Dreaming of Lucille


Last night I dreamed of Lucille, who I had been so in love with ninety years ago. It’s been some while since she last appeared in my dreams, so she was due for another visit. I wish she’d appear more often because hardly a day has gone by since 1917 when I haven’t thought of her. For me, she will always be the beautiful twenty year-old she was then. The night of love we made before I had to return to the trenches in France, will be with me always.

You who are regular visitors to this site will remember I’d spoken *in a previous posting* of Lucille and our night of love, which turned out to be our only night of love. You will also remember my speaking of how crushed I was when I sought Lucille out on returning to England after the signing of the armistice, but learned she had returned to her home country of Martinique with another man, who would appear to have been her lover.

Why did Lucille appear in my dream of last night? Was it because, this being now December 2008, it was ninety years ago to the month, December 1918, that I learned of her absconding with her lover, and that she was gone from me for ever? Or was it because she realized how foolish she was to run off with another man before I returned at the Great War’s end, and so told me – through appearing in my dream – that she’ll be waiting for me when I cross over to the Other Side? I’m assuming Lucille is by now on the Other Side, since she’d be on the order of 110 were she still alive. However, since I’m 113 and still alive, why shouldn’t Lucille, a mere 110, be alive too?

But, given that nearly all people of 110 are now dead, the chances that Lucille is dead too, are high. So she is likely dead, and is waiting for me on the Other Side. But when we do meet I will insist she explain why she didn’t wait for me to return from the Great War, but went off with that other man back to Martinique. And had she made naked love with him while I was fighting in France? Lucille has much to explain.

What happened to her after she returned to Martinique? Did she marry the man she returned there with, and become a domestic frump with children, grandchildren and all of that? I know the man she married didn’t become famous like me, because I’ve always noted the names of wives of the men who have risen to prominence during my lifetime, and none had a wife called Lucille. So the man she would have married was doubtless a nonentity, perhaps a boring government official, or a Lothario who subsequently left her for another woman, or he was a drunk who beat her, and from whom she fled in fear.

Had Lucille become my wife what a life she would have had, for I served in the British army throughout the Empire. I became a general and rubbed shoulders with the high and the mighty, and Lucille would have basked in my reflected glory. And what wonderful children she and I would have made together, for my loins were afire for her as for no other woman. I’ve always believed that children arising out of wonderful love-making, will, too, be wonderful.

Thus Albert, the son I fathered with my wife Gladys, turned out mediocre because the love I made with Gladys was never the most passionate. It was – not to put too fine a point on it – mediocre. It would follow, then, that a child arising out of such mediocre love-making would, too, be mediocre. Only after I’d been married to Gladys for some years did it occur to me, while making love with her, that I think of other women, so to add spice to the love we made.

I began, then, thinking of other women when Gladys and I made love, and, somewhat naturally, I would think of a naked Lucille more often than not. Consequently the love Gladys and I made would be over in next to no time. Since Gladys, who never enjoyed our love-making, had always asked me to try to get it over with quickly, she was happy I was able to accommodate her in this regard.

If only I’d begun the practice, when making love with Gladys, of thinking of other women like Lucille before the night Albert was conceived, he would have turned out the man’s man I wanted in a son. But the die, so to speak, had already been cast.

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