“The kids are grown, and the moment she retired, she ran off on me—can you believe it?” grumbled the silver-haired man in a flat cap to his chess partner.
Autumn had just begun scattering its golden leaves across the yard. The air was crisp and light, perfect for an afternoon outdoors.
It had become their routine—every summer, the pensioners gathered in the park near their block, claiming a quiet corner with three benches. They met there all season, escaping the heat when they could.
Even as the chill set in, the habit stuck. The same silver-haired men still met on their benches by the building, bundled up against the cold.
“Ran off just like that? Maybe it’s not her—maybe it’s you!” His chess partner, sitting across from him, smirked. “A good man’s wife doesn’t just leave.”
Arthur himself had been in the same boat years ago. He knew exactly where the roots of this escape might lie.
The man in the flat cap raised his eyes—just as grey as his hair—and smiled at Arthur.
“Checkmate, then. But as for my Margaret—she’s done it just to spite me! Knows I can’t manage without her, that’s why she’s done it—wants me to learn my lesson.”
Before she left, she’d told him plainly:
“I’m tired of waiting on you, Harold! Can’t do a thing for yourself—well, I’m off. See how you like it now.”
Didn’t even say where she was going…
“So, how’s it been, then?” Arthur asked, remembering all too well how it felt.
“Awful. Or—lonely, more like! First day, I was ready to celebrate. Even bought a bottle of whisky. Put it in the fridge—never took it out again.”
No one scolds him now—no one tells him he can’t. No noise, no fuss. And suddenly, he’s lost the taste for it. Just this weight, pressing down on him…
Arthur chuckled. He understood Harold perfectly. Lived through it himself, exactly as he described.
Harold stared at the chessboard, lost in thought.
The other men nearby watched with a mix of amusement and sympathy. No one wanted to be left alone at their age.
Even with all the little annoyances of daily life, that’s what a wife was for—to balance you out.
“Call her, then,” suggested one of the younger men in the group. “Tell her you’ve seen the error of your ways.”
Harold waved him off.
“Who knows what she even wants?!”
“Reminds me of when I was a lad,” Harold’s neighbor from the fifth floor cut in. “Used to herd goats back in the village. If one wandered off, you’d tempt it back with a carrot. Lure yours back! The rest sorts itself out.”
“And what do I use as bait?” Harold laughed. “She’s got everything—can’t afford to get this wrong.”
“How about this—I’ll ring her, say I’ve knocked five times and no one answers?” offered the neighbor from across the landing.
Harold sat up straighter.
“Oh—that’s it! She’ll come flying back, thinking something’s happened. And there I’ll be—flowers, cake, the lot!”
With that, the men went their separate ways.
…The next day, just as planned, Harold’s neighbor William phoned Margaret and spun a tale—come home quick, Harold’s gone quiet, won’t answer the door.
Meanwhile, Harold wasted no time. He dashed to the shops first thing, grabbing biscuits, sweets, then stopped by the florist for three carnations before rushing home.
“Blimey, that was a runaround,” Harold thought, catching his breath.
But sitting around in pajamas wouldn’t do—not for an apology like this.
He changed into his best grey suit—the one Margaret had picked for funerals—and set the table with care. Everything ready: sparkling wine chilled, kettle boiled, sweets laid out. Now, he waited.
The suit was stifling, but he couldn’t take it off. He had to look his best when Margaret walked in!
Up and down he paced, glancing out the window. Still no sign of her.
Then he decided—he’d meet her with the flowers. Grabbed the carnations, but one snapped, just his luck.
He poured a finger of whisky, just to steady his nerves.
An hour passed, sitting there on the sofa, flowers clenched in his hands, until drowsiness tugged at him.
Careful not to wrinkle the suit, he lay down, tucking the bouquet against his chest so he wouldn’t lose it.
…Margaret didn’t arrive till evening. She’d been at her sister’s in Birmingham—five hours by train, then a taxi to their flat.
As she neared their building, she looked up—no lights in their windows.
Her heart lurched. She hurried inside.
Quietly, she unlocked the door and stepped in. The flat was silent—no sign of Harold.
“Good Lord, don’t tell me—”
She flicked on the hallway light, then stepped into the living room—and nearly sank to her knees.
There on the sofa lay Harold—still in his suit—two wilted carnations clutched in his hands.
Margaret dropped beside him, head bowed, before the tears came.
“Margaret! You’re back!” Harold beamed, holding out the flowers.
“You—you awful man!” she cried. “Drunk already, are you?! This is why I can’t leave you for a week!”
She scolded him relentlessly, while Harold just sat there, grinning like a fool.
“Home,” he thought, warmth spreading in his chest. “My runaway’s back. Managed to lure her in after all.”
“Sitting there smiling! Just wait—I’ll give you what for!”
“Oh, but I love you, Margaret. Love you so much I’ll never let you go again,” he said softly.
That stopped her mid-rant.
“A week alone was enough. Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything you want.”
“And no more drinking?”
“Didn’t touch a drop while you were gone! Just a sip earlier, that’s all.”
She huffed, then flicked on the kitchen light—and gasped.
“Oh—oh my—”
“Good carrot, that,” Harold mused. “Now I’ll just have to surprise her every day—then my Margaret won’t run off again.”
