Im off to a young woman, declared 65-year-old Arthur, shoving a stubborn woollen blanket into his suitcase. An hour later, he returned home in tears.
Im leaving you for a younger lady! Arthur bellowed, trying unsuccessfully to squeeze his trusty tartan rug into a suitcase that seemed resolutely opposed to any upheaval.
He delivered his announcement as if he were Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon or the first to uncover a new continent. Loud, dramatic, expecting to make the ground shake.
But the earth refused to tremble. In fact, it didnt so much as creak.
His wife, Margaret, stood at the ironing board, methodically gliding the iron across his best shirt. Steam hissed, filling their quiet flat with the familiar aroma of clean laundry.
I heard you, Arthur, she responded calmly, without looking up. Packed your long johns? Its November. This young woman wont be interested in taking care of your kidneys.
Arthur froze, with a woolly sock clutched mid-air. Hed prepared himself for anything: smashed crockery, a dramatic fainting spell, begging or threats to call the children and grandchildren. Anything really, except for this practical question about underwear.
What have my pants got to do with it, Margaret?! he nearly wailed, cheeks burning. Im talking about love, about starting afresh, a new beginninga renaissance!
Finally forcing the blanket in and flinging his weight atop the suitcase, he yanked the zip shut. It creaked mournfully, like his own joints, but it held.
And all you ever care about is thermal underthings! Thats you all overdown-to-earth and dull! He paused to catch his breath. But over there, theres excitement! Adventure! Vitality!
Has this vitality got a name then? Margaret hung his shirt carefully and handed it to him. Or is it simply Sweetie in your mobile?
Shes called Emily! Arthur announced, standing straighter. And shes not just a woman, shes a muse.
Margaret snorted softly; she knew well that the only poetry Arthur enjoyed was recited over pints at birthday dos.
Emily, is it? Thats nice. And how old might your muse be?
Twenty-eight! Arthur blurted, challenging his wife with his gaze.
Margaret actually set the iron aside for a moment and studied him, as one might look at an ancient, beloved wardrobe whose door had suddenly fallen off.
Arthur, she began gently, though with steel beneath the softness, Youre sixty-five. You get backache from sitting in the loo too long, and youve been told to lay off the fried breakfast.
She sighed, adding, What are you planning to do with a twenty-something-year-old? Read her poems?
None of your concern! he snapped, gripping the suitcase handle. Well travel! Well walk under the moonlight! Well enjoy life! Im still full of beans!
Trying to heft the suitcase, Arthur nearly winced as a sharp pain shot up his back. He gritted his teeth and put on a brave face.
No, he told himself, he wouldnt show weaknessespecially not in front of his soon-to-be ex.
Dont forget your blood pressure tablets, Romeo, Margaret called, turning to a pillowcase. Theyre in the top drawer. And the joint cream.
I wont need tablets! he lied, though his heart hammered in his chest. With her I feel like Im thirty! Thats it, Margaret. Farewell. Ill leave you the house, Im a gent.
Cheers, breadwinner, she replied, not missing a beat. Leave your keys on the table, and if you could take the rubbish out on your way, much obliged.
That finished him off. No drama, no tears, just take the rubbish out.
Arthur snatched the bin-liner by the door and, head held high, marched to the landing. The door clicked quietly behind himno slam, no fuss.
He found himself in the stairwell, clouds of stale cat and someone frying chips wafting through the building. The suitcase strained his arm, his back was sore, and his phone buzzed in his pocket.
It must be Emily, waiting for her knight.
Waiting for the lift, he pulled out his smartphone, pulse quivering. A message pinged: Darling, will you be much longer? Ive booked us dinner. By the way, tiny snag
Arthur squinted at the text: Urgently need you to transfer £5000 to my Mums account for her medicationmy cards hit its limit. Please, Ill pay you back when we meet!
He frowned. £5000. Odd. Yesterday it was £300 for a taxi. The day before, £200 for internet bills. The week before, hed given £1000 for inspiration workshops.
The lift arrived. Arthur struggled the suitcase in and pressed G. His reflection stared back: an older man, pink-cheeked and lost.
Im going to a young woman, he repeated to himself, but suddenly the words felt hollow and silly.
It was chilly outside: drizzly, with a sharp wind scattering the last of the leaves. He dragged his suitcase to the bus stop; Emily lived all the way across town in a new-build block.
Arthur perched on a damp bench under the shelter and pulled out his phone, shivering fingers struggling with the banking app.
Balance: £480. Pension wasnt due till next week.
Bloody hell, he muttered.
He typed: Emily, love, Ive only got a little in my account. Ill bring cash overIve got a stash at home.
Her response arrived instantly: eye-roll emoji. Then, Arthur, are you a child? Borrow it from someone! If you love me, youll find a way!
Not Arthur, not darlingjust Arthur as if she were talking to the neighbours cat.
A queasy feeling stirred deep inside. Not love, just sticky suspicion.
Suddenly, he realised: hed never once spoken to Emily on a video call. Her camera was always broken or the internets dodgy. But oh, the profile photosstraight out of a magazine.
He dialled her number to at least hear a voice. Rings, then the call dropped.
A new message: I cant talk. Im crying!
Arthur sat at the bus stop, arms wrapped around the suitcase handle. Cars splashed by, spraying dirty water.
Cold seeped into his bones through the best shirt and autumn jacket. His back ached so much he wanted to howl.
Emily, he said to himself, tasting the name. It left a plastic feel on his tongue.
The phone buzzed again: Have you sent it yet? If notdont bother coming. I dont need a man who cant solve a simple problem.
Letters blurred on the screen.
He thought of Margaret. How, the night before, shed quietly rubbed ointment on his back when it locked up. How she made steamed chicken, which he detested, but ate anyway for his livers sake. How she always knew where his socks wereeven when he didnt.
I dont need a man
He imagined himself at Emilys flat. Strange sofa, strange smells, strange rules. Always having to perform, to prove himself.
And pay, pay, payfor a shot at youth.
And then what? What if his back gave in there? Would she rub his joints? Or huff and disappear into another room?
Arthur slowly stood up, knees creaking like old branches. He looked at the bus heading for the new estatebut just stood, unmoving, as it chugged away in a cloud of exhaust.
He stood, staring at the empty road. Then finally, he picked up the heavy suitcase and trudged backhome.
The climb back felt endless. The lift was out, of course, so he had to lug the suitcase up three flights.
At every landing, he stopped, panting and mopping sweat from his brow. His heart was thumping, but not with lovejust tiredness.
At his own door, he set the suitcase down and pressed the bell. Silence.
Panic swept over himcold, sticky panic. What if shed gone? What if she was cross for real this time? Locked him out?
Hed foolishly left his keys inside, after all! He jabbed the bell again, longer and more desperately.
Margaret! he croaked. Margaret, please open up!
The lock clicked and the door swung open. Margaret stood there in her dressing gown, perfectly calm.
Arthur stood before her, damp cap in hand, shoes and coat muddy, tears streaking down his face.
Real, hot tears of embarrassmentover himself, his own stupidity, the bitter realisation that old age had brought not wisdom, but delusion.
I he began, his voice cracking. Margaret The bus, the rain I just thought
He couldnt manage the truththat Emily was a sham who only wanted cash. That would be too humiliating.
Margaret looked at him, glanced at his suitcase, and sighed.
Did you take the rubbish out? she asked.
Arthur glanced at his free hand. The bag was missinghed forgotten it at the bus stop.
Forgot he mumbled, hanging his head.
She shook her head and stood aside.
Come on, Romeo. Teas getting cold. And wash your handsyoure filthy.
He followed her inside, wrestling the cumbersome suitcase down the hall. The flat smelled of clean laundry and a hint of ointment.
It was the best smell in the world.
Arthur kicked off his shoes and went to wash up. The man in the mirror looked old, tired. He splashed cold water on his face, washing away tears and shame.
When he entered the kitchen, Margaret was pouring tea into his favourite big mug. There were steamed cutlets on the table.
Margaret, he murmured, sinking into a chair, Im an old fool. Im so sorry.
Eat your dinner, she said briskly, not turning round. Itll go cold.
No, really. Some muse I chose, eh? Truth is, without you Id never even find my insurance policy.
In the folder, top drawer, she replied automatically, sitting across from him. Listen, Arthur, lets not have another performance. Youre back, thats what counts.
He forked up the dull-looking cutletit tasted better than anything in his memory.
She he began, deciding to save a shred of dignity, She smokes, you know. And swears. Couldnt stand that.
Margaret looked up over her glasses, a glint in her eyes that she tried hard to hide.
Oh my, how dreadful, she said, utterly serious. How could a connoisseur like you stand it?
Exactly! Arthur grinned. I said, Madam, your vocabulary does not suit your image!
He waved a hand.
Just empty, Margaret. Empty to the core.
Glad you figured that out before you married her, she replied, standing up to fetch his ointment.
She handed him the tube. Your back must be killing after all that luggage, hmm?
Arthur blushed.
A bit.
Take your shirt off then. Ill do it.
He peeled off the shirt stiffly, grunting. She rubbed ointment in with practiced, firm hands.
It stung in the best way: soothing, healing.
Margaret, he muttered, staring at the table.
What?
You always knew Id be back, didnt you?
Of course I did.
Why?
She swatted his good shoulder, signalling the ritual was finished.
Because, Arthur, you didnt pack any underwear, socks, or medicine.
A mischievous smile tugged her lips: Just that old rug and my fur coat youve been promising to take to the dry cleaner.
Arthur went still, head slowly turning.
The coat?
The coat. I saw you cramming it in. Did you think I wouldnt notice? Youre blind as a bat without your specs.
There was a moments pause as he processed it all. Hed set off for a new life carrying his wifes fur coat and an old rug.
Suddenly he started to laugh. At first softly, then louder and louder. Laughter turned to a cough, then more laughter.
Margaret looked at him, and her mouth twitched too.
You daft old branch, she said without malice. Right, intrepid explorer. Eat your dinner. Tomorrow we need to sort out the shed at the allotmentfit enough for a workout and fresh air.
Well go, Mags. Absolutely, Arthur nodded, wiping away the tears now born of relief.
The phone buzzed in his pocket again. From Emily: Where are you?? Mums dying!! Just send a grand!!
With utter certainty, Arthur pressed Block. Then deleted the chat, placing his phone face-down.
Margaret, how about forgetting that shed for a day? he suggested, looking at her anew. How about a barbecue? Ill marinate the meat myself. Like you like, with onions.
Margarets eyebrows shot up in surprise; Arthur hadnt manned the barbecue for a decade.
Barbecue? And your liver?
Blast the liver, he waved a hand. We only live once.
He took her handcalloused and work-hardenedand kissed it, a bit awkwardly but true.
Thanks for letting me back in, Mags.
She withdrew her hand, but gently, not abruptly.
Eat up, Casanova. Before its stone cold.
Rain splattered on the window, and wind lashed the branches, but inside, the kitchen was warm and bright. His best shirt hung by the chair, the air scented faintly of ointment and tea.
It was the best scent in the world.
Arthur looked at his wife and thoughttwenty-eight is all very well, but who else knows youd pack a fur coat by accident and still let you come home?
Mags? he called out.
What now?
Ill take the coat to the cleaners tomorrow, I promise.
Please do, she agreed. But first unpack the case. And get the rug out. My feet are freezing.
Arthur nodded and bit into a plump cutlet with gusto.
Life went on. And, dash it all, it wasnt half-bad at all.
Life lesson: Sometimes, the search for excitement blinds us to the quiet, genuine care already waiting at home. True love is knowing you can pack all wrong, and still be welcomed backno questions, just tea.
