream left me feeling disturbed, but I dismissed the feeling because after all it was only a dream.

Breakfast over, I decided to do what I’d thought I’d do the evening before and welcome my new neighbour to the district, though in all honesty my vivid dream almost made me decide against the idea. But if I’m anything at all I like to think I’m a good neighbour.

So I went and knocked somehwoat apprehensively on the door.

The woman who opened it had a familiar appearance, her tresses of peachy hair being the give-away. She’d actually crossed from the real world into my dream and to say I was gobsmacked was to understate it.

“Hello,” she said, smiling at me with her teeth and her eyes, “it’s so good to meet you at last in the flesh. I’m Sandy, and I’m a widow… I hope you don’t mind, but I’m waiting for an ambulance… It’s my husband...”

© Peter Rogerson 08.09.22

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