I thought I might start this entry by telling you about my injured thumb. I know you will be wondering what a digit has to do with your emotional well being, but enlightenment will follow shortly – a bit like gangrene, or so the doctor said when he looked at what I’d done to my digit.
It is now six years since Charlie died, and apart from feeling a bit lonely on the day itself – (strike that: terribly, terribly lonely and not a bit desperate) I’m feeling pretty chipper. Spring is here, and at this time of year I always get a bit… well, a bit ‘anxious’. The birds are singing, the sap is rising and I become filled with excess energy. My neglected libido could provide enough power to light a small conurbation. I am a walking Van der Graaf generator, sparks arc from my fingers, fluorescent tubes flicker into life when I pass.

I’m not abnormal; I’m anxious.

So, every year I am faced with the problem of how best to expend this excess energy. I did consider offering my services to Thora Hurd as a human stair lift. I could be up those stairs carrying an old lady and a basket of cut flowers in a jiffy. And I would happily make the return journey, the flower basket now being filled with dirty laundry, because this is real life and not a glossy advert – (although, I think the advertisers were sparing the viewing public by not showing an octogenarian coming down the stairs on an electrified throne, clutching a tangle of support stockings and crumpled pile of big pants).

Anyhow, back to my story. Over the past few years I have used my spring spurt to attack DIY jobs around the home, but now I find that I’ve done everything there is to do in my house; it all looks great, and so my attention has turned to the garden.
When the birds start to sing and the sun warms the primroses, I get an irresistible urge to be outside. My garden had lain neglected for months and was looking tired and sad, so I began to weed, pull, dig and edge like a woman possessed (imagine Charlie Dimmock on speed, but with appropriate undergarments – when she’s working, why doesn’t she get a bit of twine and a couple of plant pots and put those puppies away?)

Sorry, I’m going off the point a bit..

Once I had knocked the garden into shape, I planted out the vegetable patch with the help of my girls, and then we all stood back to admire our efforts. But it was no good. I still felt it - that itch, that gnawing, nagging feeling. So I cleared out my compost bin, rebuilt it from assorted bits of wood and then built a fence from scratch to hide my compost from the rest of the garden. Rosie helped me hammer in the nails and I began to feel satiated. But still it wasn’t enough. Once I had got going on the woodwork, my imagination took over and I resolved to construct a ‘feature’. My garden needed a focal point and I would make it. Myself. With my tools. In my workshop. Did I wish Charlie were there to help me? (Not Charlie the bra-less bramble slasher, my late husband, Charles Boydell) .

No. I have long since stopped wishing Charlie was with me, for I know he is with me, and is watching over my every move.

I clearly remember the first DIY job I undertook without him. It was three months after his death and I decided to decorate the room in which he died so I could use it as my study. I sanded and waxed the beams; colour washed the walls and made it look really lovely. And when I’d finished I stood back to admire my work and tried to feel happy. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t feel anything but loneliness and regret because I knew Charlie wasn’t there to say, ‘Well done, Katie.’ I felt empty and alone.

But now; now I feel happy for myself; I feel happy that I’ve managed yet another difficult task unaided. My girls too feel happy, and proud of their mummy. They think I’m superwoman because they see me try. They see me struggle sometimes, but they never see me give up. To them I am mother and father; I am protector, cook, comforter, good cop/bad cop and television technician.
I am widow, hear me roar.

But back to the story. I decided to build a rose arch, so I got the instructions off the Internet, bought the timber and strapped on my work belt. It was all going so well; the first trellis was made, then the second, and then came the job of fixing the trellis to the posts. I had to keep the posts aligned whilst they were put into the ground and so had to nail on a big bit of timber to brace the two together. I got a big nail and began to hammer it home. It had to go though four inches of wood, so I was hitting it pretty hard. And then it happened; Charlie, my guardian angel, my watcher, my safety inspector, took his eye off the ball - or the hammer to be more precise. What he was doing God only knows. Maybe he’d wandered off to watch Elvis in concert, maybe he was taking tea with Princess Diana, or perhaps he was striding across the cloudy firmament with his puppy Vicky, who knows? But whatever he was doing, he wasn’t paying attention to me. The hammer came down, glanced off the nail and carried on to my waiting thumb.

I will spare you the details, but suffice to say it wasn’t pretty.

After the pain had subsided I strapped up the thumb as best I could and carried on. Yes, I carried on. What would Charlie have said? Who the fuck cares? He wasn’t paying attention in the first place and so I ignored the nagging voice in my head, turned up the volume on my ipod and let Kurt Cobain scrap it out with my reproachful husband.

Luckily for me my friends Walker and Deb called round to see me shortly afterwards. They walked into the workshop and found me holding the hammer,and looking very sheepish. Deb was not impressed. She made me stop what I was doing and asked to inspect my thumb. Walker, big, butch man that he is, couldn’t bear to watch, but Deb is made of stronger stuff. She winced slightly, but being an ex-nurse, she’s used to seeing blood. She did give me a very stern, disapproving stare and said she was exasperated with me, before applying herself to the task of re-dressing my thumb. Deb has now graduated from being a nurse to being a very big noise in the health service, and having her put on a bandage is a bit like having your shoes polished by Jimmy Choo; but she hasn’t lost it, although she nearly did when she saw that I’d been wielding a chainsaw earlier in the day…

So there it is. My Easter. The anniversary of Charlie’s death passed without sadness, but with a good deal of pain. Life goes on and nails come off, but some things never change. Friends still stand by you, love you, and care for you in times of trouble. Despite carrying a grievous injury I still had to cook the children’s supper. Jabbing my bad thumb on an upturned fork whilst loading the dishwasher really topped off my day, but my two little girls were there to hug me better.

My life is full of hope. Spring is here; I have a thumb the size of a small watermelon and a rose arch in my garden, but more about that in my next instalment.


© Kate Boydell 2004. All rights reserved. e-mail: [email protected]. Close window.