Writing for Fun
August 2018
Bucket List - Anne Wilson
The Browns were a devoted couple: everyone said so. They were demonstratively affectionate – both in words and action, overtly touching each other solicitously every now and again in the presence of others. Reassurance of the tactile variety was a necessity in Mrs. Brown's case because she was a chronic invalid. Only the most perceptive of people would notice she 'enjoyed' ill-health – her forbearance reeking of a self-indulgent martyrdom rather than stoicism. Her protestations that she was holding her husband back from doing the things of which he was capable rang hollow in only those possessing great wisdom (and there are few of those) and so their romantic legend continued unquestioned. The precise details of Mrs. Brown's chronic illness were vague but involved a weak heart and a propensity to tire very quickly – so much so that she had to lie on the sofa every afternoon and have a nap. Mr. Brown accepted his restricted life of going out to work during the day and becoming carer in his leisure time with apparent equanimity, as if somehow he had born for this purpose. Mrs. Brown's useful inheritance had made it possible for him to undertake work which did not tax him too greatly and did not involve him being out of the home for long hours at a stretch.
Some of their friends thought privately that they addressed each other in public like characters in a Noel Coward play, with a proficiency of 'darlings' and 'my dears' totally out of sync with modern times. A combination of loyalty and admiration of the couple's apparent love for each other prevented them from mentioning it.
It was the custom of The Browns to host small gatherings of loyal friends and neighbours at their house on a regular basis (usually restricted to drinks and nibbles) – the rationale being that the amount of work involved would be minimal and not result in over-exertion for the hostess, whilst, at the same time providing some form of entertainment for her in the absence of setting foot outside into the real world and struggling against the elements. Exhausted from filling little bowls with peanuts or crisps, she would sink back in her chair and sigh as one by one the guests arrived and enquired after her health – Mr. Brown touching her arm supportively as they did so.
Occasionally the monotony would be broken by the playing of a game. Nothing too strenuous, of course, as there were limits to the excitement that Mrs. Brown could stand. One evening one of the guests suggested each person present making a bucket list of ten items and then reading it out afterwards.
It was an idea gratefully received: after all there were limits to hearing about Mrs. Brown's failing health and the obstacles that she had to overcome. The room went silent and those present furrowed their brows in deep thought – the pervading silence only being broken by the scratching of pencils on paper.
There were some interesting unfulfilled desires and ambitions amongst the guests and appreciative murmurs greeted their revelations. Those of Mrs. Brown evoked an entirely different reaction, though. One of embarrassment. Modest to begin with – a trip to Paris and going up the Eiffel Tower being the first – they were nevertheless ambitious for someone who rarely set foot out of the house. As the list wore on they became more and more unrealistic for a chronic invalid and prompted furtive, embarrassed glances. It was a combination of the view that not only would she be unable to achieve any of them but also that her husband's impending list would be too heart-rending for them to bear. Despite the couple's comfortable circumstances, he would never be able to achieve any of his wishes because he was far too selfless to leave her behind in order to do so.
His turn arrived.
'I don't think I feel able to read it at the moment,' he said, his voice choking slightly as he returned a folded piece of paper to his coat pocket. 'Some other time, perhaps.'
There were sympathetic murmurings.
'Of course, my darling,' said Mrs. Brown cloyingly. 'We all understand.'
'I knew you would, dearest,' he replied.
Weeks passed by and Mrs. Brown embarked on one of her rare excursions into undertaking some light dusting whilst her husband was at work. The heavy duty household chores were, of course, left to a regular cleaner and to her husband but she liked to be able to say that she at least made attempts to live the semblance of a normal life, despite leaving her exhausted as a result.
Mr. Brown maintained what he liked to call an 'office' in the small room adjoining the living room and it was there Mrs. Brown and her duster one day found themselves. She was not an inquisitive or jealous woman, being totally secure in the love her husband had for her and not one for rifling through his belongings under any circumstances but one of the desk drawers of the little bureau he used had become ajar. She went to push it back but was then overcome by an irrational desire to poke through it. It would pass the time, after all and the days were often monotonously lengthy. Bills and little pieces of paper bearing incomprehensible messages adorned it but she was suddenly transfixed by one that had been folded painstakingly, bearing the words 'Bucket List' on its front. She smiled affectionately. How sentimental of her husband to keep it when he it had upset him so initially.
She opened it without a second thought. How lovely it would be to see his wishes. Perhaps they would include a trip abroad for both of them to seek the medical help for her baffling condition – an explanation for which so far having eluded them. Alternatively, maybe, a journey which he was meticulously planning and where every assistance for her would be provided for its duration. She unfolded the piece of paper without fear or apprehension, smiling as she did so.
The smile soon froze. There were, as had been stipulated, ten items but each one bore the same remark. At first she thought she had made a mistake and blinked suddenly as if that somehow would rectify it. But there was no doubt. She had been right the first time. From numbers one to ten, it read: 'To get rid of you, my darling.' Her shoulders stiffened. Suddenly she felt afraid. Very afraid.