Fractured(95)

‘I’m so proud of you,’ he continued as the door handle turned and quietly the small room began to fill with people.


We paused by the lobby of the church. From behind the wooden doors we could hear that a hush had fallen from within. The guests were waiting, necks craned towards the doorway for our arrival. Sarah fell into place behind me as my father took my arm and linked it with his. He leaned over and kissed my cheek, his aftershave and the fragrance from my bouquet intermingling in an intoxicating aroma.

‘I’m so very proud of you.’

‘I love you, Dad,’ I told him, bringing the gossamer veil down over my face.

From inside the church the organ began a familiar strain. It was our cue. The doors swung open and we began our procession up the aisle.

I knew every eye was on me as we walked, but I saw no one. Just him. He was standing at the altar, his body turned towards me, waiting, as he had been for so long, like a prince in a fairy tale. His eyes were so full of love that it took my breath away.

I wanted to fly to his side; felt almost propelled there by a swell of love from the small assembly of family and friends. Of course I was glad they were here to be part of this day with us, but the only people that really mattered were those standing beside and behind me, as I came to a halt next to the man I would share the rest of my days with.





Dr Whittaker entered the room with two other doctors he had never seen before. The nurse slipped into the room behind them.

‘Good morning, Mr Wiltshire.’

The man had no voice to reply, just looked up at the doctor with red-rimmed eyes awash with misery.

The doctor approached the man and put his hand comfortingly upon his shoulder. From outside an ambulance siren sounded, a continual noise that the man scarcely noticed any more.

‘You understand what we are doing today, Mr Wiltshire? Tony?’

The man looked up at the doctor in despair.

‘And you’re really sure? There are no signs at all? Nothing?’

The doctor shook his head sadly. He turned to one of his colleagues and spoke in a low voice.

‘Is the paperwork all in order?’

The other doctor gave a single nod.

‘It’s just that sometimes I think she can hear what’s going on,’ the man burst out. ‘And occasionally I feel sure she knows I’m here. I think she can smell my aftershave…’

Dr Whittaker shook his head sadly. He had heard this from so many other distraught families, who wanted so desperately to have hope when all hope was gone.

‘She’s given me a bottle of this every Christmas since she was thirteen years old,’ the man explained to the nurse, whose professional composure was beginning to crumble at his words. ‘It was like our private little joke…’ His voice tailed off.

I don’t remember the ceremony. I’m sure it was beautiful. I vaguely heard the hymns, and I guess I must have said my I do’s in the right place, but really it was all lost to me in a wonderful dream-like haze. All I could really remember was the look in Jimmy’s eyes as he slid the narrow golden band on my finger and gently lifted the veil from my face. A small cheer came from the pews behind us as he claimed my mouth in a tender kiss.


‘Have you said your goodbyes?’ asked the doctor kindly.

The man nodded, speech beyond him.

‘Is there anyone here with you?’ Dr Whittaker asked in concern, worried not for the patient, for whom he could do nothing, but for her father.

‘No, there’s no one,’ the man said at last. ‘It’s just the two of us. She’s all I have in the world.’

From behind the doctors, the nurse silently began to cry.

Dr Whittaker stepped over to the unit which was breathing for Rachel. Which had been doing so every day since she had been brought into hospital some two months earlier.

‘See you soon, my darling girl,’ the man whispered in his daughter’s ear, as the doctor behind him flicked the switch.

‘It will take a moment,’ he said quietly.

The father took hold of his child’s hand and squeezed hard to let her know he was with her.


We turned to walk back down the aisle. Joined together at last. Together for ever. As we passed the end of the pew where my father was sitting he reached out and grasped my hand, squeezing it hard. I looked at him and smiled. I held onto his hand even as we began to walk away, maintaining the contact until only our fingertips were left touching.

‘She’s gone,’ the doctor said quietly into the man’s ear, as the machine behind them confirmed his diagnosis with a long, lamenting, continuous tone.


A long and continuous note sounded from the church organ behind us, before tumbling into the lilting strains of one of my favourite love songs.