It was black and white, that day. Roger stood by the grave. The few people who had come were long gone. Pongo was at his side, the dog's muzzle greyed now. Perdita was at Pongo's side, laying flat on the ground. She'd whine every now and then. Pongo would nudge her nose with his, sometimes, licking her. The two dogs were old now, almost 12 years old (almost 84 in dog years). They had grown old together. Roger wiped a tear from his cheek. It must be a gift, to grow old with the woman you love.
Roger would never know that. He'd never grow old with Anita, never laugh over their first grey hairs. He'd never sit with her by the fire again, never stroll through the park together again. She'd never see their son take his first steps.
Roger held the baby boy with him now. Henry, his name was. Roger thought back to it all, the nights they'd spent debating names. They had sat in bed, his arm wrapped around her waist and resting on her steadily growing belly as they discussed names. He'd rather liked James, but ah well. They'd instantly agreed that had it a girl, they would have named her Dodie. Dodie Margaret Radcliffe. When it had been a boy, Roger had been so proud. He and his lovely wife had made a beautiful child. Anita had smiled up at him, one of her last smiles. It was after that the doctors had told him. They couldn't stop the bleeding. Nothing more to do but make Anita comfortable. His son was fine, a textbook perfect baby. Anita, though, was dying. The nurse had snatched their boy away when he was born. He had to be cleaned before he could be presented, shiny and clean, to his parents. When they brought him back, Roger immediately placed him in his wife's arms. Anita had been paler, sweat still covering her head and matting her red hair to her skin. She'd smiled at their boy, giggling softly. She gently pulled the blanket back to kiss Henry's knuckles, counting first his fingers, then his toes. Ten of each.
"He's perfect." Roger had said. Tears made his voice gravelly. Anita had smiled up at him,
"That he is." The two had looked at each other, somber on what should have been a joyous occasion. Anita said gravely, "I love you. I wouldn't trade this, or anything we had, for all the life in the world." Roger had brought his hand up to her face, cupping her cheek,
"I'll miss you. I don't know what to do." he said, panic starting to creep into his voice. "Henry's a newborn and I don't know what to do with children. He'll hate me and-" Anita cut him off as she raised a shaky finger to Roger's lips. Her smile was faint as she said,
"You're smart. You'll figure it out." She'd been dead not five minutes later. Roger had pulled the baby from her dead arms, his son squalling. The doctors had gone through the necessary measures, calling the time of death and covering Anita's body with a sheet.
Roger stood beside the grave now, Anita covered this time with a wooden lid and six feet of dirt and grass. Henry fussed in his arms and Roger bounced the baby like he's seen women in the park do. Nanny was still at the flat, undoubtedly preparing a meal no one would want to eat, but would eat anyway so as not to hurt her feelings. Still, best not to keep her waiting. Roger patted his leg with his free hand,
"Here Pongo. Here Perdy." The two old dogs stood and followed Roger out of the graveyard. At the gate, Roger turned back to the direction of Anita's grave.
"Good-bye, sweetheart." Roger closed the gate and led the dogs and himself back home.
Roger Radcliffe's final album came out later that year. It was titled "I Can't Figure It Out"