Writing for Fun
March 2015
The Reunion - Jenni Bowers
She opened the door slowly; it had been a long day and she felt too tired but the call earlier had been fairly insistent, 'It's Gwen' said the voice, do you remember me? We were friends about fifty years ago, in the army, in Germany – my husband Mick was your husband's friend.'
Well, yes, Jean did remember Gwen, how could she forget that name, had never forgotten the only friend she'd had in those awful early years of her marriage to a soldier in that faraway country, as she expected her first child.
Now this elderly, grey haired lady stood on the doorstep looking just as apprehensive as Jean felt. Gwen held out a bunch of sad looking chrysanthemums (obviously from the garage down the road). A young man stood behind her, as if to catch her if she fell, but he smiled and held out his hand, 'This is Simon, my grandson,' she introduced him.
'Come in, come in.' Jean stood back and opened the door, they took seats on her cottage sofa and rubbed their hands, it was a chilly night. Accepting a warm drink gratefully Gwen began to talk about her life, finally having the baby she had never expected to rear after being told in 1966 that she could not have children; she had paid for IVF treatment and the resulting daughter had given her joy and a wonderful grandson – Simon.
Jean listened and exchanged her life story with Gwen, but gradually as they chatted she felt more and more depressed – Gwen had lost Mick two years ago but they'd had a happy marriage – whereas Jean had divorced Ricky after ten tumultuous years of mental and physical cruelty and brought up her two children alone – meeting a kind widower only three years ago, who was now away on a bird watching holiday.
Eventually she plucked up courage to ask the question which had always tormented her, 'Gwen, why did you never contact me after that night our husbands returned from their drinking session in such a fearful hurry, I remember how scared they seemed and you two just left immediately with no explanation, but Ricky swore me to never tell anyone he'd been out that night. Then you never contacted me again?'
Gwen looked upset but she replied, 'This is the reason I had to see you, to explain something which has haunted me for so long. I did care and worried about you over these long years.'
'Gwen, a woman died that night – a prostitute was found next day under a pile of tyres near the Banhoff – were our husbands involved?'
Gwen sat there wringing her hands, her grandson put his arm around her. 'Nan, you have to tell Jean; it won't matter now – he's dead, he can't hurt either of you anymore.'
Jean gasped, 'So it was Mick?'
Shocked, Gwen looked at her. 'No, it was Ricky – he strangled the girl and tried to run away when Mick found him standing over her body.'
Jean began to weep, she had known, always known, by Ricky's behaviour that night and in subsequent years of his attempts to strangle her, that he might be the killer – well he'd got away scot free, but maybe not as he'd drunk himself to death – a sad lonely man at the end.
The two women sobbed and held each other, apologising and swearing to keep in touch now that both those men had gone from their lives – should they tell the authorities or let sleeping dogs lie? What good would this information do now, apart from help the poor man who'd been arrested 50 years ago. Agreeing to 'sleep on it' they parted.