But maybe that was a good thing. They never had to see the other grow old, never had to listen to each others ailments and the doctor appointments. They didn't have to watch their limbs getting weaker and stiffer, and how other parts just didn't react anymore. Blenkinsop did not need to see Maltravers grow fatter, and Maltravers didn't need to see Blenkinsop become skinnier and crockier. They could keep their happy memories intact, recall the day when they could climb trees and cuddle below them. They would never know how their loved one looked when death was drawing near. But they still missed each other, missed the company, missed each others kisses, comforting words. They missed talking to each other, they missed each others laughs and jokes. But they couldn't always miss each other, they had missed each other a whole life. They had to do other things, and somehow life got in the way off missing, and Maltravers would feel shameful when he suddenly remembered his Blenkinsop, only after telling the little Elizabeth that they where building a trench, so that they could hide from the germans. (they where actually just digging because they where going to plant a tree) He had felt so shameful, forgetting about his love, so shameful that he had to sit down on a chair, wanting to hide himself from his family. Suddenly he wanted to cry, to scream. And Ruth brought him lemonade and little Elizabeth comforted him. ”Granda, don't be sad the germs aren't here, come on, let's go and see if little Henry is alright?” Elizabeth said and smiled, tugged his grandfathers coat. His face was red, he panted a little, but made his way over the lawn, followed his little girl. She was just six, but seemed so much older. Charles' wife, Mary, was pregnant with her first, and little Henry was so cute and adorable, and only three years old. They wrote letters, sometimes. Like when Maltravers wanted to inform Blenkinsop that he had gotten another grandson. They had named him George. Sometimes they sent christmas cards to each others. Once Blenkinsop toyed with the idea of inviting Maltravers to come visit them. But he forgot, or just didn't have the time. Or realized that he would die if he had to be separated from him one more time. Blenkinsop had grandchildren of his own, four of them. Four of the most wonderful, happy little children that he loved more than anything in life. Susan, Lauren and the twins, Edward and (as by a miracle) Henry. The boys, where boys, and the girls... well they were boys too, they just concealed it with skirts. They liked to listen to their grandfather stories about the war (maybe because they knew that their grandmother would give them cookies), but for some reason he only remembered the good and funny bits about it. They never forgot everything, just for short periods, or long ones, but never more than that. There was to much to forget. To much. They never tried to. Blenkinsop would claim that he never tried to recall them, the memories then. They just came. Nestled themselves into their everyday life. They could suddenly remember things they had forgotten. Like Albert's first awkward blowjob, and how George's wife had thrown sandwiches at him. And the years came and they went, brought joy into their lives, brought some sorrow too. And Blenkinsop once met Sotherby, they bumped into each other somewhere, a streetcorner, or was it after stepping out from a bus? And they said hi, shook hands and smiled, lifted hats, looked at each other and realised how fucking old they where. How the time seemed to past so fast, unnoticed. ”Let me buy you a drink, talk about the good times.” Blenkinsop had suggested. They were just 65 at the time, both retired. They had laughed at silly memories, and told each other stories they had forgotten. Like how Maltravers had been afraid of the dark, and George's silly plots against the american what-was-his-name.
Re: Unprompted: Blenkinsop/Maltravers - They Owe Us A Life 20a/20
But maybe that was a good thing.
They never had to see the other grow old, never had to listen to each others ailments and the doctor appointments. They didn't have to watch their limbs getting weaker and stiffer, and how other parts just didn't react anymore. Blenkinsop did not need to see Maltravers grow fatter, and Maltravers didn't need to see Blenkinsop become skinnier and crockier.
They could keep their happy memories intact, recall the day when they could climb trees and cuddle below them. They would never know how their loved one looked when death was drawing near.
But they still missed each other, missed the company, missed each others kisses, comforting words. They missed talking to each other, they missed each others laughs and jokes. But they couldn't always miss each other, they had missed each other a whole life. They had to do other things, and somehow life got in the way off missing, and Maltravers would feel shameful when he suddenly remembered his Blenkinsop, only after telling the little Elizabeth that they where building a trench, so that they could hide from the germans. (they where actually just digging because they where going to plant a tree) He had felt so shameful, forgetting about his love, so shameful that he had to sit down on a chair, wanting to hide himself from his family. Suddenly he wanted to cry, to scream. And Ruth brought him lemonade and little Elizabeth comforted him. ”Granda, don't be sad the germs aren't here, come on, let's go and see if little Henry is alright?” Elizabeth said and smiled, tugged his grandfathers coat. His face was red, he panted a little, but made his way over the lawn, followed his little girl. She was just six, but seemed so much older. Charles' wife, Mary, was pregnant with her first, and little Henry was so cute and adorable, and only three years old.
They wrote letters, sometimes. Like when Maltravers wanted to inform Blenkinsop that he had gotten another grandson. They had named him George. Sometimes they sent christmas cards to each others. Once Blenkinsop toyed with the idea of inviting Maltravers to come visit them. But he forgot, or just didn't have the time. Or realized that he would die if he had to be separated from him one more time.
Blenkinsop had grandchildren of his own, four of them. Four of the most wonderful, happy little children that he loved more than anything in life. Susan, Lauren and the twins, Edward and (as by a miracle) Henry. The boys, where boys, and the girls... well they were boys too, they just concealed it with skirts. They liked to listen to their grandfather stories about the war (maybe because they knew that their grandmother would give them cookies), but for some reason he only remembered the good and funny bits about it.
They never forgot everything, just for short periods, or long ones, but never more than that. There was to much to forget. To much. They never tried to.
Blenkinsop would claim that he never tried to recall them, the memories then. They just came. Nestled themselves into their everyday life. They could suddenly remember things they had forgotten. Like Albert's first awkward blowjob, and how George's wife had thrown sandwiches at him.
And the years came and they went, brought joy into their lives, brought some sorrow too. And Blenkinsop once met Sotherby, they bumped into each other somewhere, a streetcorner, or was it after stepping out from a bus? And they said hi, shook hands and smiled, lifted hats, looked at each other and realised how fucking old they where. How the time seemed to past so fast, unnoticed. ”Let me buy you a drink, talk about the good times.” Blenkinsop had suggested. They were just 65 at the time, both retired. They had laughed at silly memories, and told each other stories they had forgotten. Like how Maltravers had been afraid of the dark, and George's silly plots against the american what-was-his-name.