My Dear Annette

My Dear Annette
----------------
Alec Maynard

The bright sun burns my weary eyes as I climb the gentle grassy slope to sit at the small oak bench on top. This walk becomes harder with each passing day as my health steadily deteriorates. I can feel the scorching rays of the sun on the back of my neck, just a few more metres to go. My walking sticks holly shaft presses into the dry dirt as it aids me to my goal.

I let out a huge sigh of relief as I finally collapse onto the wooden beams of the bench. I love this Vantage point, when I look out at the landscape before me I have a view as far as the eye can see. Now I come here everyday, I have done for the last week so I know this area well. A vast forest stretches out to my left; it consists of hundreds of shades of green, brown and yellow all in melee with each other. The trees then stop at an expanse of short green grass which smothers the whole hillside. Various groups of people are scattered around, though my eye sight is not what it was, I can still make out the reds and blues of the picnic blankets that the families are sitting on through the large maroon rimmed glasses perched on my nose. Splitting the field in two is a long concrete path which is now inundated with crowds of school children. Looking down at my sun tinted watch, the hands show it has just gone 4pm the local secondary school must have just closed for the day. Hundreds of children are making the long journey home in the late summer heat that festers around me.

My attention then turns from the silver watch to my hands; they look so worn in this light and are covered with veins emerging like submarines along my skin. It looks as if death itself has cast its gaze on them.

Sighing, I reach into my pocket and withdraw my wallet. The brown leather had absorbed my warmth which feels pleasant against my cold hands. I undo the strap to look at its contents.

My photo card sits slotted behind a see-through pocket on the inside sleeve of the wallet, like a mirror I see myself, a shadow of my former glory still with hope and happiness. I don't possess these qualities any more. At this thought I reach for a slip of paper sticking out from behind my photo, it's a folded photograph, taking it in one hand and placing my wallet on the table I unfold it. My heart sinks beneath the gloom that suddenly hits it and sorrow digs at my stomach as my insides freeze over. As I stare at the photo tears fill my eyes and dread my heart as my wife's deep brown eyes stare back at me.

"My dear Annette." I cry out, as I feel a stab of pain and loneliness lurch through me. No one hears my anguish.

I dare not look at it any more, just thinking about her warm smile, those rosy cheeks, her flamboyant hair which was silk-like upon touch, made me well up. Each glimpse hollowed me out all over again. Sweat breaks on my skin as my frozen heart and the burning sun battle over my body.

Every day this week I have returned to this bench, this, the very bench where I first kissed my sweet Annette in the summer before the war. It was only last week that she passed away. She only had the flu, fancy having flu in summer. The doctor said it would clear up in a week but one night she fell asleep and nether awoke. Her last words were 'Jerry dear, have you put the washing machine on?' I said I had but I hadn't. If I could go back I would say a proper goodbye, oh Annette without you I'm all alone, a singular tortured soul trapped in the vast wilderness. I have no friends, all but one of them died in the war, Jack, my friend since childhood survived, until he died from a brain tumour, poor jack, I do not covet your death but I envy your peace.

I met Jack all that time ago in 1943, we both fought in the same company during the war. I won a military cross when I saved him and many others in my detachment from certain death. Our division had been ordered to take and hold a bridge in northern France; it was supposed to be a quick and simple mission, Light resistance they said. We took the bridge only to be ambushed by a German light division. Our commander was killed and our men started to retreat. We had a heavy machine gun but the gunner had been killed so I picked it up and took cover at the far end of the bridge. I then proceeded to provide suppressing fire whilst my men retreated, I held the Germans off for a good 10 minutes before I was captured. It all seems to have been in vain now; they were all taken in the end by a far greater terror than the Nazis'. That silver cross used to grant me pride, now I just feel guilt for all the other soldiers who committed acts of heroism, far greater than I could ever dream, that were forgotten or went unnoticed. These children masquerading before me know nothing of bravery and they know nothing of Annette's selflessness and kindness.

I have been coming to this spot since my wife's death and everyday I see the same things and feel the same emotions. Will my pain ever subside? Doubt fills my emptiness. I cannot tell which feels worse for they are both equally unpleasant. Even my last family member, my son, doesn't comfort me in my darkest hour. I haven't seen him since the funeral; even then we simply exchanged a cold stare. To think I used to take him to that school over there, all that time ago. He used to be such a happy boy. I cannot change the past but if we could only talk maybe I could ease it, with Annette gone all hope of that is lost. I am emotionally crushed once more at the thought of my wife. I miss her love, her embrace. More tears blur my eyes as another dose of loss pierces my mortally wounded soul.

As I remove my glasses to wipe away the water blocking my vision, I notice that the number of children swarming the path has dissipated. I look down at my watch to see that it is now 4:30pm. I should be going, I need to make some tea and watch the news. I never could cook like Annette.

As I stand up to leave I notice something odd happening on the path. A small boy in school uniform is surrounded by a group of five or six hooded figures. Something isn't right, they look too big to be his age so they can't be his friends. The school boy looks no older than a year 7 or 8. I know my instincts can't be wrong. I start to descend the slope, keeping an eagle eye on the gang. The tallest of the hoods pushes the little boy from behind whilst the other grabs his bag and starts to rifle through it, the rest of them laugh and jeer.

"They are robbing him!" I shout out, my voice doesn't have the power it used to but someone must have heard me. Why isn't anyone running to his aid, people are just walking past them and ignoring it as if nothing is happening. Where are the boys friends? Where are the police? Is protecting a small boy not important to them?

"Somebody help him!" I call out louder than before with more anger and purpose. Again everyone chooses not to hear the ramblings of an old man, perhaps they simply do not care.

Suddenly I feel it, a passion I haven't felt in years. It surges through my veins like water through a pressure hose. Adrenaline, the waste of my rage, pumps around me as I head towards the helpless boy with renewed vigour and zeal. I must stop them. It has become my mission and is what my entire life has been building towards. At this moment I have never felt more alive. My inside's feel warm again as I burn with intention. The chasm that grief has carved in me has now been filled.

They are within earshot I can hear them laughing at him. One demands his phone, which he willingly surrenders. Wait, I recognise that voice, one of the hoods is Billy; he lives on my road, and always says hello to me when we pass in the street. I used to baby sit him for his mother and father whilst they went out for their weekly meal. What is he doing with this bunch of hooligans? I reach the path and head towards them waving my stick in the air. I'll give 'em what for.

"Hey, leave him alone you no good kids!" I yell in a blind rage. They turn to face me and begin mocking me. Now that I'm closer I can see that there are six of them. I cannot make out their faces through their various striped or Nike hoodies, apart from Billy's who stops laughing as his eyes meet mine. Red faced, he casts his eyes to the ground in silence.

"Piss off, you stupid old cunt!" One barks at me.

"What you gonna do gramps?" another joins in, laughing.

The teenager who was rifling through the young boys bag pulled out a small black device, it had a large screen with buttons either side.

"Look guys I just got myself a PSP," he said taunting the youngster.

"Hey give it back, it's not even mine!" The boy cried out, he is in tears and his smart school uniform is ruffled.

If these kids had done this in my day there would have been hell to pay, I'll give 'em hell.

I take a lunge at the nearest one with my stick; dodging it he lands a punch square on my chest. Something leaves me as I fall to earth. I cannot feel much as my head rams into the ground. My cheek rests against the warm concrete path.

"Shit!" Someone cries out, "What have you done?" The gang scarper.

My left arm is suddenly shot with stabbing pains and numbness. I turn my head to try and see whether I was lying on it, I wasn't. Panic Strikes me. Oh God this is it, it's all been too much for my weak heart, I'm going to die. Tears fill my eyes and shear terror penetrates my insides. I can feel my heart pounding wildly against my ribs like a caged animal trying to break free. It beats harder and harder like a drum sounding the march of my doom. I feel colder than ever before.

"Mr. Baker, it's me Billy, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." I can just about make him out through my blurry vision, he's sobbing as he kneels beside me. The small boy is bawling into his blazer next to him. I can hear voices all around me, muttering and buzzing.

"Someone call an ambulance!"

"Who is it?"

"Oh my gosh, that's old Jerry Baker."

"Does anyone have an aspirin?"

I don't want to die, I'm afraid, who will remember me? Who will remember Annette? My dear Annette, Jack, mum and dad, I'm coming. I'll finally get to see you again.

"Jerry, can you hear me? Just hold on, the ambulance is on its way." Said another vaguely recognisable voice.

"B... Billy," I whisper blindly with all my strength. "Make sure that you give the boy his things back. You sh… shouldn't hang around with those nasty people, Promise me."

"I promise, Mr. Baker," I can hear my pulsing blood in my ears, I start to feel dizzy.

"Tell my son I'm sorry," I cry out. "Tell him I love him."

My son, he'll forgive me in time, his memories will keep Annette and I alive. Come on death take me, I'm no longer afraid, my heart's pain subsides, the coils around it unravel and it begins to slow. I can see a white light; it beckons me as it draws near. The noise of the crowd fades away. I shut my eyes and there, standing in the centre of the light is my beautiful Annette with her arms wide in reception. I smile to myself as I embrace her. I am home.