The Old Man Against the World
Dad, do you even understand what were saying to you? Margaret set her teacup down on the table with a clatter, as though she meant to break the saucer. We just cant go on like this. Youre all on your own, and the house is far too big for you. You dont keep up with it anymore. Theres dust everywhere, honestly.
Edward Wilcox did not reply straight away. He gazed out the window at the battered old apple tree swaying in the wind. His late wife, Edith, had planted it herself, nearly forty years ago, when she was still full of hopeful laughter and new to marriage. She had said, These apples will be ours, Edward. Just ours.
Dust, you say, he murmured eventually, still not turning.
Dad! That was Geoffrey, the son-in-law, always entering a room as if it were someone elses. Were asking you directly. Theres space for you at Quiet Havenits a lovely home, pleasant staff, a doctor always drops by. Weve enquired.
Youve enquired, Edward echoed.
He turned at last. Seventy-four years old, not a tall man, but wiry, with workmans hands that had made, mended, held things all his life. His hair was chalk-white now, yet his grey eyes remained sharp, still slightly narrowed as if perpetually discerning.
So, youve already found a place then.
Dad, please dont look at us like that, Margaret fiddled with her scarf, though it was already neat. She always did this when nervous. Edward remembered her as a little girl, clutching at the buttons on her coat whenever she was upset or frightened to say something difficult. We worry about you. Its been forty days since Mum passed. Youre completely alone.
Forty days, he said quietly. Yes. Forty days.
He turned back to the window. The apple tree swayed on this unseasonably warm October day, its burnt-gold leaves stubbornly clinging on.
Geoffrey cleared his throat.
Well, yes. Its a nice place, weve looked at pictures. Theres a garden, little pavilions, you can stroll about.
Geoffrey, Edward said, levelly, out in my own garden theres a bench I built. Just a plank and two logs. I sit, I walk. Plenty of strolling.
Margaret fidgeted with her scarf again.
Dad, youd have company there, with people your own age. As it is, you just sit alone and stare out the window…
And how do you know I sit and stare out the window?
His daughter fell silent. Geoffrey looked at his wife, she at hima quick, meaningful exchange Edward recognised easily. Half a century with Edith had taught him how much could be said with nothing at all.
All right, he said. Will you have some tea?
***
They left an hour after that. No decisions were made, but neither did they back down. Margaret squeezed his hand at the door and said, Just think about it. Geoffrey merely nodded with the air of someone who had determined the answer already, politely giving Edward time to catch up.
Edward stood in the hallway, listening to their receding steps and the closing of the heavy door below. Then he moved to the kitchen, filled the kettle, and set it on the hob.
It was a small, modest kitchen, but Edith had known how to make it homey. Shed sewn the chintz curtains herself, patterned with tiny fading flowers, and planted the three geraniums on the sill. Edward still watered them daily, as if Edith herself had bid him carry on. Not in wordsshe could no longer speak in her final daysbut he always knew what shed want.
The kettle boiled and he brewed a proper cup of tea, not a bag, but real loose leaf from the little shop down the road. Edith had always insisted the bags were rubbish and a cheat, and though Edward couldnt tell the difference, tradition was tradition.
He took his cup in both hands as if for warmth, though the house was heatedhabit, perhaps. Or just the comfort of holding something warm.
From the kitchen window, he saw the stretch of garden, the three poplars planted all the way back in the sixties, their trunks now huge and split by the years. Underneath, the bench hed crafted himself stood empty. Sparrows hopped about, pecking at something invisible to anyone else.
Edward mused he ought to toss out a few breadcrumbs in the morning.
That had always been Ediths task: each morning, whatever the weather, coat over dressing gown, a handful of bread for the birds. Hed watch her from this same window and smile at how ridiculous and dear she looked.
He finished his tea and washed the cup, setting it to dry.
Alone, Margaret had saidas though this was new, as though his solitude had descended suddenly these last forty days. But Edward had known solitude before: long business trips, nights spent on late shifts. Back then, hed always been sure of returning to a home where Edith would be waiting, and that certainty warmed him as surely as a hot cup of tea.
Now, the house remained. But the comfort was gone.
They were not quite the same thing, he thought. Not at all.
***
The next morning, as ever, he woke at half past six. His body kept habits even his mind sometimes forgot. Washed, shaved, kettle on, two eggs boiledone for Edith, one for him in the old days, though now he still cooked two. Hed eat one, and throw the other away, holding onto that small absurd ritual that outlasted its reason.
At eight oclock, there was a knock at the door.
He wasnt expecting anyone. He opened it, slightly baffled.
On the doorstep stood Mrs. Dorothy Finch, his neighbour from the top flat, a small, apple-cheeked woman in her perennial flannel dressing gown and slippers with pom-poms. She carried a saucepan with a lid.
Mr. Wilcox, I hope Im not disturbing you, she chirped. Her voice always reminded him of birdsquick, light. Ive made far too much stew; its just silly for one.
He looked from the pan to her.
Come in, Mrs. Finch.
She came in, set the pan on the hob, and surveyed the kitchen with the thorough attention only old women havespotting the faded curtains, the second cup at the table, and countless things the owner himself no longer noticed.
Your geraniums look well, she remarked.
Edith loved them.
I know. Mrs. Finch was silent a moment. Ill water them for you if ever you have to go away.
He realised only slowly that she meant the plants, nothing more.
Thank you, he said. Will you have some tea?
They sat together, drinking mostly in companionable silence. Dorothy shared tales of her cat, Percy, who had caught a mouse and now strutted about with immense pride, and the commotion from the builders next door, who were far too loud every morning. Edward listened, nodded. It felt good not the way it had with Edith, but good nonetheless to have someone at the table.
When she left, the scent of her stew lingered in the housea true, homely smell.
Edward Wilcox sat a while in the quiet, lost in memory.
***
Theyd met in August of 68, at a factory in Reading, back when he was a confident young foreman and Edith was fresh out of secretarial college, all serious clear eyes and strict neatness. Hed been unsure of himself for the first time, floored not by flirtation or girlishness, but by her direct, honest gaze.
Hed asked her to the Saturday dance at the works club. I dont dance, shed claimed, but went anyway.
In fact, she danced beautifully. When he later asked why shed lied, shed laughed: So you wouldnt be afraid to ask.
A lifetime of love, he realised, smiling at the memory. Thats just what it was.
Six months later, they were married. No lengthy courtship, no drama. They simply knew. He brought her home to their single room in a shared houseminiscule kitchen, one lavatory for six residents, thin walls. Shed looked around, looked at him, and said, Itll do. Well manage.
And they did. Seven years later they received their first real house, a two-bedroom on the top floor. Edith had wept for joy. Hed hidden his own tears out of embarrassment, but shed known, told him later shed seen and was glad.
Margaret was born in 73, and grew up in that flat, at that very kitchen table where Edward now sat. She married Geoffrey and moved away to a larger house. That was how things should be. Still, the rooms had fallen silent after her.
It hadnt troubled Edith and Edward, though. Their quiet evenings with books and tea, heated debates over Sunday night dramas, trips to his brothers in Devon, picking mushrooms, making jam, talking far into the night.
Faithfulness, for Edward, had not been a great virtue or ordeal. It was simply as natural as breath. Edith was his personhis irreplaceable, only one.
When shed fallen ill three years before, hed struggled to believe the doctors at first, imagining some mistake. But eventually, he understood, and he stayed by herevery hour, every day.
Margaret had suggested a carer. He refused, gently, without explanation. It was beyond explanation. Edith was his, and that was both his right and duty.
Hed learned to give injections, to change dressings, to prepare bland food without salt or fat, to lift his now-tiny Edith from bed, to croon comfort when he was exhausted and she mustnt know it.
She slipped away in September, in the quiet of early morning, his hand in hers. It was warm and dry. He held it long after he knew she was gone. Simply held on.
***
Dorothy Finch began stopping in every few days, always with some homemade treata pie, a pot of soup, or apples fresh from her old garden. Theyd sit and talk, about small things: her grown-up children, her grandchildren away at university. It was easy company.
One afternoon, she brought out an envelope of old black-and-white photographs.
Thats my Arthur, she said, laying down a photo. Hes been gone twenty years this October. Heart, you know.
Edward looked at the smiling young man in the print.
He was a good man?
The best. It sounded like the honest truth. She paused, then added, We almost never fought. Most couples do, but not us. He thought it a waste of time.
A clever man, then, said Edward.
Oh yes. She tucked away the photo. You and Edithdid you quarrel?
We did, sometimes. She could get sharp; her voice, you know, could have a real snap to it. But she never kept it up. I always held on longerIm stubborn. She used to say I was like Eeyore, digging my hooves in.
Mrs. Finch chuckled.
They sat in comfortable silence. Dry leaves scrabbled along the pavement outside; the wind had picked up.
Your Margaret dropped by last week, Dorothy remarked.
You saw her?
From my window. She stood out by the gate for some time, then went in. Left quickly after. She looked quite upset.
We arguedabout the home.
She told me. Dorothy met his eye. She asked if I kept an eye on you.
What did you say?
I said I did. Mrs. Finch drew herself up with dignity. Is it bad to deliver stew when its needed?
Its very good, Edward replied.
They were silent again. Edward thought of Margaret standing by the gate, distressed. His daughter, not so little any longer, now a middle-aged woman with a husband he barely knew.
He held no anger. He understoodher worry. Perhaps Margaret wanted the home for herself, as much as for him: some reassurance, a little less fear. He remembered his own dread when his mother had fallen ill.
But care, he thought, comes in all shapes.
***
At the end of October, Lawrence appeared.
Lawrence was Ediths older brother, seventy-eight now, living up in Yorkshire, whom Edward hadnt seen since the start of Ediths sickness. Lawrence had come then, sitting quietly beside his failing sister, saying little but weeping in the hallway when he thought no one saw.
Now he rang in the morning: bus due at three; dont come to meet me, Ill make my own way.
Lawrence arrived, lugging a battered case, his old coat on and a cane in handEdward noted the cane, a new addition.
My leg, Lawrence explained. Been off since spring. Not painful, just wobbly.
Sit down. Ill make tea, Edward offered.
Lets have a proper hug first.
They embraced awkwardly in the hall in that old English way, uncertain but necessary. Lawrence smelled of travel, autumn air, old ointments.
So, how are you truly? Lawrence asked.
I keep going.
Thats right.
Edward laid out Dorothys pasties, some cheese and ham, making a proper spread.
Over tea, Lawrence surveyed the kitchen and lingered over the geraniums.
Her flowers, he murmured.
Yes. Always were.
I remember, even as a girl, Edith loved them. Mum always told her off for dragging dirty pots onto the window ledge.
Edward poured the tea and asked to hear how Yorkshire was faring.
Lawrence talked for an ageabout his neighbours, about his now-grown grandchildren. Edward treasured the ordinary, gentle conversationa living, familiar voice, no demands in it, no persuasion.
After a while, Lawrence spoke up, Ive heard about the home.
Margaret told you?
She called me, yes. Asked me to talk to you.
Edward said nothing.
I wont do it, Lawrence said. Youve always known what to do, Ed. And when you havent, you muddled through.
Edward shook his head, Not always.
Often enough. Edith told me; last year most of all, as the end neared. There was one afternoon, just the two of us. She said: Ive had a good life, Lawrence. A good life, truly. She said youd made it so.
Edwards throat tightened.
She never regretted anything, he murmured.
No. She was content. Very rare, that, at the end of a life. That was you, Ed. You gave her that.
They drank in silence, dusk falling, the street outside amber with the light of lamplight, branches still as statues.
Will you stay the night? Edward asked.
Yesback to Yorkshire in the morning.
Ill make up the sofa.
Do. And Eddont be hard on Margaret. Shes not unkind, just frightened. She manages her fear by getting things in order, doing things by the book. Edith did that, too, remember?
Edward did. Whenever Edith grew anxious, shed tidy and clean, restore order in place of confronting her fear.
I remember, he said.
Margarets the same. Dont be cross.
Im not.
***
Lawrence left the next day around noon, hugging Edward again by the front doorone last, hearty squeeze.
Come up to Yorkshire for the winter, he insisted. Even a week would do you good. Its quiet, plenty of space.
Ill consider it.
See you, Ed.
After the door latched shut, Edward lingered in the hall, hand drifting unconsciously to Ediths light blue coat, still hanging in its usual place. He couldnt bring himself to put it away. Not yet, not now.
He laid his hand on the cloth. It was cool, smooth.
Youve heard, havent you? he said quietly. Lawrence says you were happy. Im glad.
The coat said nothing. But Edward didnt need a reply. He simply knew.
***
Early November, Margaret visited again, alone. She phoned ahead, which surprised Edward; before, shed simply arrived.
Of course, come over, he told her.
She brought an apple tart, her own baking. After placing it on the table, she hung up her coat, glancing around the flatnot with the anxious searching of last time, but in a different, quieter way.
Dad, I wanted to talk.
Go ahead, love.
She sat, folding her hands in front of her. He noticed, with a jolt, how much her hands resembled Edithssame long, careful fingers.
I was wrong about the home, Margaret said at last. That isnt what I meant, not really. I do worry, but I didnt mean to suggest you must go if you dont want to. I simply didnt know how else to say it.
Edward studied her, reading in her profile, her posture, the mark of his Edith.
Im glad you said so, he answered.
I understand this is your home. Everything here is… well She trailed off, toying with her scarf. Mums here.
Yes, she is.
I dont want to take that from you, Dad. I truly dont.
He got up to put the kettle on, waited for it to boil. Made tea, served her tart. The familiar ritual eased them both.
Margaret, he said, not looking round, I know youre anxious. So am I, in my way.
You? Afraid? she blurted, surprised.
Of course. Dyou think I find it easy? Only, my worry is different. Im afraid of forgetting. How she laughed. How she moved about this kitchen, always placed the cups on the leftalways, her whole life. I worry that if I leave, all that will vanish, and Ill forget. Do you see?
Margaret was silent, then nodded.
I do, Dad, she said, softly.
They drank their tea and talked of other things. She mentioned perhaps spending Christmas together, Geoffrey and herself, and was that all right?
Its more than all right. I would like that.
On her way out, she hugged him hard, not a polite hug but trueher small shoulder under his hand reminding him of years ago, carrying her out of hospital for the first time, afraid to slip, sure he would always protect this tiny person.
Ring me, Dad, she said in the hall. Just because. Not only if you need something.
I will.
Promise?
I promise.
***
The wisdom of old age, Edward reflected later, wasnt in knowing all the answers, but in ceasing to demand them. In learning to sit with a question and not hurry it along.
November swept in with rain. Grey, sodden, with none of that cleansing snow that makes even dreariness seem beautiful. Edward donned his old coat, shopped for bread and milk, exchanged polite greetings with neighbours in the lane. Mrs. Eliza Barnes from the ground floor always stopped him for news; she knew everyones business, updating him on yet more renovations, newcomers to the street, the loss of the old maple in the squareDisgraceful, really.
He listened, nodded. This was the fabric of his days now.
One Saturday, Mrs. Finch called to see if hed accompany her to the covered market. She needed wool for knitting, and it was too heavy to carry alone. He was surprisedshe seemed so capablebut agreed readily.
The market bustled, thick with the scent of fish, spices and damp wood. Dorothy compared colours, asking his useless opinion. That ones gooddark, hed say, or Thats a bit garish, if you ask me. She laughed at his taste but still considered his views.
Then they sat for weak coffee in the market cafe. A young mother sat nearby, her baby sleeping in a pram while she ate her pastry with the exhausted look of all young mums.
Lifes hard for young people now, Dorothy murmured with a nod.
Its always hard, Edward replied.
No, its different now. Not about moneyabout how nothing seems clear anymore. No one knows quite what lifes supposed to be like.
Edward considered this.
Perhaps we didnt know either, Dorothy. Maybe we only thought we did.
She gave him a piercing look.
Youre a philosopher, Edward Wilcox.
Im an engineerretired.
She laughed; so did he, and it was, for the first time in forty days, honest.
***
That evening Edward dug an old box from the wardrobe, one where Edith had kept their lettersreal letters, not typed or texted, but paper envelopes. In their younger years, he used to write from business trip hotels, shed write back. Later there had been telephones, but the box remained.
He sat at the kitchen table under the yellow light and read.
His own handwritinglarge and sweeping, hasty, a bit careless. Edith, Im up in Leeds, sweltering, the B&B is nothing to boast about but business is brisk. Missing you, and your stew, though not in that order. Joking! Back Fridaymeet me?
July, 1974. Nearly fifty years ago.
Her own letters were neat, small writing. Edward, all well here. Margarets caught a cold but its nearly gone. The neighbours have redecorated. Its atrocious, but well put up with it. Bought you that blue shirt you liked. Miss you.
Such simple words. A blue shirt, a cold, miss you. And behind them, a whole world. A whole home.
He read for a long while. Then, carefully, replaced the bundle and set the box not in storage but on the shelf in his living room, to keep close.
***
The story of a life, he thought, wasnt found in grand moments, but in geraniums, in chintz curtains, in a garden bench, in untidy, daily love.
He went to bed without the television, listening to the drip of the rain against the glass, steady as a metronome. He lay there, thinkinga call to Margaret tomorrow, just for the sake of it, as shed asked. A letter to Lawrence, to say perhaps he would visit Yorkshire soon after all. In the spring, he must whitewash the apple tree; Edith always made sure it was done, now it was his task.
This was his lifenothing more or less. His alone.
***
Mid-November, Geoffrey called. Out of nowhere, in the middle of the day. Edward saw his name on the screen with some surprisethe son-in-law never phoned direct.
Hello, Edward? Geoffreys voice was tense, as if he had rehearsed. Its Geoff. Uh well, I wanted to say. About the home. Margaret says I overstepped, and shes probably right. I meant no harm.
Edward paused.
No harm done, he answered.
Good Good. How about Sunday, we all come over? Just to see you. No talking about the home.
Come along. Ill make stew.
You can cook stew?
Ive learned.
Geoffrey coughed, clearly caught off guard by this answer.
Well come then. See you Sunday.
They arrived shortly after one. Margaret brought a crusty loaf and cake, Geoffrey a bag of apples. They left their shoes in the hall, filled the kitchen.
The stew was a success. Mrs. Finch had given him her methodwhen to add which vegetable, when to brown, when to stir so it didnt stick. Hed written every step on a scrap of paper and followed it devoutly.
Tastes amazing, Margaret exclaimed.
Didnt expect it? Edward teased.
Honestly? No.
Geoffrey asked for secondswordless reconciliation.
They lingered long at the table, talk flowing easilyMargaret with work stories, Geoffrey grumbling about his car, the door-lock so stiff hed been climbing in the passenger side for weeks. It was funny; they all laughed.
Afterwards, as Margaret tidied, Geoffrey lingered.
I do love Margaret, he said abruptly. Even if it doesnt always seem so.
Edward met his eye.
I know.
It doesnt always work out as you mean. Things come out wrong.
Thats true for everyone, Geoff.
Geoffrey nodded, perhaps expecting advice. Edward said nothing more. Some things were best left unfinished.
***
They left around five, early darkness already fallen. Edward washed up, wiped down the stove, watered the geraniums again, just to check.
Then he donned his coat and stepped outside.
It was cold, but dry. The smell of damp leaves and something far-off, a hint of the looming winter. He sat on his homemade bench. The garden was nearly empty save for the illuminated window of the bakery across the street, where the baker could be seen moving about.
A cat appearedgrey, unfamiliar, eyeing Edward with cautious curiosity before sitting down, a safe distance away.
Evening, Edward greeted.
The cat blinked slowly.
Percy? One of Mrs. Finchs?
The cat offered no answer but remained. Together, old man on the bench and cat on the flagstones, they stared into the deepening duskeach lost in his own quiet thoughts.
Lifes most instructive stories, Edward mused, are never the ones with pointed lessons or loud revelations. Theyre the ones where you simply sit and watch, and in the hush, something shifts. Without words.
He was contentperhaps not happy, but quietly contentknowing he was exactly where he was meant to be. His home behind that fifth-floor window, alive with lamplight and geraniums and Ediths blue coat and a box of letters.
Tomorrow morning he would make tea, pour some crumbs for the sparrows.
That, too, would be lifereal, his own.
***
It snowed overnight from Friday into Saturday. The first snow, early for November. Edward saw it from the window and stepped outside to marvel at it.
The garden was draped in white. The poplars stood frosted, the bench topped with a soft white cushion.
He stood, watching. Then picked up the telephone, dialling Margaret.
Dad? Margarets voice was instant, as if shed been hoping for his call. Are you all right?
Perfectly, he said. Did you see the snow?
We have a dusting here too. A pause. Dad, are you just ringing for nothing?
Just because. Like you asked.
Thats good. Dad… She stopped.
Yes, love?
Nothing. Just glad you called.
He gazed out at the white world, the poplars, the footprints already tracked towards the house.
Margaret? he said.
Yes, Dad?
Just so you know. When your mum went, she was peaceful. Not afraid. I was by her sidethe whole time.
Margaret was quiet for a long time.
I know, she said at last, softly. She told me. Said she wasnt scared, because you were there.
Edward said nothing. Watching the snow.
Dad?
Yes?
Will you be home Sunday?
I will.
Well come by. Ill bake a tartsomething different, not apple. Blackcurrant, maybe.
I look forward to it.
He put the phone down and stood by the window a while longer. Then, coat on, he cut up some bread, scattered crumbs on the sill.
Sparrows arrived at once, noisy and busy, pecking and chirping.
A knock at the doorit was Mrs. Finch, cradling a saucepan and smiling.
Snow, she said.
Snow, he agreed.
Ive brought chicken soup. How do you feel about chicken soup?
Very warmly disposed, he replied. Please, come in.
They settled in the kitchen. He put the kettle on. Out the window, more snow drifted downsoft and steady, not in a hurry, just as all the real things in life are.
Percy came to see me last night, he said.
He goes where he likes. Hes his own master.
A fine cat.
He is.
Their silence, while the kettle sang, was not heavy. It was the good kindwhen two people sit together and nothing needs explaining.
Mrs. Finch, he said.
Yes?
Thank youfor the stew. For everything.
She looked at him, smiling gently.
And thank you, Mr. Wilcoxfor the company.
He poured two mugs of tea, setting hers before her, warming his hands around his own.
Outside, the first snow of the winter fell. Quietly, unhurriedly, as all true things should.
