As season of gorging approaches, don’t hunger to repeat folly of the man who loved his wife too much
THE gifts were small at the start. “A bag of sweets was the way to a woman’s heart,” said the man who loved his wife too much. Later on, as the years went by, he brought her jars of duck fat for cooking roast potatoes, which were her favourites, and ultimately led to her premature demise.
Did the wife of the man who loved her too much die from too much love?
Some say he should have been charged with her death by manslaughter, but these conspiracy theorists came almost exclusively from a cohort of the late wife’s nieces who were excluded from the picking of the jewellery from the dead woman’s estate. The nieces who did inherit a very large fortune are of the opinion that if the man who loved his wife too much was to be charged with a crime, it would be the crime of love.
There are lessons for all of us here in this the run-up to Christmas, the gorging season. Read on but only if you are not squeamish.
I did not check her death certificate. To be honest with you, I too am squeamish. Her husband was like a waiter with plate after plate of chips done in duck fat. They loved to talk at the table and the talk was always of how much they loved each other. I will leave it you to decide the cause of death. Was it love or did she die from eating too much unhealthy food?
The disaffected nieces claim that in the end, she exploded and ruined the specially fitted extra-wide sofa made from the finest calf leather. The disinherited nieces say the explosion of their deceased aunt’s innards destroyed the hand-painted Japanese wallpaper. The angry nieces claim the trail down the mountains in the Jack B Yeats hanging on the kitchen wall was a lava flow of intestinal juices.
The nieces could have made all this up out of bitterness. They did invest a hefty sum in providing the deceased with a garden-size chocolate fountain “out of the goodness of our hearts”.
The nieces are seeking legal advice. Their claim is their health suffered from sharing too many takeaways with their auntie and as a result suffered many obesity related illnesses such as diabetes and “severe heart murmurations”, to mention but two.
By now you will have guessed the late husband was a wealthy and powerful man. I have always taken the view it is best to leave such men to their own devices, for fear of reprisal. But he too is dead.
The man who loved too much made his money from commodities. And he made so much, he would never be able to spend it all, or even count it all. He died shortly after his wife. I am certain he died of a broken heart. The poor man never ate a chip in his life. He was fit and derived his pleasure in life from buying his wife presents and watching her happy face as she ate.
I knew her back in the eighties and yes she was a beauty. She left for London to become a nurse. There was nothing here for her.
The husband was a sickly man. She nursed him, lovingly, and soon they were married.
If you are still with us and were able for the gruesome details of death as alleged by the bitter nieces, let me assure you there will be no more mention of spontaneous bodily combustion. But did she really burst?
The nieces who had the pick of her gold and silver necklaces, her rubies, emeralds and diamond rings, have a different story to tell.
They say their beloved auntie slipped away gently. Her grieving husband seemingly held her hand and sang a sweet lullaby to his beloved.
I so hope the lucky nieces’ story is true. I knew her when she was young and lithe. She used to bring a can of milk to her grandmother every evening after milking. Her long brown legs were perfectly shaped from all the walking and the clicketty clack of her flip flops was a fast drum beat. There wasn’t a young lad among us who didn’t declare an interest in dating her. We kissed once under the shade of a big old oak. After we shared a bar of chocolate. Fruit and nut, I think it was.
She sent for me. That was exactly 10 years ago this week.
The deceased made me promise to wait 10 years in case her husband managed to linger on.
She cut a grotesque figure on the calf-leather sofa. The conker-brown eyes still shone and brought back memories of when she was a lissom young girl.
“Billy,” she said, weakly, “I am the way I am because of love.” She sighed and her huge tummy rose like a currach on a swell.
“My husband loves me so much and I love him too. We are soul mates and soon enough our souls will meet again. He loved to bring me little treats and it gave him so much joy to see me take such enjoyment from the few sweets he brought of an evening.”
She was crying but it seemed to me like it was happy crying for the good times.
“Billy, you were always so kind to me. You brought me a little something nice as a treat.”
She went on to tell of her decline.
“Bit by bit, the amounts increased and I grew bigger. I wasn’t addicted to food and I do not have an eating disorder. I wouldn’t hurt my husband for all the world and I hadn’t the heart to tell him I didn’t want any more takeaways or duck fat dinners. He hadn’t the heart to tell me I was growing so big that I became beached here on the sofa. My husband would never hurt me. The obesity sort of snuck up on us and now I am not long for this world.”
I didn’t know at the time but afterwards I was told her doctors banned her from eating sweets.
She did eat a large box of chocolates on that last visit, “for the comforting of it”. I didn’t set the stop watch in my phone but my guess is she polished off the whole box in less than five minutes.
“You must tell my story Billy, but you must wait for 10 years in case my husband lingers. Tell the people of how it was I died for love.”
Her adoring husband wasn’t there when I visited as he was at the cardiologist. I was the one who brought her the big box of chocolates.
Before I left, 10 years ago to the day, the dying woman said her reason for asking me to visit was to warn others, in this the season for eating too much.
I knew her when she was young. We kissed once under the shade of a big old oak. After a bar of chocolate. Fruit and nut, I think