Im off to a younger woman, declared Grandad, aged sixty-five, as he packed his suitcase. Oddly enough, he was back in just an hour, in floods of tears.
Im off to a younger woman! he proclaimed again, valiantly trying to stuff a tartan blanketwhich was clearly resisting deportationinto his case.
Nigel St. John announced this as if launching a mission to Mars or unveiling a new continent. Loud, with just the right amount of drama, hoping his words would land like a bombshell.
The bomb, however, neither detonated nor gave off so much as a warning hiss.
His wife, Margaret St. John, stood by the ironing board, serenely running the iron over what was, in fact, Nigels best church shirt. Steam hissed from the iron, shattering the quiet of their little flat.
I heard, Nigel, Margaret replied, without so much as glancing up. Have you packed your thermal underwear? Its November, and your little darling wont be treating your kidneys if you catch your death.
Nigel froze, woollen sock in hand mid-air. Honestly, hed been bracing himself for anythingbroken crockery, a spectacular heart attack, some desperate plea for him to stay, or at the very least, a threat to ring up the kids.
Anything but a practical question about pants.
Whats underpants got to do with it, Margaret?! he wailed, red-faced. Im talking about love, about a new life, about a renaissance!
Finally, he shoehorned the blanket in, wrenched down the lid, and tugged at the zip. The poor suitcase groaned ominously, like his own knees, but it obeyed.
And youre on about pants! That sums you up! Down-to-earth and dull! He paused for breath. Out there awaits flight! Energy!
This energydoes she have a name? asked Margaret, carefully hanging his shirt on a hanger and handing it to him. Or is she just Sweetpea in your phone?
Her name is Felicity! announced Nigel with all the pride of a man twenty years younger. And she isnt merely a woman; shes a muse.
Margaret snorted. She knew perfectly well that the only poetry Nigel appreciated was a witty toast at a mates birthday.
Felicity, is it? Lovely. And how old is your muse?
Twenty-eight! he shot back, glaring as if daring her to argue.
Margaret even set down the iron, fixing him with a gaze one might reserve for a beloved old wardrobe thats just lost a door.
Nigel, she said gently, though her tone held a steely edge. Youre sixty-five. You get backache from sitting on the loo too long, and youre on a liver-friendly diet.
She sighed and added, What exactly are you going to do with a twenty-eight-year-old Felicity? Recite her Keats?
None of your business! he snapped, snatching the suitcase handle. Were going travelling! Moonlit walks! Well seize the day! Im still quite the catch!
He tried to haul the case up in a single grand movement, but it was traitorously heavy. His back twinged, but he clenched his jaw and held steady.
One must never show weakness to an ex-wife. Well, nearly ex.
Dont forget your blood pressure meds, Casanova, Margaret said, turning back to the pillowcases. Theyre in the top drawer. And that ointment for your joints.
I dont need pills! he fibbed, though his heart was thudding somewhere near his tonsils. Next to her, I feel thirty! Thats it, Margaret. Farewell. The flats yours. Im not a monster.
Cheers, breadwinner, she nodded. Leave the keys on the table. And take out the rubbish on your way out, since youre headed that direction.
That was the final blow. No drama, no arms thrown around him. Just, Take the rubbish.
He grabbed the rubbish bag by the door, thrust his chin in the air and strode out onto the landing. The door didnt slamit just clicked gently shut.
Nigel found himself in the hallway, which smelled of hopeless cats and someones burnt sausages. The suitcase was cutting into his hand, his back ached, and his phone buzzed eagerly in his pocket.
Presumably Felicity, awaiting her knight.
He called the lift; while waiting, he fished out the phone, his heart positively trembling. The message: Darling, are you coming? Ive booked us a lovely table. By the way, bit of a hitch
Nigel peered at the screen: Urgentcan you bank transfer five grand to my mum? She needs her pills, and Ive got a cap on my card. Ill pay you back soonest!
Nigel frowned. Five thousand pounds? Odd. Yesterday, she needed three grand for a cab. The day beforetwo for the internet bill. Last week, hed shelled out a cool ten thousand for inspiration classes.
The lift arrived. He bundled the suitcase in, hit the ground floor button. The mirror reflected a distinguished older gent in a flat cap, red-faced and visibly lost.
Im off to a younger woman, he repeated mentally. Somehow, the line didnt sound as dashing as before.
Outside, it was miserable: drizzle, gusty wind, leaves swirling round his feet. Back hunched, he dragged the case towards the bus stop: Felicity lived right across town, in the new builds.
He sat on a damp bench under the shelter, wrestling out his phone to transfer the cash. His fingers were frozen and reluctant. His pension app revealed the worstbalance: £4800. Next payment not due till next week.
Oh, bugger, he muttered.
He typed: Flick darling, theres not much on my card just now. Ill bring cash round, got some stashed at home.
Her reply pinged at oncea world-weary emoji. Then: Nigel, dont be such a child! Borrow from someone! Mums ill! If you love me, youll sort it!
Nigel. Not Nigel St. John, not darling, just plain Nigel. Like a neighbours tabby.
Something decidedly sticky squirmed in his chest. Not lovemore a niggling suspicion.
He realised hed never once video-called Flick. Her camera was always broken, her internet perpetually iffy. But her profile photosabsolute stunners, practically airbrushed.
He decided to callto hear her voice, at least. Long tones, then a soundly rebuffed ring.
Ping: Cant talk, Im crying!
Nigel wrapped his arms around the suitcase handle, as cars sent grimy splashes his way.
The cold seeped right to the bone, despite his Sunday shirt and waterproof jacket. His back ached so much he wanted to whimper.
Felicity, he said aloud, tasting the name. It had all the romance of a debit card.
Just then, another message: Well? Have you sent it? If not, dont bother coming. I dont need a man who cant solve a simple problem.
Nigel stared at the screenletters swimming.
He thought of Margaret. How she silently rubbed his back with ointment when hed pulled a muscle. How she cooked bland turkey burgers he pretended to hate but ate to spare his liver.
How she knew where every sock lived better than he did.
I dont need a man
He pictured himself in Felicitys flat. Someone elses sofa, someone elses scent, someone elses rules. The obligation to keep being quite the catch.
Paying, paying, payingfor the privilege of basking in someones youth.
And if his back gave out? Would Flick fetch the ointment, or tut and leave the room?
Nigel heaved himself up, knees crackling like dry twigs. He watched the bus for the new builds sigh off down the street, but didnt move an inch.
It pulled away, puffing exhaust his way.
He stood a moment, then turned, picked up his dead-weight suitcase and headed back. Homewards.
The return journey felt twice as long. Lift out of ordertypical. So, up three flights, suitcase bumping each step.
He paused on every landing, gasping, mopping his brow. His heart pounded, not from romance but from Grade-A middle-aged panic.
At his own door, he set down the case and pressed the bell. Nothing. Nobody answered.
Indignant panicwhat if shed left? What if shed changed the locks?
After all, hed left the keys on the table like an absolute mug! He pressed again, longer, harder.
Margaret! he rasped. Margaret, open up!
The lock turned; the door swung open. Margaret stood there, unruffled, in her housecoat.
Nigel stood before herwet, muddy, cap drooping with rain. Tears streaked his facereal, hot tears of heartbreak at himself, his idiocy, and the bitter knowledge that old age doesnt always bring wisdomsometimes it brings delusion.
I he croaked. I, Margaret There was a bus and the rain and I was thinking
He couldnt say the truth. Couldnt admit his Felicity had turned out to be a cash-hungry mirage. Too humiliating.
Margaret eyed him, then the suitcase, and simply sighed.
Did you take out the rubbish? she asked.
Nigel glanced at his free hand, embarrassed. Hed left the bin bag at the bus stop.
Forgot, he mumbled.
Margaret shook her head and stepped aside.
Come on in, Romeo. Your teas getting cold. And wash your handsyoure filthy.
He shuffled in, dragging that wretched suitcase. The familiar scent of clean washing, and just a trace of antiseptic cream, hit his nostrils.
Best smell in the world.
He peeled off his shoes, shuffled to the bathroom. From the mirror stared a weary old man. He splashed ice-cold water on his face, washing off tears and humiliation.
He entered the kitchen to find Margaret pouring his tea into the extra-large mug he liked best. The table held a plate of her much-maligned turkey burgers.
Margaret, he whispered, sitting. Forgive me. Silly old fool. Lost my marbles.
Eat, she replied curtly, not turning.
No, really. Felicity? Muse? Without you, Idwell, I dont even remember where the insurance policy is.
In the document file, top drawer, she answered, sitting across. Nigel, please, dont start the dramatics again. Youve come back. Thats enough.
He chewed a dry burger, which tasted better than any steak in London.
That Felicity, she he mustered a tiny white lie, wasnt what I imagined. Smokes, you know! Swears like a docker!
Margaret eyed him over her glassestiny sparks of amusement she tried to squelch.
Well, how absolutely dreadful, she said, deadpan. And you, a true aesthete, couldnt possibly stand for that.
Indeed! Nigel even perked up. I told her, Madam, your vocabulary does not match your photograph. And thenwell, never mind. I realised I was wrong. Emotional void, Margaret. Complete vacuum.
I see, Margaret nodded. Good thing you worked that out at the bus stop and not the registry office.
She stood, fetched a tube of ointment, and set it on the table.
Your backs probably gone again from all that suitcase-hauling?
Nigel blushed.
A bit.
Shirt off, then. Ill do it.
He eased off his shirt, wincing, as familiar hands massaged the ointment into his back. It stung, but comfortingly so.
Margaret, he muttered into the table.
Yes?
You knew Id come back, didnt you?
Of course I did.
Why?
Margaret gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder to mark the end of the treatment.
Well, because, Nigel, you didnt even pack proper underwear, socks, or medicine.
She smirked, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth.
You managed to squeeze in that old tartan blanket and my fur coatthe one I asked you to take to the cleaners.
Nigel stared, realisation dawning.
The fur coat? Really?
The fur coat. I watched you stuff it in this morning, you know. Think I dont notice? Youre blind as a bat without your specs.
There was a pause in the kitchen while Nigel digested this: hed left home for a new life armed with his wifes fur coat and an old blanket.
Suddenly, he started to laugh. Quietly at first, then louder. It became a cough, then laughter again.
Margaret watched him, her lips twitching too.
You really are an old fossil, she said, not unkindly. Go on then, traveller. Eat your burger. Weve got to go to the allotment tomorrowjars need moving to the cellar! Theres exercise for you, fresh air too.
Well go, Maggie. Well go, he promised, dabbing his eyes.
His mobile hummed in his pocket again. Nigel glanced at it: Felicity: Where are you?? Mums dying!! Send at least a grand!!
He pressed Block. Then Delete Chat. He set the phone down, screen-side-first.
Margaret, about those jarsperhaps we should just fire up the barbecue instead? he suggested, looking at her quite differently. Ill marinate the chops. Myself. Just how you like them, with onions.
Margaret raised an eyebrow. This was newNigel hadnt gone near the grill in ages.
Barbecue? she queried. But your liver?
Oh, hang the liver, he shrugged. You only live once.
He took her handthe one roughened by chores and laundryand kissed it, clumsily but sincerely.
Thank you for opening the door, Margaret.
She withdrew her hand, not briskly, but with a gentle awkwardness.
Eat up, Don Juan. Before its stone cold.
Outside, the rain lashed harder, wind rattled the windows, but the kitchen was bright and warm. His church shirt hung on the back of a chair, and the air smelt of ointment and tea.
Better than any perfume.
Nigel looked at his wife and thought, yes, twenty-eight sounds grand.
But who else would know hed accidentally pack a fur coat on his way to a younger woman, and still take him back in?
Margaret, he called softly.
What now?
Ill take the fur to the cleaners tomorrow, promise.
Do that, she said. But sort out your suitcase first, and get the blanket. My feet are freezing.
Nigel gave a heartfelt nod and took a healthy bite of turkey burger.
Life went on. And, all things considered, it wasnt half bad.
