**Diary Entry**
The children were grown, and the moment she retired, she upped and left me, can you believe it?—grumbled the grey-haired man in his flat cap to his chess partner.
Autumn had just begun scattering its golden leaves across the courtyard. The weather was splendid, the air crisp and fresh.
As it happened, the retirees spent their summers in the park near their building. They’d claimed a quiet corner with three benches clustered close and gathered there all season once the heat faded. Even when the chill set in, the habit stuck—same old faces, same old chairs.
“So, she just ran off? Maybe it’s you who’s the problem,” teased his opponent with a smirk. “A good man’s wife doesn’t bolt for no reason.”
Nigel had been in that very spot years ago, so he knew the real root of the matter.
The capped man lifted his eyes—same steely grey as his hair—and chuckled. “Checkmate, Nigel. As for Margaret—she did it to spite me. Knows I’m useless without her, so she’s making me sweat it out. Before she left, she said, ‘I’ve had enough, Nigel! Can’t do a thing on your own. Maybe now you’ll learn.’ Didn’t even say where she was going.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” Nigel asked, remembering his own hollow days.
“Rubbish. Or, well—lonely. First night, I thought I’d celebrate my freedom. Bought a bottle of Scotch, stuck it in the fridge… never even opened it. No one to scold me, no fuss. Just… quiet. Lost all taste for it.”
Nigel laughed. He understood. Been there, word for word.
Nigel studied the chessboard, lost in thought. The other men watched—some amused, some sympathetic. No one wanted to be left alone at their age. The bickering, the routines—that’s what made a marriage.
“Ring her up,” suggested the youngest of the lot. “Tell her you’ve seen the light.”
Nigel waved him off. “Who knows what she wants?”
“I remember herding goats back in Devon as a lad,” piped up his fifth-floor neighbour. “If one wandered off, you’d tempt it back with a carrot. Try that—lure her in. The rest sorts itself.”
“And what’s my carrot?” Nigel scoffed.
“Suppose I call her,” offered the bloke from next door. “Say I’ve knocked five times and no answer? Put the wind up her.”
Nigel sat straighter. “Brilliant! She’ll come flying back, thinking I’ve croaked. Meanwhile, I’ll have flowers, cake—the lot!”
With that, the men scattered.
——
Next day, true to plan, his neighbour Geoffrey rang Margaret and spun the tale—no answer at Nigel’s, something must be wrong.
Nigel wasted no time. He dashed to the shops—pastries, wine, then a florist for three carnations. By the time he got home, he was knackered. Still, begging pardon in pyjamas wouldn’t do. He dug out his funeral suit—the one she’d bought him—and laid the table. Champagne chilled, kettle on. He waited.
Blasted suit was roasting. But no—had to look his best when Margaret walked in.
He paced, peered out the window. No sign of her.
Then he decided to greet her at the door with the flowers. One carnation snapped as he fumbled. Pouring a finger of Scotch steadied his nerves.
An hour later, he slumped on the sofa, blooms clutched to his chest. Best not crease the suit. Just a quick kip…
——
Margaret arrived near dusk—five hours by train from her sister’s in Manchester, then a cab.
The flat was dark. Her stomach lurched.
She let herself in, quiet as a mouse. Not a sound.
“Nigel?” Nothing.
Flicking on the hall light, she stepped into the lounge—and nearly collapsed.
There he lay. Suit. Withered carnations in his grip.
She sank to her knees. Minutes passed before the tears came.
“Margaret!” Nigel beamed, thrusting the flowers at her. “You’re back!”
“Alive!” she shrieked. “You old drunk! Can’t leave you alone a week!”
She ranted while Nigel sat there grinning.
“Cosy again,” he thought. “My runaway lamb’s home.”
“Smirking, are you?” she snapped. “Just you wait—”
“Love you, Margaret,” he said softly. “Won’t let you go again.”
The scolding stopped.
“I’ve had a week to think. Don’t leave me. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“No more drinking?”
“Didn’t touch a drop till today.”
She huffed, flicked on the kitchen light—then gasped. The table gleamed—cake, wine, her best china.
“Oh… Nigel.”
“Good carrot, that,” he mused. “Now, just to keep surprising her. Won’t lose my Margaret again.”
