Short Story: The Last Laugh

Short Story: The Last Laugh

“Last one to the top of the hill buys the coffees!" Jemmy turned to me and smiled his toothy grin as he leapt on to the saddle of his bike, his legs beginning to pump furiously even before they reached the pedals.

"That's not fair!" I shouted after him, "I demand a recount!"

"A recount?" he stopped cycling and climbed off his bike, gasping for breath and bent over with laughter.

"Lizzie, trust you to make me laugh."

I stopped my bike beside his and he put his hand around my shoulder. In reply my arm reached across his broad back, firm from cycling three weeks on the trot in our honeymoon tour of Sweden.

At the brow of the hill we both took in a deep breath of wonder as our eyes travelled across the dark blue expanse of Lake Mälaren; white sandy shores hugged by tall pine, broken only by the intrusion of the stately castle of Skokloster, all turrets and cupolas, white walls and windows glowing in the late August sunshine.

I kissed his cheek and tickled his ribs. His giggle was warm and infectious.

“Hey come on, it’s another six kilometres to Skokloster,” Jemmy said gently, “they’ve got an original Archimboldo hanging on the walls, I’d love to see it. You can go first.”

I started to cycle down the hill. Jemmy overtook.

“Bet you can’t do this,” he called, sitting on his saddle facing backwards.

“Do you know, I don’t believe I want to,” I replied as Jemmy’s bike first wobbled then toppled him on to the grass verge.

As always, Jemmy was unhurt, and after checking his bike was okay, could only see the funny side.

“You do realise you’ve married a complete clown, don’t you?” he giggled.

***

I returned to Lake Mälaren alone ten years later. The boat ride across the lake in April was breezy and the shore was still stippled with banks of snow, rapidly thawing in the weak spring sun. The wind caught my scarf as I shivered, and I tucked it into my coat.

When the boat reached the point where I could see the path we cycled on and Skokloster Castle, I signalled for the boat to stop.

I kept on telling myself I had been lucky. Ten years of laughter and fun, of deep affection and close companionship. But Jemmy’s zest for life was no match for the cancer that had led me back to this spot.

It was tears of anger that stung my face as I pulled the jar out of my bag and tipped the contents into the choppy grey water. I tried to say goodbye, but the words just tangled on my tongue.

A passing gull screeched above my head and for a moment I thought it sounded just like laughter.