Rosemarie

by Eva Bell

For many years, I used to take my evening constitutional in Twickenham cemetery during summer. The colourful flowers peeping between marble tombstones, the porcelain angels standing sentinel over graves, the quiet ambience, provided just the right atmosphere for meditation and introspection. Sometimes, an epitaph would conjure up pictures of the "dear departed," someone's young spouse, a little baby, or an old woman who had lived long and loved well.

From where I often rested, I could see a patch of vibrant colour like an intricately-woven Persian carpet. It was only a bed of flowers with no tombstone, but a crooked wooden cross that said "Rosemarie."

A middle-aged man of African descent came here each day after work. As he lovingly tended the patch, I could hear him tell her his news of the day.

"Good news my dear. The boss says he'll recommend me for a promotion," or, "I know you're up there looking at these flowers. The roses you love are in bloom. I wonder if you can smell their fragrance."

Sometimes, in his deep bass voice he'd sing, "Rosemarie I love you ... I'm always dreaming of you."

I knew I had to make his acquaintance.

"Good evening. Was she wife, mother, sister or lover?" I asked.

"She was all these and more."

"You must have loved her very much."

He leaned on his shovel, and a tear gleamed in his eye. "Never loved anyone better. Part of me died with her."

He knew I was anxious to hear his story.

"I don't think you'll believe a word I say."

"Try me."

Many years ago, he told me, when Abel was a young man, an English woman turned up on his doorstep asking for shelter. It was a dark winter's night, and the woman was shivering in her overcoat. There were bruises all over her body, and her face was swollen and plum-coloured.

"Why me?" he asked, frightened by the sight of her. "I could get into serious trouble if I shelter you."

"No one's going to find me here," she begged. "This is the last place where he'll come looking for me."

"Who?" Abel asked, getting more nervous by the minute.

"My husband. He's been hitting me ever since we were married, but now he's turned murderous. And the worst part is that no one believes me. He's a paragon of virtue to the rest of the world."

Abel took her into his hut and nursed her back to health. She never left. For years, they lived together–-a middle-aged white woman and a younger black man, mutually and unconditionally loving and supporting each other.

"Then one day, she was gone as quietly as she had come. All I know about her is the life we lived together. She never talked about her past and I never asked. Now I'm all alone."

I put a hand on his shoulder.

"You're a wonderful human being, Abel. I feel privileged to know you."

---

I was away from Twickenham for three years. Upon my return to the cemetery, the patch of flowers looked just as colourful. I waited for Abel but he didn't come. Instead I saw the custodian tending them with just as much care.

"Isn't Abel coming?" I asked.

"Oh, no. He's gone to join his Rosemarie. One evening, I found him lying across the flowers."

The crooked cross now read, "Rosemarie and Abel–-reunited forever."

"What a beautiful love story!" I said. "Abel must have died of a broken heart."