I fell in love at 70. My children told me it was shameful.
You know how, when you hit seventy, you feel like youve tasted everything life has to offer? Morning tea, your favourite armchair by the window, those old novels youve read three times over and keep reading anyway, because your memory isnt quite what it used to be. Then theres the silence that lingers after forty years of marriage, when one of you is suddenly gone.
I knew that silence all too well for three long years. Three years of an empty kitchen, solitary dinners, and talking to the cat as if he were some sort of therapist. Incidentally, the cat is a rubbish therapistnever answers, and always seems to nod off just as youre getting to the heart of it.
And right when life, with its usual lack of subtlety, decided to toss a seventy-year-old man my way, I was nowhere near ready. Not in the slightest.
It was at the book fair. On a Tuesday. It was tipping it down outside. I was in my most dreadful raincoatyou know, that beige one that looks as though I bought it from a charity shop specializing in panto costumes for elderly ladies? Because, well thats exactly where I got it. At the time, it seemed like a clever idea.
He was standing at a second-hand bookstall, specs perched on the end of his nose and leafing through a book he obviously wasnt reading. He was gazing into the distance, as if working out the age of the universe. Or maybe what he fancied for tea. With men, you can never really tell.
I wandered over because Im not the type to stand about idle, and said, Tell me, is the book speaking to you, or are you speaking to it?
He jumped so much that his glasses nearly slid off. Caught them with one hand, laughed with the other, and looked at me as if I were the funniest thing hed seen in the last twenty years. Perhaps I was. Twenty years is plenty of time to go without a decent laugh.
Shes talking to me, he said. But Im not listening.
And thats when I felt something odd stirring. Not in my heartId long stopped running that on high gear. In my stomach, if Im honesta real jumble, as if someone had decided to whip up a fry-up in there without asking.
I suggested we grab a cup of tea. He said yes. I have no idea how we leapt from talking books to lets get a cuppa in just forty seconds. But thats life when youve nothing to lose.
We talked for three hours over that tea.
Three hours in which I learned his name was Edward, he was a widower, he had two sons who treated him like some household appliance they hadnt a clue where to put, and that the only thing hes ever been able to cook is scrambled eggs.
Scrambled eggs? I said. And what with?
Whatevers there.
Edward, thats not cooking. Thats survival.
He laughed so hard he nearly knocked his tea over. And I thought to myself: well, this man is a proper mess, but hes an entertaining mess. And at seventy, thats worth a lot.
We went out another three times before I decided to tell the kids. Not out of shame, mindmore like strategic planning. Like packing before a tricky journey. I needed to prepare my words, along with my very best dont try to talk me out of this face.
Sunday came. The three of us sat round the table. My eldest had set about the roast with almost sacred devotion. The food was smashing. The wine, utterly mediocre, but I sipped away all the same. And just at the right moment, between the main and the pudding, I piped up:
By the way Im seeing someone.
Silence. So thick you could serve it with a spoon.
My daughter was the first to move. Opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Mum, she said, in that voice she uses when she thinks Im about five. You cant be serious.
Why ever not?
Its well, its shameful, my son muttered, eyes fixed on his plate. People will talk.
And thats when I stood up.
Son, I said calmly, which people, exactly? Because today I spoke to next-doors Margaret, the lady from the bakery, and a dog in the park. None of them seemed a bit bothered. The dog, in fact, looked quite chuffed for me.
Another silence. Shorter, this time.
And one more thing, I carried on, pouring myself another glass of wine. If you tell me its shameful again, Ill invite him round for lunch. Every Sunday. With his scrambled eggs.
My son nearly choked on his water.
My daughter hid her face in her hands.
Me? With all the dignity a seventy-year-old woman in a beige raincoat can muster, I just smiled and phoned Edward that very evening.
Edward, I asked, can you cook anything besides scrambled eggs?
Guess what he said?
