alone in the conservatory and came and sat on his knee; something that she had not done for three years now.
Gordon had already rang Monkton Primary school to tell them that Dawn wouldn’t be in for a few days.’
He then rang Ralph his friend and told him the news.’
Ralph and Patricia came around later that evening and sat with Gordon; whilst Dawn spoke on the phone to Jim.’
Jim just sat and let Dawn pour her heart out as he listened.’
“Then he told her that he would cancel their visit this week so that she could stay with her father.’
“You can call me anytime you like princess I will be here.’
The next day a card was sent from Jim offering his deepest sympathy.’
A post mortem was carried out which showed that Doreen had died of cardiac failure.
She was only 38 years old.’
On the day of her funeral many came to show their respects; Doreen was cremated as she had wished. They played requiem as the curtains closed both Gordon and Dawn left by the side entrance and drove home where a private wake of close friends had a drink in the back garden. Jim rang his daughter to ask how she was and they talked for over an hour. She said that she wanted to go to France and spread her mothers ashes in the hills that she loved so much. On that Friday evening, Gordon and Dawn set off for Portsmouth to take the ferry over to Calais. They drove to Civrac Sur Dordogne; they walked to Limoges, a favourite place where her mother and father spent together.
Gordon said a few chosen words from Doreen’s favourite poet William Conrad Williams.
What have I to say to you?
When we shall meet
I lie here thinking of you
The stain of love
Is upon the world
Yellow, yellow, yellow
It eats into the leaves
Smears with saffron
The horned branches that lean
Against the smooth purple sky
There is no light
Only a honey thick stain
That drips from leaf to leaf
And limb to limb
Spoiling the colours
Of the whole world