Eight months earlier…
I didn’t want to go, but it felt necessary. There were no errands to complete or purchases to make, yet the visit seemed essential.
I had hoped to travel by train, but another strike forced me to drive. Traffic was heavy, and my irritation grew. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white, silently cursing the striking rail staff. Today, I had no patience for their grievances.
Finding a parking spot with no time limits or fees was a stroke of luck. It softened my frustration slightly. Up the workers, I thought, following this good fortune.
Walking through Sophia Gardens alongside the River Taff, the serenity starkly contrasted with the city centre just a short distance away. Crossing the river, I passed the Animal Wall and entered the Castle Quarter Arcades. These Victorian and Edwardian shopping arcades exuded tranquillity, with the aroma of coffee and freshly baked cakes mingling with the scents from candle and wool shops. People chatted quietly, adding to the peaceful atmosphere. Here, I found a brief sense of calm.
It didn’t last long.
Exiting the arcade, a shouty man at the junction of Queens Street and St John Street greeted passers-by with various comments, receiving mixed reactions. I watched him for a moment, wondering how Teresa would have reacted. She had always found humour in the oddest places. Now, his shouts only grated on my nerves.
The pedestrianised area of the city centre was surprisingly quiet. The lack of people prevented chaos but exposed the sadder side of the city: the homeless in empty shop doorways and more frequent requests for spare change. One man, huddled under a thin blanket, looked up at me with hollow eyes. I felt a pang of guilt and quickly moved on.
I reached the end of Queens Street and headed back towards the castle, needing to stop and eat. ‘Pillars’, an underground restaurant coffee shop, had mixed reviews but was just fine for me. As I walked, I passed a man wailing through 1960s hits on a karaoke machine. It was painful, honestly. Teresa would have found it endearing, another quirk of city life. To me, it was just noise.
The recklessness of some ‘Deliveroo, Just Eat’ bicycle riders was infuriating. Riding through pedestrians at speed, I had already experienced two near misses. If it happened again, I wasn’t moving. Fuck the outcome.
I saw a man painted green and wearing large white headphones, circling an area of occupied seating. Amongst those seated were three men wearing ‘I’ve been to Wookey Hole’ T-shirts, making inappropriate comments to passing females. A man nearby spoke harshly to a woman, his tone sharp and demeaning. The city’s charm was wearing thin.
The air was heavily fragranced with weed as I finished my walk along Queens Street. “Too many people above ground,” I thought.
When I say people, I don’t mean all people, not the people in the Castle Quarter Arcades. I mean the shouty man, the homeless, the beggars, the lunatics on e-bikes, the karaoke man, the green guy, the bully, the ‘Wookey Hole’ men, and the people smoking weed. These people had become too many.
Food and a pot of tea at ‘Pillars’ provided a temporary antidote. When I headed back above ground, I went straight to the Morgan and Royal Arcades to look around the antique and collectible shops. Exiting the arcade, I had my third encounter with a delivery bike. I wasn’t moving. My feet rooted to the ground, I braced for impact.
The rider swerved at the last second, crashing into a pedestrian-only bollard. His e-bike was wiped out. I didn’t care. I walked past him, ignoring his groans, lost in my thoughts.
Less than three days earlier, I had walked out of St Andrews Hospice, where Teresa had spent her final days. The birds were singing, and the freshly cut grass smelled sweet. The hospice doors had closed behind me, leaving an emptiness that no serene garden could fill. I returned the following day to collect Teresa’s belongings, a painful reminder that she was truly gone. I still return each Christmas to deliver gift hampers to the incredible nursing team, choosing their gifts with more care than anyone else’s.
I left the city centre behind and headed to the bay. Walking the six miles around it, I rested on the grass near the Norwegian Church, once the heart of the Norwegian community, to which Roald Dahl and his family belonged. Now it’s an arts centre.
Couples passing by looked happier than the last. The sun reflected off the wave ripples created by the tour boats. The tones of blue were beautiful. I felt overwhelmed by the energy surrounding me. The pain of being surrounded by such a wonderful space was profound, knowing Teresa would never experience it again. I gently stroked the grass, reaching out to hold Teresa’s hand, but it wasn’t there. There was just mine, with the psoriasis which had worsened since her diagnosis.
I walked back to the city centre. At the junction of Queens Street and St John Street, the shouty man was still there, with two police officers who were putting him in handcuffs.
Standing in the shadow of Aneurin “Nye” Bevan’s statue, I felt a million miles away from his ideals. The man’s dedication to the welfare of others contrasted sharply with my current indifference.
If I could have ten minutes to hold Teresa’s hand and walk along the bay past the Norwegian Church, I would accept the demise of the shouty man, the homeless, the beggars, the lunatics on e-bikes, the karaoke man, the green guy, the ‘Wookey Hole’ wankers, the bully, and whoever was smoking weed. My grief determined Teresa’s worth outweighed all of the above. I struggled to balance the scales of justice in a case of why Teresa had gone and why they remained.
Clearing my thoughts, I walked back through Sophia Gardens and returned to my car. I drove to 11 High Street in Cardiff’s Llandaff district. I am going to buy it one day. Once a sweet shop operated by Catherine Morgan, who is better known as Mrs Pratchett in Roald Dahl’s works. It needs to be a sweet shop again.
I drove home, the city fading behind me. The house felt empty. The word home no longer belonging. On the kitchen counter, a reminder note stared back at me: “Funeral director - 10 AM tomorrow.” The finality of it hit me anew. Tomorrow, I would begin the process of saying goodbye to Teresa in all the official and painful ways the world required.
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