Im a stayathome mum, and my little boy is two and a half now. Every day we set off for a stroll down the High Street of our tidy market town and end up at the local playground. The route to the childrens corner snakes past a row of corner shops a greengrocer, a newsagent, a small chemist. As I always do, I pop a fresh plain bun with poppy seeds into Arthurs little hands. We sit on the bench, and the lad devours it with the eager gusto only a toddler can muster, leaving me a few precious minutes to catch my breath.
I love watching the passersby on the boulevard its my favourite pastime. By the way they walk, the cut of their coat, the colour of their shoes, I try to guess their trade, what occupies their thoughts, what theyre dreaming of, where theyre hurrying. Im always making a guess.
A familiar pair appeared on the far side of the street: a distinguished silverhaired gentleman, probably about seventyfive, and his companion, whose age I cant quite pin down somewhere between sixty and seventy, Id wager. Ill explain why Im unsure.
We see this couple almost every day, rain or shine, since were out together as often as the sun rises. Ive never caught the lady without a fresh dab of makeup; calling her old gran just doesnt sit right. Her purse is stocked with concealer, blush, mascara, eyeliner, and a neutral eyeshadow palette. She dyes her hair a soft ashblond and styles it in a timeless shell bob. Shes clearly a fashionsavvy sort, and Ive taken note of the many ensembles she sports. What catches my eye most are her hands shes a regular at the nail salon. Each visit she debuts a new manicure, ranging from classic French tips to a daring scarlet that could be called flames of passion. In my mind shes a dragonfly.
The couple often rest on the bench near the shops, the same bench where Arthur and I pause. The womans name is Ethel, and her husband is George.
Honestly, Ethel, you cant be tossing chestnuts at strangers with your feet, George chided. One slip and you could hurt someone. How would you feel if a chestnut landed on your own shin?
Donkey! Ethel retorted, laughing. Only in autumn do I let myself have that kind of fun! Chestnuts, love, dont be cross, dear.
Fine, Ill buy you a rubber ball no, a few of them so you can play at home without bothering anyone, and Ill hide in the bathroom when youre at it, George replied.
George, playing ball at home is no good fun! Its not the same buzz, Ethel replied, pouting. If you dont like it, Ill walk the other side of the street. You can even pretend weve never met. She pressed her lips together in mock offense and turned away.
Never mind, Ive got to keep an eye on you. Otherwise youll end up knocking on the polices door in your old age, or youll break a foot and Ill have to fetch you the morning paper. You know I make a proper thick soup, and youll starve if you dont eat it. Ill ban you from visiting the kids unless you behave, you little scamp! George bellowed, halfjoking, halfserious. Come here, my onioneyed sorrow, Ill hold your hand and pretend were heading to the psychiatrist. Youre a right little troublemaker!
I delighted in those exchanges, marveling at how a couple could keep such a spirited, affectionate banter well into their silver years. Theyd tease each other with a sharp wit and a colourful turn of phrase, each comment laced with the sort of tenderness that seemed to seep into every glance, every breath, every smile.
It was always a treat to watch them: Ethel would launch into an animated anecdote, gesturing wildly, sometimes stamping her foot for emphasis, while George would nod, offer a supportive chuckle, and gently rest his elbow on her arm.
What never ceased to amaze me was the gentle, aching love that wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Their affection was evident in every tiny gesture the way Ethels hand found Georges palm, the way she stared into his eyes, the way she pouted in mock irritation. It read like an endless vow of trust and devotion. George would often say, Mind your step, love, youre not a spring chicken any more. Miss a step and you could break a bone, and then what would I do?
And, believe it or not, theyd kiss on that very bench, strolling arminarm down the boulevard as if they were teenagers discovering the world for the first time, their faces lit with a happiness that seemed to make the whole street hum. Their passion still burns bright, as vivid as ever.
Today they settled on the same bench again. I overheard their little chat:
Do you think theyll have a sale on that pastel liquid lipstick? Ill pop in if theres a discount, Ethel asked George.
Go on, love, Ill wait here. Just dont buy the whole range leave some for the other ladies, George replied with a smile.
Arthur had finished his bun and waddled over to the bench where George was seated. George reached into his bag, pulled out a small chocolate bar, and handed it to the boy.
Here you go, lad, enjoy. Whats your name?
Arthur, I said, grateful for the chance to introduce my son.
Arthur crinkled the wrapper with delight.
Pardon my curiosity, Ive watched you two for quite a while. Youre an extraordinary pair. How do you keep the spark alive? Do share your secret, I asked, eager for an answer.
George fell silent, eyes fixed on the fallen leaves rustling beneath his feet. A breeze lifted the foliage, swirling them in a dazzling little dance before they settled back down, reluctant to end their brief flight.
We first met in the autumn of 68, roughly fiftyfive years back, George began. Ethel was wandering the park, gathering colourful leaves. Shed lean over each one and smile at it. She wore a patched coat, a white beret, and shoes that had seen better days, but she was radiant. In her arms she clutched a handful of yellow, orange and red leaves, a few pennies hidden in the inner pocket of her coat. At home we survived on bread and mustard, yet she was a shining nymph. Ethel talked to the flowers, brushed the heads of blackberries and chrysanthemums. She was airy, otherworldly, and stole my heart forever. She taught me to relish life, every day, in any weather snow, rain or sunshine. Though she seemed delicate, she was fiery, bright as the autumn itself, fierce, determined, and fully aware of her worth. Many courted her, but she chose only me. She only shows her true, unmasked self to a few. She let me glimpse her thoughts, and thats how it is.
Do you ever argue? I asked.
Of course we do, George admitted. Misunderstandings happen to everyone. The trick is to deal with them promptly, not let resentment fester. Lifes too short to waste on grudges. In my younger days, Id give Ethel the silent treatment for weeks, thinking I was teaching her a lesson. I soon realised those days were like leaves ripped from a calendar, blown away by the wind, never to return. So I stopped the nonsense, forgave, and moved on.
Do you ever lose your temper with her? I pressed.
Arthur was busy munching his chocolate, ears perked to our conversation.
Its a strange thing, George continued, I know she can be a handful, but I cant live without her. If she vanished, Id be lost. She takes forever to choose a dress, a sweater, a pair of shoes the third time in a row! Yet I stay quiet. Who else will help her dress, bring her tea for her tablets, keep her company? Were rooted together. The thought of facing my final days alone terrifies me. Once I was down with a lung infection; she braved a snowdrifted night, scouring pharmacies for antibiotics, warming my forehead with a damp cloth, giving me injections, feeding me from a spoon, and pulling on warm socks for my feet. She never once complained, though she was shivering and her cheeks were pink from the cold.
At that moment, a flushedcheeked Ethel approached.
Can you imagine, George, they dont have that exact shade of lipstick I need? One minute its pink, the next its red, then lilac none of them suit me, she mused.
Why are you so quiet, love? Did you pick up detergent? Hand me that bag, youve grabbed onto it too tightly. Put on your gloves, your fingers are turning to icicles. Let me warm them up, or else your joints will ache again, George hurried, urging her home. Its time for dinner. See you later, Arthur! Mum, listen up.
We all waved our goodbyes. Arthur continued to wave at the departing couple for a long while. Two figures strolled down the boulevard, but they moved as one a world woven from tenderness, patience, shared experience and love. To love so gently is a true art, and Id love nothing more than to feel its touch. Do you agree?
