It is with great sadness and unabiding sorrow that I must
tell you of the demise of my husband the late great Bernard
Pandit Wilson. Who was tragically burnt to death in a Dublin
flop house (£15 a night, £17 inside toilet) fire.
Burned so badly that only his grieving mother could recognise
him (who could forget the harrowing moment that she stared
at his charred remains and said 'yep that's the little Asian get'
Why? oh why? oh why O'reilly?
The tragedy of it all, a fallen jostick catching the hem of his
kafkhan. The finest man i ever met snatched from me like a
pregnant woman's handbag on Conran Street market.
Oh why? (keep an eye on Mr O'Reilly....you know what them
Paddies are like)
What have i got to remember him by? Apart from eleven
whippets, seven children, five pups, one runt and a guitar with
'I'll get even with you Bert Weedon' scratched on it.
Do you know what it's like? The lonely bitter nights that I
stare at an empty chair that was once filled with laughter. The
bare swinging lightbulb casting shadows over objects that he
once held and cherished. An array of empty bottles lying empty
and finished in the corner. But they can't mask my hurt or avert
my agony. The memories of nights and double giro's ringing
in my ears. Taunting me, taunting me, taunting me.
How do I carry on when a mere tot says 'Where's Daddy?'
And I have to look little Everton in the face and say 'With Jesus'
The loneliness of holding a pillow and pretending it's him. Of
talking to a picture on the wall. Of reliving favourite moments
over and over and over again. Of a searing pain that knows of
no respite and torments and tortures your soul. That eats away
at the very fabric of your existence. Till you've forgot how to
wash, how to clean, how to laugh talk and think. Till you can't
walk to the shops or feed yourself and you're left face turned
to the wall crying.
Then you look at the tablets. Yes those tablets. His tablets. And
you count them like a kid counting smarties. And you look out
at the dark uncompromising night. The night that knows no end.
Knows no relief. Knows no sanctuary.
And it's then. Yes! Yes! Yes! It's then that you know you must
do what you must do.
But hey enough about me.....how's everybody there?
LOVE AND PEACE
DENISE WILSON (NEE TREMBLER)