Im a stayathome dad, and my little boy is two and a half. Every day we head out for a stroll and end up at the local playground. To get there we have to cross the main thoroughfare of our tiny market town. On the right side of the road theres a row of small grocery shops. As weve always done, I stop to buy Arthur a plain bagel sprinkled with poppy seeds. We sit on the bench, and the lad devours it with the kind of gusto only a toddler can muster, giving me a few precious minutes to catch my breath.
I love watching the passersby on the high street its my favourite pastime. I try to guess their jobs from the way they walk, what theyre wearing, and the little nonverbal cues they give off. What are they thinking? What do they dream about? Where are they hurrying to? I enjoy the guessing game.
A familiar pair always appears in the distance: a dignified silverhaired gentleman, probably about seventyfive, and his companion, whose age I cant pin down perhaps somewhere between sixty and seventy. Ill explain why thats a tough call in a moment.
Because were out in any weather, we see them almost every day. Ive never caught the lady without a fresh coat of makeup I cant bring myself to call her old lady. Her purse is clearly stocked with concealer, blush, mascara, eyeliner and neutral eyeshadows. She dyes her hair a light ash blonde and wears a timeless shellstyle updo. Shes clearly a fashionsavvy type Ive spotted dozens of her outfits. What always catches my eye, though, are her hands. Shes a regular at the nail salon, and each visit she shows off a new manicure from classic French to a blazing crimson that could be called flame. In my head Ive nicknamed her the dragonfly.
They often linger on the bench by the shops, the same spot my son and I frequent.
The woman is called Margaret, and her husband is Nigel.
Honestly, Margaret, you cant be throwing chestnuts at pedestrians with your feet, Nigel would chide. You could unintentionally hit someone and hurt them. How would you feel if a chestnut landed on your own ankle?
Donkey! Margaret would giggle. You cant be so serious. I only get wild in the autumn, when I really let loose! Chestnuts, dear, but dont be cross, love.
Nigel would smile and say, Alright, Ill buy you a few rubber balls. You can play with them at home where you wont bother anyone, and Ill hide in the bathroom while youre at it.
Come off it, Nigel! Playing with balls indoors isnt the same fun. Its not the same thrill, you know? Ill just walk the other side of the street if you dont like what Im doing. You can even pretend we dont know each other. Margaret pursed her lips in mock offense and turned away.
Never mind, you always need looking after. If you end up in the police station in your old age or break a leg, Ill be the one bringing you your meals. You know I make a proper thick soup, and you wont survive on anything else. Ill tell the kids not to visit you so you learn to listen, you little scamp! No, absolutely not! Dont even think about whining. Come here, my onionhead, Ill hold your hand and pretend Im escorting you to a sanatorium. You little troublemaker!
Id listen to their banter with a smile, amazed that such a lively, affectionate relationship could last into their silver years. Their teasing was always sharp, colourful, and full of colour.
It was always a treat to watch them together Margaret would launch into a story with emotion and gusto, often flapping her hands, while Nigel would nod, smile, and give her a supportive elbow.
What never ceased to surprise me was the tender, almost aching sweetness in their bond. It coloured everything their glances, their breaths, their touches, their smiles, their movements, even their thoughts. When Margaret would hold Nigels hand, look straight into his eyes, pout playfully, you could read boundless love and trust. The same devotion showed when Nigel, feigning irritation, would say:
Watch your step, love, youre not a youngster any more! One slip and youll break a bone. What would I do then?
And, believe it or not, they would kiss each other on the bench, strolling down the boulevard like teenagers, oblivious to anyone else, their faces lit up with a happiness that seemed to make their hearts beat in unison. Their passion was still very much alive.
That afternoon they perched on the same bench again. I overheard their conversation:
Should I pop into the shop for a pastelshade lip gloss? Maybe theyll have a discount. You coming with me? Margaret asked Nigel.
Go on, love, Ill wait for you here. Just dont buy all the glosses leave some for the other girls, Nigel replied with a grin.
Arthur had finished his bagel and waddled over to where Nigel was sitting. Nigel slipped a small chocolate bar from his bag, handed it to the boy and asked, Whats your name, little lad?
Thanks, I said, thanking the man for his son Hes Arthur, still learning to speak properly.
Arthur crunched the wrapper with delight.
Forgive my curiosity, but Ive been watching you both for a while. Youre a remarkable pair. How do you keep the spark alive? Do share your secret with me, I blurted, eager for an answer.
Nigel fell silent, staring at his shoes as the wind rustled the fallen leaves around our feet. The breeze lifted the foliage, swirling it in a dazzling little dance before it settled back down, reluctant to end its brief flight.
We met in the autumn, about fiftyfive years ago, Nigel began. Margaret was walking through the park, gathering colourful leaves. Shed bend over each one, smile at it, and tuck them into her coat. She wore a patched old overcoat, a white beret and battered shoes, but she was radiant. In her hand she held a handful of yellow, orange and red leaves, and there were five pennies tucked in the lining of her coat. At home we barely had anything but a crust of bread and mustard, yet she was beaming. Margaret would chat with the blossoms, brush her fingers over the heads of blackeyed susans and chrysanthemums. She was airy, otherworldly, and she stole my heart the moment I saw her. She taught me to rejoice in life, every day, no matter the weather snow, rain, or sunshine. Though she seemed fragile, she was fierce, bright and as vibrant as that autumn. Many courted her, but she chose only me. She shows her true self only to a few, and she let me into her thoughts. Thats how it is.
Do you ever argue? I asked, surprised.
Of course we do. Misunderstandings happen to everyone. The key is to address them promptly, before resentment takes root. Life’s too short to waste on grudges. When were younger Id give her the silent treatment for weeks, thinking I was punishing her, but I soon realised those silent days were like torn pages blown away by the wind never to return. So I learned to forgive, let go, and move on.
Do you ever get angry at your wife? I pressed.
Arthur munched his chocolate, listening in.
Its a strange thing, Nigel said, I know she can be a handful, but I cant live without her. Imagine me standing at the door while she changes dresses for the third time. Wholl help her dress, wholl bring her tea for her pills? Were entwined like roots. The thought of spending my final hours alone terrifies me. Once I was struck down with pneumonia. It was a hard battle for an old man. Margaret braved a snowstorm, slipped through icy streets, fetched antibiotics from several chemists, wrapped me in a damp towel, gave me injections, fed me from a spoon and slipped warm socks onto my feet. She whispered, Dont say a word, love, just rest. Her devotion was everything to me.
At that moment Margaret, cheeks flushed, joined us.
Can you believe they dont stock the shade of lip gloss I need? Its either pink, red, or lilac none suit me, she complained, her voice lilting.
Why are you so quiet, love? What are you holding? Shopping bags? Hand me that purse, and put on some gloves your fingers are turning to ice. Let me warm them up before your joints start whining, Nigel buzzed, urging her toward home. Its time for dinner. See you later, Arthur! Mum, listen up.
We all said our goodbyes. Arthur waved at the departing couple for a long while.
Two figures drifted down the boulevard, moving as one entity a world woven from tenderness, patience, empathy and love. To love with such delicacy is a true art, and I cant help but wish to feel it myself.
Do you agree?
