September 2018

‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 10

Middle-aged mothers are so unlikely to fall in love again. I caught myself glancing at Arthur’s mouth, wondering what his lips tasted like, whether his hands were warm. I remembered that I had offered to listen.

“So!” I tried to sound business-like, not bossy. “Would you like to tell me about your boy?”

“There isn’t much to tell, really. I met Vivienne when I took Lilian for a respite break to the seaside in the early days. We were still coming to terms, you know. In Cornwall, I met this woman walking along a nearby beach road. She looked beautiful and I imagined she must be kind, with looks like that. I was a bit taken by surprise, I suppose. I invited her out for tea while my wife was safely ensconced, and before I knew it, we were having an affair. She had no husband. She invited me to share her bed. More or less insinuated she could take Lil’s place. I was very stupid. I never asked if she was taking the pill, or anything. I just assumed that no-one who invited casual sex would be unprotected. Anyway, she became pregnant and then said she wanted to marry me, but I couldn’t have left Lilian. Things turned nasty very quickly after she said she was going to keep the baby. I’ve been sending her regular maintenance for the boy. He’s eighteen now, at school. I never told Lilian, and to be honest it was very easy keeping the whole thing a secret.”

As his story tumbled out, I realised he was very easy to listen to, with a deep, calming voice that seemed to wrap itself around me.

“Last month, out of the blue, I got a phone-call from James saying that his mother was ill. You know the rest. I don’t know what to do.” Arthur had been setting the table with precision and now placed a last spoon with careful finality. Our eyes met in a mutual grimace and I understood he was levelling with me. He had a decision to make.

“Does she have any other family?” It seemed the right place to start, at any rate.

“She has three brothers, who all have families, and she has her mother still. That’s as much as I know.”

“Why do you need to go and see her, then?” I asked, aware of how selfish I sounded. “She has plenty of help nearby, and her boy is grown up now, isn’t he?”

“Yes… He’s just about to start at University. But he can’t decide whether he should stay on at home, to look after Vivienne. It seems like a lot to ask from a young lad…” Arthur paused, looking reflective. “There is probably something more to this, though. I mean, I hardly keep in touch with her – she told me very clearly to leave her alone – and now, after all this time, comes this call, this crisis. Am I just supposed to drop everything?”

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 9

“Arthur,” I coaxed, “Look at me.”

I waited, and slowly his gaze came up, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Listen. You have done nothing wrong.” He moved his head from side to side, not exactly agreeing with me, not sure whether to contradict. So I repeated, “You have done nothing wrong. Only what so many others before you have done.”

Arthur bowed his head, and I could see tears dropping into his lap, onto his trousers. He retrieved a freshly laundered handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Whispering so quietly that I had to strain to hear, he said, “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you have to do anything?”

“Well, I think perhaps I should.” He answered. There was another long shuddering sigh. “It all seems like such a mess,” he confessed.

“That is what people do. We mess up all the time. And then spend ages feeling guilty.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I am sure you have better things to do.”

”Come with me.” I took his hand, and moved with him out into the hall. It felt strange but wonderful to be assertive for once. Putting on my coat, I waited as Arthur shrugged into his favourite dark waterproof. Together we left the house. My porch light triggered as we went up to the front step and when the front door clicked shut behind us, we embraced in the dark hallway. It felt like the obvious thing to do. I stood into his height, and he leaned into me. Supporting each other we held curves that were growing more familiar, inhaling the scent of wet coat and pullovers washed in scented laundry liquid.

“Come,” I said.

“What, here?” His unexpected humour hit my solar plexus and sudden gusts of laughter exploded from our chests, when there was another scrabble at the front door and we both looked around guiltily, not wanting to break up the joke, not just yet.

“Elaine’s back!” I whispered as we broke apart. On second thoughts, as we watched her familiar shape fix the key in the lock and put her shoulder to the glass panel, we inched closer together and were holding hands when she looked in and up at us, her eyes bright and shining from her bike ride, her dark hair loose and untidy, framing her pretty face.

“Hello Elaine. Come in.”

“I’m okay, Mum, don’t fuss!” I forgot that she was getting older. Each day she was choosing her way with more certainty by herself.

“Fine, love.” I gave her a quick hug and a peck on her smooth, cold cheek. “Meet Arthur.”

“Oh, hello” she answered, politely, nodding. She threw off her coat and boots at the foot of the stair and went up to her room.

“Supper is baked potatoes, okay? A wee bit late today.”

“That’s okay, I had something to eat at Lisa’s,” she called back.

I gestured to Arthur and we headed through to the kitchen. Out of habit, he stooped slightly as we went through the hall to the back sitting room. Our kitchen is an old-fashioned long, thin room at the rear, with a stone floor and kitchen cupboards that have been there since the 1970’s and which seem ageless.

“I’m sorry we only have a few hard chairs and a bench to sit on.”

“That’s all right.” I knew that Arthur really didn’t mind. Somehow it felt comfortable having him here, though I worried that maybe the kitchen was too narrow and small for him. Before I could fret, he seated himself on the bench and pulled me into his lap.

“Better?” He asked.

“Yes, much.” The sudden familiarity filled me with heat. I felt heavy against his legs, but he held on tight, so that I just had to relax and accept him taking most of my weight. Physically, he was much stronger than I realized. “Must get on.” I said self-consciously. “Let’s put some tatties in the oven, at least. The rest is just to be set out.” Miss Prim had come into the kitchen. But we did need to eat, and I gently disengaged from his embrace, resisting the urge to turn and kiss him full on the mouth. My gaze darted away, not from rudeness, but because I suddenly felt we had crossed a line. Help! I swallowed self-consciously and Arthur seemed to know he would have to help. Very gently, he allowed me to stand up and himself stood, all business, like a patient boy at my side.

I flipped open cupboards, flapping more usual. I would rather have worked unobserved, but he was standing beside me, his closeness shaking me just enough to put me off my stride. Laughing suddenly, I took a deep breath and thought, “Come on, get a grip!” as I retrieved tin foil, busily tearing a sheet, wrapping four medium potatoes and putting them in the oven.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 8

One afternoon when I was outside, I heard Arthur’s voice drift over the fence. “Marian! Hello?”

I straightened up. “Hello, Arthur.”

“I have to go away for a while.”

Bleakness flooded through me at the prospect of his leaving, though that did not seem to be the right time or place to say so. It was none of my business, after all. I had no claim on my neighbour, especially at this time of year: goodwill, festive whatnot, family time. But the absurd hope remained, that we might have been part of his plans.

“When are you thinking of going away?”

“Tomorrow, unless something better turns up.”

“Would you like me to, I don’t know, water the plants or anything?”

“Come over, we can talk about it.”

Ten minutes later we were in his living-room, me perched on the couch, Arthur seated in his usual chair by the window. The room was familiar by now, yet something had changed. I was puzzled and then I understood – it was cold. In place of the usual warm glow from the fireplace, there was only darkness. The standing lamps usually shed a welcome glow. The kitchen, too, was quiet. Where usually there were layers of mess, now it felt too tidy.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Arthur asked, standing over me. I could not see the expression on his face.

“Not really.”

I felt uncomfortable. “Arthur… Is it anything I said?” I tried a smile, but he winced, shifted on his feet and said nothing.

“All right then, anything I did?”

“Of course not!” Suddenly he was flaring, anger shimmering, shaking his body with unaccustomed emotion, which I found reassuring. I prefer anger to indifference any day. He proceeded calmly enough to explain, as if he had been working through his thoughts for a more palatable solution.

“I have to go to Southampton. My friend is ill.” Leaning over me he switched on a light. I longed to lift my hands over his shoulders and pull him closer to me.

“Must you?” I asked, “I mean, must you go? There are surely others who can help.”

“I suppose there are….” His eyes shone both doubtful and hopeful, casting an appealing mess of wrinkles across his forehead.

“Well, then, stay here for a while. The weather forecast is bad. If you have nothing in, you could always come to us.”

I realized I was rambling, but could not stop. “Elaine wants to meet you,” I said. It was a total lie, as apart from her friendly questions, she had shown little interest. Elaine knew very little about Arthur, though she had noticed that I was more cheerful.

“Look,” Arthur said, new decision breaking through the unhappiness in his voice. Once again, he came and held my hands. “I have not been totally honest with you.” A sinking feeling crept over me. “I have commitments in other parts of the country.”

“What? What is it?” I forced myself to speak gently. There was a long pause, so long that I thought Arthur had not heard me. He answered softly,

“I have a son, with another woman.”

“But that’s great!” I said.

“She doesn’t love me,” he went on. “But she has her boy and uses him to keep a hold of me. She has not been well for months and now she sort of expects me to help her. I don’t know what to do. I would so much prefer not get more involved with her than I already am, but James is totally under her thumb and has been calling me, begging me to go down. He says she may be dying. I don’t know what to do.”

I had never seen this quiet, elegant gentleman at a loss before. I didn’t think there was much I could say, but again he forestalled me, “But you are here with me. Thank you.”

“Shall I go and put on the kettle? Or, if you like, you could tell me all about it over supper with us? It is time Elaine met you.” That he made no response to my suggestions concerned me more than all the fuss he could kick up. I hobbled over to his seat and clumsily placed my arms across his shoulders. His hands clasped me hard around the waist as if he was suddenly scared to let go. I leaned into him, and we stayed together, comfortable and awkward, just breathing.

“Do you want a cup of something?” I gestured hopelessly in the direction of the kitchen, but his only answer was to pull me more closely to him. I kissed his cheeks. I stroked his shoulders and felt them relax, inching into restfulness. But his face was down, gazing into nothing.

“I could put the fire on?” Silence.

“I could make us something to eat?” Each suggestion was left hanging in a stillness broken only by breathing, holding arms and closed faces.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 7

I was quietly stunned by this confession. What astonished me was not so much what Arthur said, but the way he spoke, so calmly, so carefully. I am an emotional woman, and when I speak of things that tug my heart, my voice fills with tremors, my hands shake and my legs raise themselves of the ground. I cannot sit still. Yet speaking of abject misery there was he, calm, gentle and peaceful.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said. I meant it. He looked at me, looked into my eyes. Silently he gazed over the wrinkles round my mouth, over my forehead. His hand was raised to my cheek, which he touched gently. He looked at my face like an artist might, examining curves, the fall of hair at the ear, the tilt of the eyelid. I let him lift my face to the side, bring it back.

“You are beautiful” he said.

“Thank you,” I answered.

“I wonder…” he whispered as the minutes ticked quietly past.

“What?” I asked, searching his face for clues.

“Would it matter to you if…?” he started, but broke off. There followed a long pause and then suddenly I clasped his hand, pulled it towards me and started to kiss it, first the palm, then the fingers, many small kisses coming unbidden from me. He did not pull away, but sat with a small smile on his face, which did nothing to discourage me. I kissed the palm again, let the hand drop and then looked for the other, lifting and kissing it too, first the soft folds at the back of the hand, then each finger, tip, hundreds and thousands. To say thank you. I was filled with gratitude that I didn’t know what to do with. Where could I put it all?

“You don’t have to, you know.” Arthur’s self-control maddened me.

“But you have such beautiful hands and I want you to know – you are – beautiful too.”

“And I thank you, too.”

He rose up from where he had been seated next to me, and resumed his seat over the way, in front of the window. I could not see the expression on his face.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 6

We fell into a pattern. As the winter nights got colder, the leaves drooped and rain fell like wet kisses from the denuded branches of tall trees, I got into the habit of popping round to Arthur’s whenever I had finished gardening. There was always something to tidy: leaves to clear, branches to pull and burn, hands to snarl on old, reluctant thorns. I was happy outside, those afternoons. The work cleansed my thoughts and stretched my body in beautiful, aching curves. And afterwards, there waited Arthur’s kitchen, or the living-room with the French windows where we sat together, watching the shadows and the wind dancing with the remains of the leaves.

“A top-up?” Arthur’s enquiry broke through my thoughts. He found me getting lost in my silences.

“That would be great!” I said, pushing aside tiredness. As I watched Arthur pottering about in the shadows, I felt immense gratitude that he did not feel the need to chat about the latest bad news, the international situation, the lamentable state of his shares portfolio. I could not have borne that. Politeness forced me to smile as I took my mug of water with the hint of chamomile, and the couple of water biscuits that Arthur now kept for me. He paused, “On second thoughts, would you like some spread on them?” I realized I would, some jam or honey. Not low fat, lo sugar or ergonomic and environmentally conscious but just your standard pink, sweet stuff.

“Yes! That would be lovely.”

Arthur lifted my plate to the kitchen counter, fetched a knife out of a drawer and smeared jam from a jar. Watching him looking after me, tears pricked behind my eyes.

“I can do that,” I called, without conviction.

“Yes, I know. But I am up anyway, and you have been working outside all afternoon. I have only been sorting through boxes.”

He was suddenly beside me. “Strawberry all right?”

“Yes, of course!” I croaked self-consciously, a surprising tear slipping unbidden down my cheek. Perhaps he didn’t see it, because he said nothing, but crossed back to his usual chair.

“Penny for them?” His voice was careful and light. In the gathering dusk his voice was penetrating.

“What?” I sniffed.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

”Oh!” Uncomfortable flutterings rose to my throat.

“Just begin anywhere. I will catch up with you.”

“Well, in that case, how about rock buns…?” I was muttering to myself again. I sat up straighter in my seat and looked over at his gentle smiling face. He trusted me. I must not disappoint him.

I said, “It seems that age is catching up with me. I’m rather tired, that’s all.”

“You are being brave again.” He spoke quietly, but I understood him perfectly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I see you getting about, managing. I see you trying to smile when you knock over the milk bottles and have to bend to retrieve them from a gritty path. I see that you cope.”

“Well, doesn’t everyone?”

“I suppose so. You were going to tell me about rock buns.”

I stifled my reluctance and began slowly, spilling snippets and stories of my childhood: the way my mother would bake miracle melting biscuits once or twice and then never make them again. And later, away at school, while I was being teased and left in among reams of rules that others would easily flout but which clogged me up, how I found motherly friendship with the kitchen staff. They baked all sorts of delightful cakes for us, coconut melts, shortbread, chocolate krispies and rock buns for afternoon tea; our consolation before prep began and dull routines of boarding school closed around us once more.

“But surely, it can’t have been that bad?” Arthur was lightly dismissive.

“Well, I suppose it wasn’t. We got used to it. But there was a sort of neglect that went with it, and a feeling that I could never be myself. I was forever hiding under sarcasm, frowns or routine.”

“There were the holidays to look forward to?”

“Yes. Anyway, the point is, I am unused to having someone look after me. It makes me emotional.” There was a long pause while I ate my jammy biscuit in the gathering gloom, turning away gratefully from my first impulse to weep.

“Perhaps you mean that you don’t look after yourself as well as you might, but that is hardly surprising. You have a wonderful daughter, you cope mostly alone, and you manage.”

“Yup! God, how I hate that word – manage! It is so dull and put upon.”

“We all manage,” he replied automatically. Still, to me the word conjures up such aching compromises, that I stuck with my assessment, my mouth set in a straight line.

With great deliberation I enunciated carefully, “I love rock buns, and chocolate cake and biscuits, and wine and cheese and tea and coffee and steak and chips and ice-cream, though not all at once.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. “So, I am just like everyone else, but none of that stuff agrees with me anymore. In the last few years I have discovered that if I eat steak, or drink a cup of coffee I cannot walk. Do you want to see me crawling around the house? If I eat butter my kidneys ache and my head itches. Ditto cheese. My wrists and fingers seize up. Chocolate cake makes me ill. I am fed up, not being able to do what everyone else takes for granted.”

There! I had said what I wanted, and the world was still here.

“I see. Is that all?”

It was quite the wrong thing to say. I burst into tears. “Yes. Not being able to do what everyone else does!” I managed a wail. “It is not just food, and chores, and not having a job or a husband. But everything,” I finished limply.

“Everything… yes.”

He let me sob and sniff and slowly reach up and out of the other side of my sad hole. I wanted him to put his arms around me, but I just sat in my seat. As I always have.

“And if I said you were lucky, how would you feel?”

I laughed a sad bark and sighed. “I would say, of course, you are right, and I would also say I don’t know. Most of the time I would agree with you.”

There was a movement over there, and over here. Suddenly Arthur was sitting next to me, holding both my hands in his own.

“You are lucky, Marian! You have a wonderful daughter. You can see her every day. You have your own little house, and you don’t have to work for a shitty boss who calls you up in the evenings or on your days off making unreasonable demands. You can please yourself every week day from eight in the morning until half past three or four or whenever your daughter gets home. And in the evenings when there is no-one to talk to, you have your daughter who loves you, living under your roof. I call that lucky!”

I was ashamed and I sat forward starting to say sorry, but he interrupted me. “No, don’t apologise. What did you say, except how you feel? What’s wrong with that?”

I smiled again and sniffed, and he handed me a handkerchief.

“I’ll get it back to you,” I nodded.

“No. Just keep it.” For some reason, Arthur seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

“What is it?”

“I spent years – God, it was months, years – looking after Lilian. At the end she couldn’t speak, she was fed through all sorts of tubes; she slept in one room down the hall. A nurse watched her and I was upstairs. I used to go and sit with her at night, hold her hand and pray that God would come and pull her out of her misery. But it was years. And then one day I looked up and they were taking away her bed, her boxes of pills and the monitor, and the nurses were shaking my hand and getting ready to leave. The cleaners were coming round to clear away the smell of urine and bandages and for the first time in months, I opened the window, with the old-fashioned catch, that looked out over the lawn at the back, with its rose borders and the cherry tree in the middle. It was spring. And finally, Lilian was finished with breathing in jerks and spasms. She was beautiful again, I knew. And I had lost her. She had gone. All that was left was an empty space, the marks on the carpet where her bed had been, and the boxes of sterile gloves and tissues. It was a relief. I felt guilty.”

***
(to be continued)

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 5

There followed a long silence, which neither of us felt like breaking. I looked out of the window, admiring the darkening folds of garden green that I could see behind him, the flaring reflections in the windows. Gazing at streaks of oranges and pinks trying to break through a bank of deep blue sky, I felt at home in the silence. Arthur was quiet for so long that when he did speak, I almost jumped.

“My wife was ill for over twenty years, though she became ill so slowly that for several years we hoped she might beat the odds. I’m so glad it’s all over. All I feel now is relief, and regret that we didn’t have more good time together – she was a few years younger than me.” Another pause, and then he said, “I feel sorrow, of course, to have to get to the end of what is left of my life by myself.”

Without thinking, I said, “Snap” and he looked up sharply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Snap. I feel the same about my husband.” I sighed.

“But – do you not have his company? Does he not sit by you of an evening?”

“Well, he might, I suppose, but he died last year, in January. He was cycling when a car ploughed him off the road.”

“Oh, golly, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. So I know how you feel.”

Discovering we had love and death in common, there was suddenly no need to say much more. I didn’t need to ask about Lilian. I knew that when he wanted to, Arthur would fill me in. And I would get round to doing the same, about Karl.

We had drinks and cakes and a paper to look at. I sipped my drink, steam wetting my face as I breathed. The rock buns were shop-made, and from the smell of them, they had used lots of butter, so I only nibbled a small bite, which tasted better than I remembered; much richer.

“Thank you for inviting me over,” I said. And then I remembered that my neighbour didn’t yet know who I was.

“I’m Marian. I’ve been living next door for about three-and-a- half years”. It seemed a bit lame to offer my hand for a shake, so I left it lying over the table. Arthur nodded, and there was a fresh smile on his face, as though he was grateful to get on with being ordinary.

“My name is Arthur, and I have been here about a month. You probably saw the removers coming and going. I used to live in a much bigger house, hence the chaos. I should throw lots of stuff in the way of second hand uplifts but somehow I can’t bear to, not yet. This way, I can pretend that Lil will be coming soon, to help me sort it all out.”

“Yes, of course. There’s no hurry, is there?”

“None at all. Now,” he rose and stretched himself. He was very tall. “If you’ve had enough of sitting here, shall we repair to the sitting room? Withdraw to the withdrawing room?” Arthur threw me such an arch question mark that I grinned.

“Yes, let’s.”

“I think I can promise you a softer chair….” He was striding quickly ahead. “I am still finding stuff,” he called. “I only found the kettle last week. The removers had stowed it in the drawer of the chest that went into the spare room.”

“I’m sorry.” I called, which sounded strange, so I said nothing else.

I was pleasantly surprised by the snug room behind a glass-panelled door. Carpeted, and fitted with a “real flame” gas fire obviously new and bought to impress for a sale – no use for actual warmth – the room was comfortable and had been recently painted in clean, fresh colours.

“Real flame? This thing is no good for colder days….”

I risked asking, “Are you by any chance a mind reader? You seem to know what’s on my mind.”

With a flap of his hand, Arthur replied modestly, “Not at all. It’s just that I learned to read my wife when she stopped being able to speak. It comes easily now, though some people find it creepy.” He laughed. That was when I knew I liked this man very much.

***
(to be continued)

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 4

In the gathering dusk I approached my neighbour’s front door with an unusual, childlike dread. The gate creaked loudly as I opened it and then stood stupidly trying to latch it shut behind me. I gave it a pointless shove, then abandoned it as my legs threatened to get tangled round my elbow crutch. Certain I was being watched from the living room, I had no desire to linger. Up the path, stooping in the unfamiliar doorway, I pushed the bell. It sounded very far away, but before I had time to wonder, the door was flung open and Arthur was saying, “Come in, I’ve just got the kettle on….”

I saw his back retreating in double quick time and felt strangely thankful for the careless reception. We could skip pointless questions like, “Had a nice day?” and there was no need to fib or fluster as the toe of my shoe caught on the edge of the door frame, which I hastily clutched for support. Pleased not to have to apologise or explain, I liked it here already.

Arthur was reaching out an arm. “Don’t you want to take off your coat?” I felt heat from the hall radiators wrapping comfortably around me. “My wife liked it hot, and I haven’t got used to turning the heat down.” Without thinking, I leaned and patted his shoulder, “No worries!” It could have been embarrassing, but then, my neighbour had already seen me crawling.  “Come through” he said, “I was just making tea.”

I passed a clutter of dishes and a newspaper opened out over an old kitchen table. I recognized the same daily as mine, and could not resist leaning over to see how the crossword was going. Most days I try the cryptic, because doing it reminds me of Karl and I sometimes feel he is close beside me, as I try to work out what ‘Lady with pink vest some say in past tense’ might mean. It’s a foreign language, but I like it.

Arthur busied himself with mugs and plates of biscuits. “Never really been one for crosswords, but Lilian was very good at them…”

“Yes,” I muttered, “That’s the same with Karl”.

“Karl?”

“My husband.”

There was a tiny awkward pause as I dithered, deciding what to say, how much to share. Not only did our respective spouses like crosswords more than we do, but they are both has-been spouses. There seemed no point in being frigid about the fact that Karl is dead. Still, I couldn’t face filling the space with the sound of my voice, sharing my sorrows. Before I could decide, fate stepped in.

“Here, have a seat.” My host moved a chair at the kitchen table out for me. “You’re in luck. The place is tidy because my woman came yesterday…”

“Your woman?”

“The cleaner, you know….”

A plate Arthur was bringing to the table wobbled in his hand. He frowned as he moved about, fetching mugs and teaspoons, then started to pour tea into two mugs.

“Will you have some? I forgot, you said you don’t… I can offer you something else, if you would rather…?”

That he was considering me, I found unexpectedly moving. I aimed my glance over his shoulder for a second, trying not to blink and answered, “Weak tea is fine.”

“I’ve got some rock buns…” The plate, on which sat soft, yellow dollops was set between us. Rock buns? I hadn’t seen one of these since I was at school. I could hardly believe they still existed in the world of retail baking. I lifted one and bit into it, just to see if it tasted the same.

“I thought you said you weren’t much for cakes?”

”I did say that, yes, but you asked me if I wanted one, and I do.”

“Ah, so you don’t eat rock buns, you just taste them, is that it?”

“Well, it’s a very long story.”

“I’m not in a hurry. Are you?” Arthur’s face was calm and relaxed, but there was a lift of sad humour in his voice.

“Not at all. Though Elaine might wonder where I’ve got to.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes. She is thirteen going on thirty. You know what kids are like.”

“Actually,” Arthur coughed, “My wife and I – Lilian – we, ah, we never had children.” Arthur caught a crumb in his throat and coughed again, then wiped his eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

I reached across to pat his hand, suddenly aware that there was only tea on the table and that my cup was empty. To mute the sudden tenderness I felt for a man I had only just met, I rose quietly and poured myself half a mug of hot water from the shiny kettle perched on the kitchen top. I resumed my seat then topped up with the brown stuff, just as if I had been living there forever. He forgot that he should be playing host. His wife just died.

***
(to be continued)

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