One Last Kiss For Dorothy Sayers

“I’m going to marry you one day,” were the first words I ever said to Dorothy. We were standing in a crowded and raucous kitchen at a student house party, the name of which I can’t quite remember. However, I distinctly remember it was Christmas time, as Dorothy was wearing a Santa’s Little Helper outfit.

“Is that so?” Dorothy mused, sipping her margarita through a red and white striped straw. “I’m currently not in the market for a husband.”

“It’s okay,” I teased. “I’ll wait.”

Dorothy looked at me intently as she sipped her cocktail. “What’s your name, future husband?”

“Harold,” I said, extending my hand. “Harold Sayers.”

“Dorothy,” she responded, shaking my hand. “I must admit, though, Dorothy Sayers does have a certain ring to it.”

Three years later, ‘Dorothy Sayers’ finally had a legal ring to it. And for forty-five glorious years, she has been my rock, my joy, my everything. I cannot imagine life without Dorothy. It would be a dark, empty, and dull existence. Before I met her, I never truly lived; I was merely trudging through life. Dorothy, on the other hand, has never trudged through anything in her whole life.

From the moment I set eyes on her, I knew she was something special. She radiated life in an almost divine manner. Her smile was intoxicating. One could lose themselves in her emerald eyes and never tire. Her laugh was angelic, and she spoke in such a way that it could tame wild horses and calm the most ferocious seas.

“Will you marry me?” I had chosen to propose to Dorothy during a weekend getaway in Rome. I got down on one knee outside the Colosseum on a bitterly cold night. Yet, the beauty of the moment was amplified by the ancient Flavian Amphitheatre, illuminated and majestic, creating a powerful and emotional spectacle.

“Do you know who the last emperor of the Western Roman Empire was?” Dorothy looked at me with those curious emerald eyes of hers.

“I’m not the one with a history degree,” I replied.

“If I asked you about the philosophical emperor, you could tell me, though,” Dorothy teased, her voice playful. “Having a philosophy degree and all.”

“Well, yes. Marcus Aurelius,” I admitted.

Dorothy pulled me to my feet and kissed me hard. “I’ll say yes to your tender of marriage if you can tell me who that emperor was.”

“Tender of marriage,” I echoed sarcastically, “How romantic.”

“When in Rome,” Dorothy kissed me again. “But I don’t want you to tell me who it was while we’re here. Tell me when we get home. Let’s enjoy some time in the Eternal City.” Dorothy linked her arm through mine, and we walked away from the Colosseum.

“You do love me, Dorothy.”

“‘Love only what happens to you and what is spun with the thread of your destiny. For what could be more suitable for you?’” she quoted, her voice soft.

“You could have just said yes instead of quoting Marcus Aurelius,” I remarked.

“Words will never be enough to show how much I love you, Harold Sayers,” Dorothy said, holding me tightly by her side. I said nothing more but drew Dorothy closer to my side.

It took another two weeks before I told her that Romulus Augustulus was the last emperor of the Western Roman Empire. Just to be on the safe side, I also mentioned that Constantine XI Palaiologos was the last emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, by then known as the Byzantine Empire.

“You’ve done your homework, Mr Sayers,” Dorothy said, clearly impressed. “As a reward, I shall accept your tender of marriage. On one condition, mind you.”

“And what might that be?”

“You take me to bed this very instant and make an honest woman of me.”

“As you wish, m’lady,” I hoisted Dorothy into my arms and carried her upstairs.

Some people lead an ordinary life, achieving what is typical: school, college, university, job, family, one foreign holiday a year, a hobby or two, grandchildren, retirement, and then death. I certainly did most of that, and Dorothy did too, to a certain extent.

“Life is like a ripe orange, Harry,” that was Dorothy’s mantra, and she was the only person I let call me Harry. “You have to squeeze all the juice out of it that you can. You only get one orange, and you have to make the most of it. It’s a shame to let all the juice go to waste.”

I can safely say that Dorothy squeezed every ounce of juice from her orange. She didn’t waste a single drop in her entire life.

“I will not go to my grave regretting a single thing, Harry,” Dorothy said. “To regret is not to live, and I intend to live every single day on this earth as if it’s my last.”

“You should have been the philosopher in the family,” I joked.

“Pah, I’m too good-looking to be a philosopher,” Dorothy wiggled her eyebrows.

“I can’t argue with that, my dear.”

A year after we were married, our first child was born; we named him David after Dorothy’s grandfather. When David was six months old, he passed away suddenly from heart failure. I dealt with David’s death in my way, and Dorothy in her own.

“I want to go to China,” she said distantly as she nursed a mug of steaming black coffee. “I’ve always been fascinated by their culture.”

“You have,” I agreed.

“I think I’ll go tomorrow.” Dorothy looked intently at nothing. “Can I take the car?”

“You’re going to drive to China?”

“I think I might visit Russia too.”

I sat down beside Dorothy and held her hands. “Whatever brings you peace, I’ll stand by you.”“Thank you.” Dorothy laid her head on my shoulder and squeezed my hand.

Just under eighteen months later, Dorothy returned home. Some family and friends had their opinions on Dorothy doing what she did. But as I told them, “Grief isn’t a universal emotion. People deal with it in different ways, and Dorothy was dealing with David’s death in her own way.”

Whilst she was away, we did speak on the phone when she had time. The conversations weren’t long or in-depth. I just wanted to make sure she was okay, and most of the time, she was. There was the odd conversation where Dorothy spoke of things that were a little dark and out of character. But I choose not to dwell on those conversations as they serve no purpose. It took nearly a week to work my way through the four volumes of photo albums that Dorothy had amassed on her travels. Two albums alone were dedicated to her time in China. One was for her three-month stay in Russia, and the other two were for her journey from Calais through mainland Europe to China itself.

After we finished university, we both trained as teachers. I taught philosophy at college, and Dorothy taught history to secondary school students. When Dorothy traveled to Russia and then to China, she earned money and lodgings by teaching children English.

Three years after her Grand Tour, our second child was born, Catherine; we named her after my mother and Dorothy’s mother. We both cherished and doted on Catherine as if she was the most precious gift in the world. I know most parents do this anyway; that’s an obvious thing to say, but with losing David, it made Catherine’s existence even more precious.

“I think we should see more of the world,” Dorothy said when Catherine had just turned five. “As a family.”

“You have to be more specific,” I said. “The world’s a very big place.”

“Yet so very small too.” Dorothy had retrieved my dad’s old copy of a world atlas and slammed the massive tome on the table. “I was thinking of France first.”

“Right…”

“Then Belgium, Holland, Germany, and Austria…” Dorothy pointed at the atlas. It was then soon, “Tunisia, Algeria, and Libya…” Which moments later became, “Australia, New Zealand, and Indonesia.” Then, almost out of breath, she finished with, “Brazil, Mexico, America, and Canada.”

“You missed a country,” I feigned disappointment.

“Which one?” Dorothy checked the atlas.

“Wales,” I grinned.

“Very funny, smart-arse,” Dorothy jokingly punched me on the arm.

And that was the start of our four-year journey around the world as a family. To this day, I still say to Catherine that by the age of nine, she was the most travelled child in the world.

In her lifetime, Dorothy had not only squeezed her orange for all its juice, but she also encouraged those around her to do the same. I learned to play the piano at the age of fifty-two and to speak Arabic at fifty-six.

“Age isn’t just a number, Harry,” Dorothy often lectured me when I expressed doubts about learning new skills, saying I was too old. “It’s a lame excuse to be unadventurous and boring. Whether you’re 9 or 99, there’s no excuse not to push your limits and step out of your comfort zone.”

With Dorothy’s determination and stubbornness as inspiration, Catherine swam the English Channel (twice) by the age of twenty-one. She also ran from John O’Groats to Land’s End and back again, a round trip distance of 1,748 miles. Catherine undertook this endurance race in memory of David (the brother she never met) and for a foundation conducting research into heart defects in young children.

Life was like a fairground carousel to Dorothy; she never wanted to get off. “Why would I? What else am I going to do? Sit in my chair and watch TV until my eyes drain from boredom? I think not, Mr Sayers!”

At fifty-nine, Dorothy decided one day while weeding her vegetable patch that she wanted to climb Kilimanjaro. Not for charity, not to prove a point to anyone, but because she fancied doing it. After a year’s worth of training, she did just that. A year after climbing Kilimanjaro, she took on the Three Peaks Challenge, a popular mountain-endurance challenge in the United Kingdom where participants attempt to climb the three highest peaks of Scotland, England, and Wales within 24 hours. The peaks include Ben Nevis in Scotland, the highest peak in the UK at 4,413 feet; Scafell Pike in England at 3,209 feet; and Snowdon in Wales at 3,560 feet. Dorothy managed to complete the challenge in 26 hours, which, for her age and not being a natural climber, was an immense achievement.

A month or so after Dorothy completed the Three Peaks Challenge, something changed. It was as if someone had drained the zest out of Dorothy’s being. They had cut her sails, so the wind couldn’t catch them anymore. They turned the power off, and the carousel she loved so much to ride fell silent and juddered to a halt.

“Dorothy,” I asked, slightly confused, “where did you put the car keys?”

“Hung them up,” she replied, lost in a TV show but not really paying attention to it.

“You put them in the fridge.”

“Did I?” She didn’t turn to face me as I jingled the car keys. “Sorry about that.”

“I booked our favorite restaurant for tomorrow.” I knelt beside her and held her hand.

“What for?” she replied, looking at me as if I had two heads.

“Our wedding anniversary.”

“I didn’t think that was until next month.” That comment stung me hard. Dorothy never forgot our anniversary. Ever. That job fell to me.

After that, there were more occasions when Dorothy forgot where she put things, why she entered a room, and she began to call people by the wrong names. Dorothy knew something wasn’t right and became frustrated with herself, often physically and verbally berating herself at home, and uncomfortably, in public too.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Catherine asked me as we sat at the kitchen table. “Where’s Mum?”

I had left Catherine a message on her phone to come and see me after she finished work. I asked her not to bring Charlie and Becca (our grandchildren). “She’s in bed.”

“It’s only 6 PM, Dad,” Catherine scoffed. “Mum never goes to bed this early. What’s going on?”

“Mum’s…not been herself for a few months now,” I began nervously as I tried to pick my words. “She’s been…

“Not Mum,” Catherine said. “Forgetful and snappy.”

“Yeah, something like that.” I then felt myself go. The emotional waves of the last six months came crashing over me. “The doctor says your mum is showing early signs of onset dementia. I’m so sorry, Cate. I’m so…” My daughter held me close in her arms as I wept uncontrollably.

In my mind, Dorothy died twice.

The first time she died is when she didn’t recognise who I was, Catherine, or the grandchildren. That was nearly a year after the doctor diagnosed her, and she was living in an assisted care home. That decision was incredibly hard for me. I had spent nearly every day with Dorothy for the last forty-five years. Her not being in our home and by my side was unthinkable.

“It’s not about you, Dad!” Catherine sternly told me. “It’s what’s best for Mum.”

After several more arguments (mostly teary), I relented and even let Catherine choose the care home for Dorothy. At first, it was soul-destroying going to see her and then having to return to an empty home.

I tended to visit Dorothy with Catherine and sometimes Charlie and Becca, to see if it jolted any memories for Dorothy. But it didn’t. I always took her volumes of photo albums from her trips to Europe, Russia, and China to show her, along with her photos of her adventures to Kilimanjaro and the Three Peaks Challenge. But nothing. Nothing would spark a memory for the old Dorothy to come and see me.

The day Dorothy died, I was about to leave when she lovingly took my hand.

“I miss David,” she said.

Catherine and I exchanged glances. “I miss him too,” I said as my voice cracked with emotion. “Every day. Just like I miss you.”

“I’m going to marry you one day.” Dorothy tapped me on the hand. “What’s your name, future husband?”

“Harold,” I laughed through my tears. “Harold Sayers.”

“Dorothy Sayers,” she said, impressed. “That’s got a ring to it. Hasn’t it?”

“It most certainly has.” There and then, I gave Dorothy Sayers one last passionate kiss.