The George Green she had married had been a dashing, polite, gallant gentleman. He was an ex-military man, respected by many, liked by most and popular with almost everyone. She and George had settled in this village after his military retirement and the villagers (normally reticent, often hostile to ‘outsiders’) had accepted George as one of their own. Even the gone-to-seed flower children at number sixty-seven had gone out of their way to chat with him when they’d seen him in the garden – and they rarely spoke to anyone.

          And now this. A dark, disgusting secret that would reveal the perverse truth about the twisted life and peculiar desires of ‘good old George’ to everyone.

          Clutching the envelope, Mrs Green got up off the bed and fished the box of Toc H matches out of the drawer. She then turned and went into the bathroom, where she stood over the toilet bowl and lifted the lid. She opened the matchbox, took out one of the brown-headed matches and ran it along the side of the box. It ignited with a splutter. Very carefully, Mrs Green touched the flame to one corner of the envelope, and then dropped the match into the toilet bowl, where it hissed once, then floated blackly. She held the envelope gingerly, watching it burn slowly, black flakes of burnt paper slowly falling into the toilet bowl, sizzling as they hit the bleached water.

          Mrs Green waited until the flames began to burn her hand, and then dropped the scorched remains of the envelope into the toilet. Nothing remained of the letters or the photographs, and only one burnt corner of the envelope had survived the inferno. Satisfied, she flushed the toilet and water roared and swirled. Black flakes of burnt paper whirled and vanished.

          Mrs Green stood over the toilet, closed the lid and whispered: “Poor George,” for the third time. She turned and went back into the bedroom, replacing the box of matches in George’s drawer and closing it. She went down the stairs and made her way into her pristine kitchen. She filled the kettle and switched it on. She walked slowly into the living room, picked up the telephone and tapped out Eileen Connegar’s number. She heard it ringing at the other end.

          “Hello, Eileen,” she said when her friend answered. “George had a heart attack in town and died. Could you come and keep me company for a while? I don’t really want to be on my own at the moment.”

          Mrs Green listened to her friend offering her condolences and heard her say something nice about George. She smiled wanly, then said: “Yes, I know, Eileen. He’ll be missed by a lot of people, and I’m not just saying that because he was my husband. There wasn’t a nicer, kinder or more well-liked man than George, and that’s how I want him to be remembered.”

*

The Day Mr Green Died

© R J Dent

www.rjdent.com