Antediluvian: A Christmas Tale

Vera Sullivan was all alone.

Ten years ago her husband of forty three years passed away, lung cancer, she had told him to quit smoking more times than she could remember. Her son Thomas died two years later, car crash, riding in the car with him was his wife and child. None lived. In that terrible single moment Vera became alone, the only survivor of her small family was there small dog Waggles, she took him in, and they were friends. Each depending on the other for comfort and warmth.

Vera used to be a robust woman, working along with many other women making ammunition for the war effort, off course she was young then. Later she got her degree and eventually became a Lecturer in European Pre-History, her only real claim to fame a book she had written many years ago; Man's path to History, not exactly a best seller.

Her once long gold spun hair now long since turned too silver, ends at her neck, more for convenience than style. Though she refused to resort to the ubiquitous blue rinse. A time back should would have been called voluptuous, or even curvaceous, now frailty has crept upon her, the curves flattened, the muscles fading. Yet Vera had kept active declining to allow age to dictate her every action. Each day, rain or shine, her and Waggles would be seen walking the fields and parks.

Her simple life revolved around the Labrador, his golden coat shinning through constant grooming. They took meals together, they sat on the sofa and watched the television together, Waggles was her only friend.

The neighbours car took his life.

And it took what was left of hers.

Two months after, she had moved, more for financial reasons than choice, to a small house in a run down estate in Bristol. Vera had no one left, and she knew no one here. Her life seemed dreadfully empty, without direction or meaning. Every day she did what was expected. It was almost a mantra.
Get up, wash, eat, sit, eat, and go to bed.