The Work - GBE2 prompt

Doris hefted the bowl of warm, soapy water, and slid it into a more comfortable position. Jobs still had to be done, despite arthritis. Some jobs you had to do yourself. There was nothing above or below which would have taken this task out of her gnarled, capable hands.

She gently raised Alf's left hand, felt her heart wince as she slid off his wedding ring, albeit momentarily, and wiped delicately over his cool skin. She paid particular attention to his nails, a smile replacing her melancholy for a blissful second. His hands spoke volumes to one who knew him as well as she did. Fingers and palms bore traces of long-healed wounds, burns and cuts which were and inevitable part of his daily routine. Usually, the sparkling white nails were black with grease, oil and often sparkled with slivers of metal shavings. 'Avoid mechanics with clean hands, Doe', advice he'd repeated to her time beyond counting. Advice which once more twitched her smile, stretching the lines of her lips, making her mouth young again.

She replaced the ring, the unsettling affect of its removal slipping away. Moving on, finishing the task before her, she raised a bundle of suds, whisked with his timeworn brush and applied it to the faint darkening along his jaw. Alf, husband, lover, friend of 60 years, wouldn't have been seen in public without running that cut-throat over his face. She set it against his skin, flinching despite her determination. She'd never been able to watch him use it, his teasing a common thread running through the long years of their union. 'Daft Doe' he'd grin, mock-threatening her with the wicked steel. Even in their seventies, with great-grandchildren in their wake, his teasing had still returned her to the giggling, blushing sixteen-year-old who'd first stepped onto a dance-floor with the 'older and wiser' Alf.

She let her mind distract her from the sibilant strokes of the razor, flying beneath her fingers, let herself drift back to that dance. Alf had been so tall, so dark, so alien amongst the red-headed Irish lads she'd grown up with. His dark good looks had earned him the nickname 'The Mexican'; local lads thinking it the height of wit. Alf had taken it in good part, his gentle temperament also separating him from the fiery explosions so common amongst the lads. All the girls thought he was an absolute bobby-dazzler and every one of them had flashed an ankle in his direction as soon as eagle-eyed parents weren't watching... to no avail. He seemed impervious. Always polite, always kind, funny, but never moved to woo. Until that harvest night...

Doris carefully dried the razor, flicked it back together. She laid it in its box, wrapped the navy velvet around it and closed the lid. A tear slipped over her cheek, skin stretched thin as finest porcelain, veined with threads of experience. Brushing the spot of damp heat impatiently away, determined to finish the job without breaking down, Doris, Alf's little Doe, fought her way back to that night, letting it buoy her as she washed Alf's hair, still threaded with lines of deepest black in the silver-grey.

The girls had been bunched up in one corner, a desert of space between them and the boys, most propping up the bar, or smoking, trying to be cool. The band, consisting of church members more used to carols than 'Oh Carol', droned on, churning out some stiff, formal number not one of the teens had been able to put a name to. It had been Doris' first dance, her sixteenth birthday conferring a little 'adulthood' on her petite frame. Her big sister, Alison, had helped her get dressed, attempted to tame her auburn curls and applied a wicked slick of baby pink lippy. Doris had stood, hopping slightly from foot to foot, wondering if anyone would ask her to dance. She'd prayed silently; 'Don't let me go home untried, not on my first dance.', hoping some passing god would hear and obey, clutching her cola tight enough that the glass almost squirted through her fingers.

A light twinkled in the faded green eyes which followed the movements of her tired hands, which watched as she stripped her man's emaciated frame and washed his body with a tenderness verging on adoration. She supposed she had adored him, all but worshipped the ground he'd walked on. She would never have said it aloud, least of all in his presence, but she'd needed no other gods. As long as Alf had been in her world, it had been more than she could have dreamed on that night 60 years past. She let herself head back there as she towelled, powdered and began to dress Alf in his Sunday suit.

There had been a flurry of twittering amongst the girls, all eyes turning to watch as Alf had approached the band. His arrival at the stage had led to several moments of discordant notes, and half attempts at some tune, then they'd suddenly found their way and a fast song had begun to get toes tapping and smiles perking. Alf had strode across the deserted floor. Every girl in the bunch suddenly straightened up, fluffing hair, licking lips, and Doris had not been immune, despite knowing he wouldn't come her way. He had already been angling toward Grace, best looking girl in the village, by everyone's standards and agreement. At the last instant, he'd veered, suddenly appearing before Doris, his hand extended, his eyes expectant, his lips curved in the faintest tease of a smile.

Ever after he told any who listened that that was the moment she'd become little Doe to him. 'You stood there, like a deer in the headlights, looking stuck between bolting and dropping dead on the spot!'. Then he'd laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, the kind which exploded at inappropriate moments and made everyone in the room laugh, despite themselves. It came from his soul, from his precious, gentle, loving soul.

The tears blurred her eyes as she stared down into his. Still that melting chocolate brown, but they didn't twinkle now, not since the stroke.

“We danced all night, Alfie, remember? I had blisters the size of eggs next day, but it was magic, love, real magic. You always were light on your feet.”

Until the damn stroke. What kind of world did that to a man who spent his life moving, relied on his physical health? She'd tried so hard. Tried to bring him back, tried to move something she hoped was still deep in there, but he hadn't responded. Three years in and she'd finally had to admit that her beloved Alfie was gone, that his care was becoming too much for her.

She heard the heavy rumble of the ambulance outside, panic turning her face into a mask of fear and uncertainty, turning her into Doe. She gripped Alf's hands in hers, pressed them to her thin chest, begged him.

“Alfie, please, don't leave me like this. Tell me you are still in there somewhere. Help me do the work, like you always did, please.”

The doorbell rang and she scurried to fasten the last of his buttons, fussing around him, delaying opening that door and letting the smartly uniformed, always kind, but inevitably distant men take her husband from her. She tucked a clean hanky into his breast pocket, made to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead and gasped.

The doorbell brayed, unheeded. She shook from head to toe, her fingers vibrating over his face, searching, her eyes locked on his, pleading... and he heard. Somewhere deep inside, where her Alfie lived, locked away but battling to reach her, he heard and he winked. It was slow, laborious, a ponderous up and down movement, but it was a wink. She knew people would never believe her, would call it involuntary, but she knew, she believed, and she laid her weary head against his chest, let his heartbeat reassure her, as it always had.

“Alfie, that night, when you walked me home, you said you were going to marry me. You said it was your life's work, your purpose for existing. That night you became mine. Thank you, love. I can do the work now. We'll find a way.”

She kissed his cheek, dried her eyes and headed to the door, preparing to turn away the kind men from the care home. She had work to do.