There was never any doubt in my mind, none at all. In the eye of this beholder, Sheba Lee was the most beautiful woman in the world.
She was a Goddess.
She exhaled gold dust and whatever she touched she consecrated.
Her natural odour made my nose twitch with delight for up to three days after she had passed and I could have made love to her shadow.
I would have paid good money to have her hair woven into cloth and made into the best suit I ever had.
She was the sun, the moon and all the other astronomical stuff you could think of.
Elizabeth Taylor should have been her handmaiden and me the saddle on her bike when she made those long physically exhausting trips to see her ailing mother.
She was everything I ever dreamed of in a woman and much more besides.
And that was it…my point.
I only ever dreamed.
In truth, Sheba Lee was untouchable.
Apart from being twenty years older than me she had eight children and a brick wall of a husband known in the neighbourhood as ‘Beef’ on account of the fact that he was big and worked at the local abattoir.
Beef was a man who could and would, upon hearing one misplaced or spoken-out-loud rogue thought concerning his wife’s heavenly attributes, deliver instant death or at the very least, physical disfigurement, all in the blacking of an eye.
So, to all but the incredibly stupid and those with a death wish, Sheba Lee was best admired from afar.
As time went by it and it became obvious that my passion for Sheba was only increasing. I realised that the only path left to me was to develop a personal strategy that, one, would allow me to physically survive i.e. avoid Beef.
And two, get myself under some sort of control.
So…
My strategy…
…required that any thoughts that I had concerning the divine Ms Lee, were instantly consigned to the safest place possible.
Which was small, damp, dust filled room that was situated way, way, way back in the deep and darkest recesses of my mind.
A room that was specially fitted out and set aside for those exciting yet guilt-inducing times when and where, me and Sheba could get together.
A secret space secured by the best locksmith my imagination could provide and moved (for reasons of security), to a fresh location at the back of my head every week.
In this room and in this way me and Sheba could become very close.
In fact, inseparable.
There were, however, disadvantages.
In those annoying moments (days when I had ‘things to do’), or to put it a better way, when reality encroached on my secret life with Beef’s wife and we were forced apart, I found myself behaving like one of those tiresome but proud, happily married men you sometimes run across on railway station platforms or cafes.
The sort of men who will insist on talking to you just so they have an excuse to pull out a tattered photograph of their wife and kids from a battered old wallet.
What I am confessing to here is the sad fact that I myself inhabited railway platforms and cafes purposefully armed and keen to use this invented life for Sheba and me.
My preparation was meticulous.
And it felt good.
I cut a picture from a magazine and pretended that it was her. Not as pretty as she was in real life, but it served its purpose.
I had everything I needed to present an everlasting and happy relationship plus the fact that my wallet was already battered.
My act was honed, masterful and convincing. My audience although mostly bored was without doubt and in most cases, convinced.
With some pride I can honestly say I put on a damn good show.
So much so, I think the work I put into my ‘love story’ deserved its happy ending. It seems only fair and right.
Sheba was on her way back from visiting her sick mother when the truck driver’s concentration was broken by a tantalising flash of tanned thigh, revealed with the help of the soft breeze that was blowing on that tragic (for some), day.
It was a strange coincidence but a few hours before she took that fateful ride, I had actually visited our room in my head and asked her to be especially careful.
I remember my exact words.
‘The way you ride round on that thing. Too fast. You must be more careful. The roads are full of maniacs, drunks and God knows what’.
I remember my imagination made her laugh at my concern. She threw back her fantastic dark mane of hair and told me that I was like her mother…’a worry wart’…whatever that is.
Eyewitnesses swore that the truck driver wound down his window, wolf-whistled, then swerved directly into the path of an oncoming milk truck, killing both himself and the other driver.
My beautiful Sheba was terribly injured.
I have heard it said that monumental happenings in people’s lives can sometimes bring changes that are, in the long run, for the better.
That, for instance, the aftermath of shall we say, a terrible accident leading to say, unexpected disaster, can bring fresh meaning to a life that might have been an ongoing chore or a painful effort to sustain.
Some say, that in the midst of the most heartfelt misery there can be transformation, rebirth even.
I think I believe that to be true.
After the accident things began to happen.
The door to my secret room was thrown open and the light flooded in. It seemed that the time for secrets was over.
Sheba Lee spent a year and a half in hospital.
When she returned to the neighbourhood there were those who said that she was not the woman she used to be and harsh though that may sound, their words were accurate enough. I knew what they meant.
Sheba Lee had become an invalid.
God. How I hate that word. Invalid. In-Valid.
Sheba didn’t recognise her own children.
She stumbled around the house as beautiful as ever but didn’t know where the hell she was.
She had to be fed.
And changed.
And groomed.
And… and… everything.
Poor Beef tried the best he could and in doing so, shone. Which goes someway to proving the theory I mentioned earlier, that in the midst of misery, people can and do change.
With the kids farmed out to relatives Beef was on call for twenty-four hours a day to that dear woman’s every whim, every need.
Morning, noon and night Beef was there, ready, willing but unfortunately, highly un-able.
As my love’s general appearance and health plummeted, Beef had to face the fact that no-way could he go on accepting total responsibility for his wife’s general well-being. He finally had to admit to himself that he needed outside help.
There was a settlement thank God.
The truck owner’s insurance company paid out a large sum.
A substantial amount of money that enabled Beef to return to the work that he loved down at the abattoir, with enough cash left over to employ a full-time nurse to cater for Sheba’s ever-increasing needs.
But of course, even nurses have to rest.
There are times when even the dedicated health professional has to have the luxury of time for themselves.
Times when a break from such a demanding patient as Sheba had become, was essential.
Someone else was needed to share and shoulder the burden.
An hour or two a day that’s all.
A walk in the park. A breath of fresh air.
Someone to watch over her.
Someone to put Sheba to bed.
I applied as soon as the advertisement appeared.
I got the job.
end
