Appropriately enough, it was raining at the funeral of Betty's lad William. Betty stood under a black parasol, looking pale yet calm. She appeared to be numb and had hardly spoken, slept or even cried since the death, according to Jeremiah. William's parents wept and Betty held the woman who would have been her mother in law, in a fairer world. I felt out of place standing in the mud and listening to the eulogy of a man I had never met. Oddly enough, I felt as though I had met him. Betty had let slip certain facts about what he was like before the war. He had been sweet and softly spoken with straw coloured hair, freckles and big, gentle hands. His father had been a carpenter and most other girls had thought him homely, but Betty travelled beneath the rough exterior and loved what she found there.
The rain slackened off towards the funerals end, and we turned towards the house Betty had shared with Jeremiah before his marriage. I looked in the direction of his wife and marvelled at her swelling belly. She was in her third trimester and it was no longer difficult to believe that she and Jeremiah were about to become parents. Mary was leaning back, looking uncomfortable, tired and emotionally exhausted. Jeremiah wisely opted to take her home and John, who was worried about his daughter in law's health volunteered to accompany them. I rather wondered whether he did this because of Betty's outward calm. While she was not weeping and wailing I felt sure there was a roiling sea of tears within her waiting to be released. Selfishly, I did not want to be by when they were. Still, she needed company of some form and even if my skills at consoling might be deficient I was better than nothing.
Our journey to the town house was made in near silence and I was growing increasingly worried at John's daughter's behaviour. She was such a passionate young lady that none of us had expected her to react this way to the death of the love of her life. When we reached our destination I rushed upstairs to change out of my soaking clothes. Before I reached the top of the stairs however, I heard a crash which stopped me in my tracks. Hurrying downstairs, I flung open the door to the kitchen just before Betty sacrificed another piece of crockery. The huge pot connected with the ground accompanied by a thunderous crash. My reactions to loud noises were better now, but I still trembled and was only just able to hold onto the present by concentrating on the pained mask which Betty's face had become.
"Everything's shit!" Betty yelled as she propelled yet another plate towards its doom, "I...I don't feel anything. It's all so pointless!"
I had been standing unsure, but a sudden fit of inspiration gripped me and I took a bowl from the countertop before smashing it on the floor. Betty looked shocked at my mimicry of her actions and I spoke in the ensuing silence. "Did that look helpful to you?" I asked. "Did that change anything?"
Suddenly Betty's face crumbled and she was in my arms, crying like a little girl. I gently lowered us to the ground, sweeping away shards of porcelain so she wouldn't cut herself. Betty's body was racked by great, heaving sobs which gradually subsided. When she was calm, she spoke. "In a way, I felt like he was already dead," she confided, "like I was holding onto the shell of the man I knew. He wasn't the same person he was, but it was something. Sometimes, I swear he knew me. I always thought... I always hoped, even though everyone told me not to. Now I can't. It's over and now I don't know what to do. He was my life"
"Betty," I said softly, gently stroking her hair, "I can't imagine what you're going through. The only thing I can say is that I think it would be sadder never to have known someone who loved you as much as William did than to lose him now. I also don't think the man you described to me would wish you to stop living because of his death"
"I don't care," Betty sobbed. "I just want this to go away"
"I don't think it does," I told her. "But if you keep wallowing in what happened, you'll never be able to find comfort. You can't shut yourself up and pretend you'll never feel anything. Pain is better than numbness"
"No it isn't," Betty contradicted.
"At least it helps you realise you're alive," I countered.
"I just want it to stop," Betty said, once again reminding me of a child.
Knowing there was nothing further I could say, I convinced her to change out of her damp clothing and go to bed. I put a hot drink on her bedside table and when I next passed her room, she'd finally fallen into an exhausted sleep. It wasn't until I was cleaning up the mess she'd made in the kitchen that I realised I was crying too. I thought about what it would be like to have lost John and suddenly understood Betty's numbness, colossal fit of passion and racking sobs perfectly.