The evergreens
looked much fresher after the rain but the flowers around the front lawn looked
quite downcast. Of course, they would soon recover when they dried out and at
least the Montbretia still looked showy. That’s what attracted the old man’s
attention.
For a man of such
obviously advanced years he was stylishly dressed in well pressed jeans and an
open necked pale purple shirt with a jacket in deeper shades of purple and
green. It reminded Beverley of a poem about wearing purple,’ except that she
thought it related more to women than men. Certain she hadn’t seen him before,
Bev wondered if he was new to the area.
The stranger
extended a gnarled hand and gently touched the flower before looking up and
spotting Bev standing by the front door. She felt suddenly as if she’d been
caught spying but the feeling vanished when she saw his face light up with a
beaming smile. A remarkable face, she thought; though heavily wrinkled the skin
seemed soft, almost girlish. Treading carefully on the still wet path, ducking
to avoid a random shoot of Wisteria, Beverley Wilson walked towards him.
‘My wife loves
Montbretia,’ he said.
‘So do I,’ Bev
replied. ‘Perhaps I could cut you a bunch. The blooms are almost done but there
might be a day or two’s beauty to enjoy.’
The man thanked
her, saying she was very kind, and could she put some paper round them.
Rather taken
aback, Bev agreed. ‘I don’t take the newspapers, I’m afraid, but I’m sure I can
find something.’
The man grimaced
as he picked up a paper carrier bag from between his feet and took a faltering
step towards her. ‘I don’t want to cause any trouble, only my hands can’t grip
too many things at once. Arthritis, you know!’
Bev did know,
hadn’t her mother been crippled with it for years.
‘I’ll go and get
the cutters and perhaps you can choose the best flowers.’
Hurrying into the
house, shutting the door behind her, she raced through to the back garden and
grabbed the gardening scissors from a hook outside the door. The thought entered
her head that at least she would be armed if anything should happen.
When she returned,
the old man was sitting on the low wall which started where the privet hedge
ended. He was nursing his paper bag, his wooden cane propped between his knees,
his right hand fondling the head of next door’s tabby cat. Obviously an animal
lover, he made soothing noises as he worked his fingers through the black fur.
Beverley thought how kind-hearted he was.
He tried to get up
when he saw her.
‘Stay there a
while,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the flowers for your wife.’ Quickly she sorted out
the best, all the time complaining about the effect of recent rain on her
beloved flowers. She was aware that she was babbling and tried to stem the
apprehension. It was always the same when faced with strangers yet deep down
she knew that on this occasion there was no need to feel anxious.
When she had
finished she wrapped the flowers with some of the long leaves in several layers
of tissue paper and took them to him, hoping somewhat childishly that he would
like them. As she approached she thought how tranquil he was, so completely at
ease. The word contentment came to mind. She could almost feel his calm, deep
inside. Surprisingly, she experienced none of the tummy lurching that preceded
apprehension. It was replaced by a sudden confidence, an amazing sensation. She
could feel the future opening, welcoming.
‘Aye,’ he said as
he admired the arrangement, ‘my wife will be delighted with these. She had a
dress in that colour and the Montbretia flowers remind her of it. It was her
going away dress on our honeymoon.’
Bev felt a lump in
her throat. Her mother had fond memories of a particular dress she wore when
she married, only hers was Hyacinth blue. It must be a thing about growing old,
she thought, and wondered why she couldn’t recall the outfit she’d worn when
she and Ed went on their Irish honeymoon. Perhaps it was because her marriage
hadn’t been a happy experience. Ed was not the gentlest of men, he scared her
most of the time. They parted after just six years and she’d been alone ever
since; her own choice.
Pushing away all
those thoughts, she asked the old man if he would like a cup of coffee and
maybe some cake? Her boldness startled her. Had she taken leave of her senses?
What on earth had possessed her to invite a complete stranger into her house,
let alone offer food and drink? She wasn’t usually so sociable but there was
something about the man’s demeanour that drove away her customary fear.
Once again she
cursed the day of the burglar, that ruffian who burst in while she was in the
back garden and made off with her purse, jewellery and several valuable
ornaments. Since then she had diligently locked all doors and windows and
earned a reputation for overzealously locking herself in the house. The
neighbours thought she was a bit odd but although they knew of the incident
they couldn’t know how her nerves had been shot to pieces.
‘Cake would be
very nice but with tea, if you don’t mind.’
‘Come on into the
house, then,’ said Bev, then paused and asked if his wife would wonder where he
was. A last minute excuse to back out.
‘Nay, lass, she’s
a patient soul. And she’ll be right pleased to see me turn up with flowers.’
Beverley led the
way, guiding her unexpected guest round a rather elderly black Vauxhall and
over the step by the door. For once the Wisteria stayed where it should be. She
wanted to ask his name but courage failed her … a remnant from the past when
her mother chastised her for being forward. At fifty-five she should have grown
out of childish worries but old habits die hard when they were drummed into you
by a dominant parent.
She did ask his
name but not until she had made a pot of Assam tea, sliced some Battenberg cake
and arranged them on one of her best Spode plates with a white paper doily to
make it look nice. She felt quite comfortable in the old man’s presence, not in
the least anxious; in fact, as she looked at him she thought how well he suited
the surroundings, the eau de nil paintwork and lilac flowers in the wallpaper
were in complete harmony with his clothes.
Pulling the
smallest table from the nest by the hearth, she invited him to sit down.
Helping him into the winged fireside chair, she suddenly asked, ‘What should I
call you?’
‘Call me Harry.
It’s Harris really but my wife thinks it sounds a bit stuck-up.’ Harry took a
bite of cake, then smilingly added, ‘Her name’s Gertrude, Gertie for short. She
prefers Gertie for the same reason.’
‘Do you live
locally? I mean, I don’t recall seeing you before and wondered…..’
‘Just round the
corner from the cemetery. Don’t get out much though with this arthritis and the
relentless rain stops me from venturing far.’
Beverley felt the
same way about the rain. It seemed that every time she went out of the front
door the heavens opened. She could recall better summers but now they seemed to
be buried in the mists of time.
Harry agreed about
the rain. ‘Gertie hates it, she always says a little is worth a fortune but too
much drowns the plant life.’ Harry paused to remove some crumbs from his jacket
before going on to describe his wife.
Gertie and Harry
lived next to each other when they were children. Although she was four years
older she spent a lot of time with Harry. As children they did a fair amount of
squabbling and as they grew older each took an interest in other children of
opposite and respective sexes. However, there was no comparison for the
friendship they shared; a friendship that matured into love. By the time they
were old enough for University they prepared to go their separate ways, Harry
to Guildford and Gertie to Leeds. Those were nightmare years and no amount of
correspondence could bridge the loneliness each one experienced. ‘We were a
couple and couples should never be apart,’ explained Harry, somewhat wistfully.
With parental
permission they married young and set up house in Guildford, enjoying the
experience of being together under one roof. But their hearts were in the
Midlands where they grew up and after a few years they moved back to Tamworth.
‘But our wonderful marriage produced no babies,’ Harry said. ‘That was a
downside for us, a real tragedy.
‘But you had each
other.’
‘Aye, we did
that.’
According to
Harry, Gertie was a cracker which Beverley assumed meant she was a good looking
woman. He wasn’t so complementary about his own appearance and offered the
opinion that he had never been able to work out what she saw in him in the
first place. Bev, though, could see exactly what Gertie could see. Although she
had only just met him she could tell that he was a compassionate man, full of
character and understanding. There was gentleness in his movements and his blue
eyes and generous mouth seemed always to be smiling. She imagined him to be
quite benevolent.
Harry drank some
of his tea then replaced the cup in the saucer and reached for another
Battenberg slice. He remarked on the china, explained that Gertie adored Spode.
Bev was impressed since he hadn’t looked under the plate to see where it was
made. She had a feeling that she and Gertie had lots of things in common.
After pouring
another cup of tea Bev leaned back in her seat. In a short time he had told her
so much about his life yet he knew nothing about her. She wasn’t inclined to
talk about her lonely life either, yet when Harry said he really must go
Beverley felt at a sudden loss. It had been a long time since she’d had such
pleasant and interesting company.
She helped Harry
to his feet, handed him his cane and his bag. She had put the flowers inside
the bag so that he wouldn’t have too much to hold. Harry led the way to the
door then turned to thank Bev for her kindness. Seizing her hand he leaned
forward to peck her cheek.
Agreeably
surprised, Beverley felt the blush creep up her neck. ‘It was my pleasure,’ she
said, and meant every word. Opening the door, she saw that the weather had
turned again, it was pouring with rain. ‘You’ll get soaked if you go out in
that, I’ll just get the keys to the car and drive you home.’
‘That would be
helpful,’ said Harry. ‘But I have a stop to make before going home.’
‘That’s fine,’
Beverley said, ‘I don’t mind dropping you wherever you like.’
The route was
unfamiliar but Harry directed her like a true navigator. After five minutes
driving, he asked her to pull up by the cemetery gates. Pointing to the sky, he
whispered, ‘Look, the rain has lessened. See the sun coming through the black
clouds?’
Bev looked out of
the car window and sure enough the sun was like a beacon shining through the
grey. She hoped there would be a rainbow; she loved rainbows.
Harry smiled. ‘It
always does that when I come here.’ He gathered up his bag, gripped his cane,
and went to open the car door. But then he turned back and asked if Beverley
would like to meet his wife.
‘Well, if it’s not
too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at
all, Gertie will be delighted to have company. And she’ll want to thank you for
the flowers.’
Without waiting
for assistance, Harry climbed out of the car. ‘Come on,’ he said, a trifle
impatiently, ‘she’ll be waiting.’
Bev grabbed her
raincoat from the back seat, locked the car doors and followed Harry through
the immense wrought iron gate, thinking he must have easy access to his house
from the cemetery path. But instead of following the path round he stopped in
front of a grave with an angel at the head. ‘Gertie,’ he said, ‘I’ve brought a
visitor.’
For several years
Bev maintained a friendship with Harry and, through him, with Gertie. He’d been
right, if weather conditions were bad when they visited the cemetery, the sun
always came out the minute they arrived at the gate. Bev liked to think it was
instigated by Gertie, using sunshine to welcome her husband.
Beverley’s
loneliness disappeared the day Harry stopped to admire the Montbretia. He
brought purpose to her life, she had someone to do things for, to look after,
to laugh with or console on a bad day. She was happy; through him she acquired
more friends. He was a popular man. Although he lived alone Gertie’s presence
was very real, it was all he wanted.
Now Harry lies beside
his wife. Bev visits often, always taking flowers from her garden and her
thanks for their friendship. And the sun
never fails to greet her even on the wettest day.
THE END
Initially, the notion of travelling back through time filled me with fearful foreboding. Not the actual crossing over from now to then, I could cope with that, being a bit heroic in the exploring stakes. No, it was the idea of meeting up with a dead person that worried me, knowing he's dead yet sitting with him, drinking coffee, or vodka, pretending he's alive and feeling talkative. Famous or infamous, he'd still be dead. Deceased! Defunct! But on second thoughts, I guess it could be fun. Question is, which man would I like to meet?
