Sir George, aged 67, invited me to supper. His thirty-year-old daughter, having dug up my past, asked a most tactless question… He fell silent in shock, and I fled that very instant.
Margaret Evelyn was a woman whom the years only made more graceful, lending her an air of refined gentility and quiet strength.
She had been a widow these five years. The wound of her loss had long since healed, her childrena son and a daughterflown the nest into their own families, and so, at sixty, Margaret spent her days alone in a snug, lovingly appointed two-bedroom flat. Solitude did not oppress her: she frequented the local swimming baths, visited art exhibitions, and had even mastered the art of baking delicate macarons, which she once admired only in the windows of the upmarket patisseries.
Yet, as the saying goes, no man is an island. She yearned for someone to discuss the days news with, someone with whom to gripe about the dreary English weather, or simply sit in companionable silence, watching her favourite dramas, the gentle presence of another beside her.
Sir George arrived in her life like a leading man from an old black and white picture. They met in Regents Park, at a tea dance for those of a certain age. He asked her for a waltz, andremarkablymanaged not to tread on her toes, showering her with compliments all evening, which brought a charming flush to Margarets cheeks, long unaccustomed to such attention.
He was sixty-seven, silver-haired, well-groomed, his shirt smartly pressed. He had the air of an old-school gentleman, and told her he had worked all his life as an engineer, was himself widowed, and now resided with his daughter and her young family.
Margaret, you are remarkable, he would say as he escorted her to her front door. They dont make them like you anymore.
Their romance progressed swiftly, though with a certain innocencestrolls along the river, cups of tea in quaint cafés, ices on summer afternoons, and long telephone chats. George was ever thoughtful, never complained of his ailments nor asked to borrow a penny, which to Margaret was a sign of true respect.
And so, after a month, came the moment shed awaited with both excitement and a little trepidation. George invited her for supperhe wished her to meet his daughter.
My daughter, Abigail, is eager to see you, he said gently. Ive spoken so much about you. Come for suppera proper family gathering.
Margaret prepared as a schoolgirl might for the end-of-term dancecurling her hair just so, donning the finest dress she owned.
Georges home turned out to be a spacious three-bedroom in a handsome Victorian terrace, with high ceilings, ornate cornices, the scent of old booksand a certain tension in the air.
The door was opened by Abigail, who, though just thirty, seemed olderlarge-boned, firm-jawed, with a calculating look like a seasoned shopkeeper inspecting a box of tinned soup well past its sell-by.
Good evening, she said briskly, not offering a smile. Do come in. Father will be down presentlyhes spent ages deliberating over his tie.
Margaret presented the cake she had baked that morning. Abigail accepted it as though it were a dead mouse and retreated to the parlour.
The table was set with carecrystal glasses, salads, and a hot main, all suggesting much effort. George emerged from his room, beaming, hurrying to look after his guest.
Margaret, sit here. Abigail, give Margaret some salad, do.
The evening began in the usual way, with talk of weather, prices, the latest goings-on. Abigail remained mostly silent, chewing her roast with deliberate slowness and watching Margaret with an unblinking gaze.
Margaret started to feel uneasy, as though she were an item up for auction.
After the meal, with tea poured and dessert all but gone, Abigail set down her fork, dabbed her lips, and, fixing Margaret with an unyielding stare, asked:
Mrs Evelyn, do tell mewhat sort of flat do you have?
Margaret started, nearly choking on her tea. The question arrived so abruptly and in such poor taste that, for a moment, she wondered if she hadnt misheard.
Pardon me? she managed, startled.
Your flat, Abigail pressed, undeterred. Do you own it outright? How many rooms? Which part of town? Which floor?
It seemed as if George shrank before her eyes, nose buried in his teacup, pretending to find the bottom of his Earl Grey utterly riveting.
Well Its a two-bedroom, on Queens Avenue, Margaret replied, unsettled. But Im not quite sure what that has to do with supper
Abigail leaned back in her chair, arms folded.
Everything, Mrs Evelyn. Were not children; no need for moonings and sighs. I must know the circumstances.
What circumstances? Margarets gaze flitted between daughter and father, but George continued to study the tablecloth, as if he might decode some hidden message in its swirls.
The arrangements for care, Abigail stated crisply. I am quite prepared to entrust Father to your oversight. I must ensure his comfort, that hes looked after, the neighbourhood is peaceful, the surgery nearby. Father needs his peace and a proper diet.
Margaret set down her cup, the clink of china ringing through the silence like a small bell.
What do you mean by entrust Father to your oversight? she said, carefully enunciating each word. And who said I was to take him on?
Abigail looked genuinely amazed, raising her eyebrows.
What else? Youve come to supper. Father forever speaks of you If youre a couple, the next step is clearly living together, surely?
Perhaps, Margaret replied cautiously. But a month is hardly time enough for such decisions. And why have you decided your father should move to mine?
How else? Abigail began tallying her arguments on her fingers. Its true, we have a three-bedroom, but I live with my husband and two teenage sons. Its noisyFather cant abide the racket. Yours is a two-bedroom, and youre on your own. An ideal solution.
She spoke as if arranging for a stray cat to be temporarily stabled.
I thought youd be delighted, Abigail continued, seeing Margarets silence. A man in the househelp with small chores. It lightens my loadcooking for five, endless laundry, schoolwork.
And Father, with his high blood pressure and peccadilloes. Suits you, toohis pension untouched. Hes not fussy, so youll have more for yourself.
Margaret looked over at George.
George, why so silent? she asked quietly. Do you, too, think I should accept you as one might take delivery of a second-hand chair, to make life easier for Abigail?
George looked up. There was such sad resignation in his eyes that Margaret felt suddenly cold.
Margaret, he murmured, Abigail just worries. Its so cramped in ours, the boys are noisyits calm at yours, lovely.
Inside, she was seething. Shed believed this was romancegenuine interest, tenderness. But in truth, it was an audition for the role of unpaid live-in nurse.
You know what? Margaret rose. Thank you for the supper. The salad was delicious.
Where are you going? Abigail scowled. Weve not yet discussed the details. When can Father move? Not many belongings, but the favourite armchair must come.
Margaret gazed at this formidable, practical young woman, disposing of her fathers future as if sorting out an old divan.
Abigail, said Margaret, her voice ringing like steel, I seek a companion for happiness, not a solution to your household problems. Im not a branch of the almshouse.
She turned to George.
And you, George, have nothing to say? A man who allows his daughter to dictate his life so has no place in mine.
But Margaret George murmured, faltering, but Abigail stopped him with a firm hand, pushing him back into his chair.
Sit down, Dad! she barked. Never mind. Fathers a catchgood pension. If you dont want him, therell be another. Theres a queue of single ladies, after all.
Margaret hurried to the hallway, hands trembling as she struggled with the buttons on her coat. From the parlour came Abigails drone:
I told you, theyre all the same. After money and a good timeno sense of duty. Dad, lets invite Mrs Wilkins from next doorshes had her eye on you for ages.
Margaret made her way to the Underground, thinking, Thank heavens it came to light now, over supper, and not six months hence, when my heart might truly have settled.
As the old satirist once said, housing matters corrupt all. Children eager for their own space, shuffling off old Dad to a nice lady for his twilight yearsso convenient, practical.
And, sadly, many acceptfor fear of loneliness, for want of any sort of company. A sorrow, that.
But what would you say? Was Margaret right to walk out? Ought she have pitied the man, and taken him in, even if the daughter was so heartless?
