The path was narrowing now, tufts of twisted weeds pushing defiently through the

compacted earth.  He paused, one mottled hand clinging to the flowers in their

cellophane wrapping, the other clutching his chest as the wave of pain swept over him

once again. Slowly he reached inside the pocket of his grubby old overcoat and took

out the tiny bottle of pills.

     He felt the tablet fizz as it hit the back of his throat. He waited, his rummy eyes

scanning the town laid out below him. It was all different now of course, the high-rise

flats, the new red-brick housing estate laid out in neat rows where once the sprawling

corrugated buildings of the milk-bottling plant had stood. He`d worked in the Plant all
his adult life, until it had closed and moved to a purpose-built factory fifty miles away.

They`d offered him a job, half-heartedly of course, but at sixty-three he knew his

time was up. He`d taken the money and bought a shed for his allotment, a fancy new
hearing aid ( deafness brought on by years of working on the bottling line) and a

washing machine for Dolly.

      Dolly. How she had laughed when the men had shown her how the machine

worked. For years she had resisted his attempts to buy her one of the `new fangled

gadgets` as she called them, preferring to stick with her old copper tub and mangle.

The realisation that she could now just put her washing in and forget about it had

been a revalation to her.

      The pain was easier now, a thin, dull ache somewhere beneath his skinny

ribcage. Sighing, he straightened his aching back and tucked the flowers tightly under
his arm.

      He hoped she`d like the roses.  He`d never been really sure which were her

favourites.  Looking back he supposed she`d gone with the seasons when it came to

flowers. She was as delighted with the first sighting of crocuses beneath the old

cherry tree at the bottom of the garden, as she was with the later colourful

swathes of  daffodils and tulips  

      The pain almost gone he began to walk again, slow measured steps, his face

wrinkling into a smile as he felt a sharp stone through the sole of one of his old lace-

up boots. It was hard to believe now but he`d gone on his honeymoon in those

boots, splashing through the puddles of a summer downpour as he and Dolly had

strolled along the front at Blackpool. Later that evening, much to the disgust of Dolly,
he`d hung them out of the bedroom window of their Bed and Breakfast to dry.

      As he walked on the sun appeared from behind the clouds, a pale orb casting a

jaundiced glow across the landscape. Somewhere high above, lost in the skittering

clouds, a skylark began to trill, its song rising and falling as the tiny bird dipped 

and swooped in the vast expanse of sky. As he listened he suddenly knew, knew that
nothing really changed, that life went on, no matter what. Taking a deep breath he

turned the final corner, his misty eyes taking in for the first time the gleaming new

marble headstone....