Im off to my young lass! announced Granddad, aged 65, as he packed his suitcase. An hour later, he returned in tears.
Im leaving for my young lass! he declared, struggling to squeeze a checkered blanketdetermined to stay putinto his battered suitcase.
Henry Carter said it as if he was announcing a trip to the moon or the discovery of a new continent. Loudly, with great drama, expecting his words to drop like a bombshell.
But nothing exploded. Not a sound.
His wife, Margaret Carter, was ironing one of Henrys best shirts, moving the iron in slow, practiced sweeps. With every hiss of steam, she brought a little more normality into their small flat.
I heard you, Henry, she answered calmly, not looking up. Did you pack your woollen pants? Its Novemberthe young lass wont be bothered nursing your kidneys.
Henry froze mid-motion, holding a woollen sock aloft. He had expected broken crockery, a fainting fit, maybe even pleas to stay or threats to call the children.
He certainly hadnt expected a question about his underwear.
Whats that got to do with anything, Margaret? he howled, cheeks blossoming red. Im talking about love! A new life! A renaissance!
At last, he forced the blanket in, body splayed across the suitcase, wrenching the zip shut with a pained creaka sound not unlike his own joints.
And all you care about is my underpants! Youre so so dreadfully practical! Dull! He drew a breath. But out theretheres energy! Romance! Flight!
And does this energy have a name? Margaret asked mildly, hanging his shirt on a hanger and passing it to him. Or is she simply Bunny in your phone?
Shes called Florence! Henry announced proudly, taking the shirt. And shes not just a woman, Margaretshes a muse.
Margaret snorted quietly, well aware that the only poetry Henry liked was badly rhymed toasts at friends birthdays.
Florence. Lovely name. And how old is your muse?
Twenty-eight! Henry blurted, staring at Margaret as though daring her disbelief.
She paused, iron in mid-air, and gave him the look youd reserve for a beloved old wardrobe thats suddenly missing a door.
Henry, she said gently, but with a note of steel. Youre sixty-five. Your back seizes from sitting too long, and your livers on its last warning.
She sighed and added, What will you do with a twenty-something Florence? Quote Byron all night?
Thats my business! snapped Henry, grabbing the suitcase handle. Well travel! Well walk under the moonlight! Well savour life! Im not dead yet!
He tried to heft the bag, but it was treacherously heavy. His back twinged, but he managed to keep his face steady.
One should never show weakness in front of an ex. Soon to be ex.
Dont forget your blood pressure pills, Casanova, Margaret called, turning to iron a pillowcase. Theyre in the top drawer. And the joint cream.
I dont need any pills! he lied, his heart thumping in his chest. With her I feel thirty! He forced a grand tone. Thats it, Margaret. Goodbye. Im leaving you the flatIm a gentleman.
Thank you, breadwinner, she nodded. Leave the keys on the sidetake the rubbish out if youre heading off.
That finished him. No drama. No wailing. Just, Take the rubbish.
He picked up the bag by the door, raised his chin proudly, and stepped into the communal hall. The door didnt slamit clicked shut.
Henry found himself in a dingy landing that smelt of cat and his neighbours fried chips. His arm ached from the case, his back from bending, and his phone buzzed in his pocket.
That must be Florencehis lady was waiting.
He pressed the lift button, heart fluttering, and pulled out his smartphone. A message awaited: Darling, you nearly here? Ive booked us a table. By the way, quick issue
He read: Can you send me £200? Mums stuck and needs her medication, and I hit my bank limit. Ill pay you back when we meet xx.
Henry frowned. Two hundred pounds? Odd. Yesterday it was a taxisixty quid. The day before, forty for groceries. Last week, hed sent £400 for some inspiration workshop.
The lift arrived. Henry dragged his case in and pressed Ground. The mirror reflected a red-faced, bewildered pensioner in a flat cap.
Im off to my young lass, he repeated to himself, but the phrase sounded hollow, stripped of its glory.
Outside, it was cold and wet: drizzle, wind, and the last of the autumn leaves clinging on for dear life. Henry hauled his case to the bus stopFlorence lived clear across London, in some new development.
He sat on a cold bench beneath the shelter and pulled out his phone to transfer the money. His fingers were numb. He opened the bank app.
Balance: £192. The pension wouldnt come for a week.
Damn, he muttered.
He typed instead: Flo, love, bit skint just now. Ill bring cash when I see you, got a stash at home.
Reply came instantly: a rolling-eye emoji. Then: Henry, dont be a child. Borrow off someone! Mums sick! If you love me, youll sort it!
Henry. Not darling, not lovejust Henry, like he was the neighbours labrador.
A sticky feeling snaked through his chest. Not lovesomething much more suspicious.
He suddenly realised Florence had never once spoken to him on video. There was always a broken camera or bad connection. The profile photos, though, were model material.
He decided to ring her, just to hear her voice. Long tones then it cut off.
A message: I cant talk, Im crying!
Henry sat on the bench, clutching his suitcase handle, as traffic sprayed dirty water at his feet.
Despite his best shirt and autumn jacket, the cold reached his bones. His back ached so badly, he wanted to scream.
Florence, he said aloud, tasting the name. It left a plastic aftertaste.
Suddenly his phone buzzed again: Well?! Have you sent it? If notdont bother coming. I dont want a man who cant solve a simple problem.
He stared at the screen, letters blurring.
He thought of Margaret. How shed silently rubbed ointment on his back yesterday when it seized. How she made steamed burgers he despised but ate, because his liver wasnt invincible.
How she always knew where his socks were.
I dont want a man
He pictured her flatthe strange sofa, the odd smell, the endless expectation to perform, to pay, to justify his presence alongside youth.
And what if his back went there? Would Florence rub in ointment, or tut and go in the next room?
Slowly, Henry rose, knees crackling. The bus to Florences new development pulled up. But Henry stayed put.
The bus left, a whiff of exhaust in its wake.
He lingered another moment, gazing at the empty road. Then he turned, hefted the heavy suitcase, and walked home.
The way back seemed endless. The lift was brokenclassicso he lugged his bag up three flights.
At every landing, he stopped to catch his breath, dabbing cold sweat from his brow. His heart thundered now not from love but exertion.
At his own door, Henry set down the case and rang the bell. Silenceno answer.
A surge of panic: what if shed left for good, changed the locksespecially since hed left the keys behind like a fool. He rang again, long and desperate.
Margaret! he croaked out. Margaret, open up!
The lock slid, and the door swung open. There stood Margaret, calm as ever, in her dressing gown.
Henry stood there, sodden, muddy, clutching his sopping flat cap. Tears rolled down his cheeksreal, bitter tears of shame, regret, and a deep exhaustion with foolishness and old age.
I he began, his voice cracking. Margaret And the bus… The rain And I thought
He couldnt bring himself to say the truth: that Florence was nothing but a scammer after his money. It was simply too humiliating.
Margaret regarded him, then his suitcase, and sighed.
Did you take out the rubbish? she asked.
Henry looked at his empty hand, suddenly recalling the rubbish bag left abandoned at the bus stop.
Forgot he whispered.
She shook her head, stepping aside. Come in, Romeo. Teas getting cold. And wash your hands, youre a mess.
He shuffled inside, dragging in the wretched suitcase. The familiar scent of clean linen and faint medicine filled his nostrilsthe best smell in the world.
He kicked off his shoes, washed up. In the mirror, a weary old man stared back. He splashed icy water on his face, scrubbing away the tears and humiliation.
When he emerged in the kitchen, Margaret was pouring tea into his favourite big mug. A plate of steamed burgers waited.
Margaret, he said softly, as he sat. Sorry. Old fool I am. Got carried away.
Eat, she replied, not turning round. Itll get cold otherwise.
No, really Florencewhat a joke. What muse? I dont even know where my policy is kept without you
In the file, in the top drawer, she replied automatically, sitting down. Dont start the theatrics, Henry. Youre home, thats what matters.
He chewed the tasteless burger, and it was better than any treat in a fancy restaurant.
And this Florenceturns out she smokes, if you can believe! And swears.
Margaret looked at him over her glasses, lips twitching.
Dreadful. Of course, a distinguished connoisseur like you couldnt stand that.
Absolutely! Henry brightened. I told her: Madam, your vocabulary doesnt match your appearance
He waved dismissively.
Anyway, it was a mistake. Shes empty, Margaret. Hollow as a drum.
Good job you realised at the bus stop and not at the registry office, Margaret replied. She got up, fished some ointment from a cupboard, and placed it in front of him.
Back sore from hauling that suitcase?
Henry blushed.
A bit.
Shirt off, then. Ill do it.
He undid his shirt, wincing, and felt her strong, familiar hands working ointment into his aching back. It stung, but in a good, healing way.
Margaret? he mumbled into the table.
What?
You knew Id come back, didnt you?
Of course.
Why?
She gave his good shoulder a light thump, indicating shed finished.
Because, Henry, you packed no pants, no socks, no pills in that case of yours.
She hid a small smile.
You squeezed in my old fur coat, the one Ive asked you to take to the cleaners for weeks, and the blanket.
Henry froze, turning slowly.
The fur coat?
She nodded. Saw you stuffing it in there earlier. Did you think I wouldnt notice? Without your glasses, youre blind as a bat.
For a moment, they sat in silence. Henry digested the fact hed set off for his new life carrying his wifes fur coat and a blanket.
Suddenly, he burst out laughing. First quietly, then so hard it became a cough. Margarets lips twitched into a reluctant smile too.
You daft old fool, she said, kind in her scolding. Finish your burger. Tomorrow were off to the allotmentthe preserves need to go in the cellar. Thats your exercise and fresh air sorted.
All right, love. Well go, Henry said, wiping tears of laughter.
His phone buzzed again. Henry glanced at the screen: Florence: WHERE are you?? Mums dying!! Send even fifty quid!!
He pressed Block, then Delete Chat, and put the phone face-down on the table.
Margaret, maybe we forget the preserves? he suggested shyly, eyes bright for the first time in years. How about a barbecue? Ill do the marinade myself, like you likewith loads of onions.
Margarets eyebrows shot up. Henry hadnt gone near the grill in ten years.
Barbecue? she repeated. What about your liver?
To hell with my liver, he chuckled. You only live once.
He grabbed her handrough, work-worn, but belovedand gave it an awkward but heartfelt kiss.
Thanks for having me back, Margaret.
She let him keep hold for a moment, not snatching it away.
Eat up, Don Juan. Your burgers getting cold.
Rain battered the window, wind rattled the branches, but the kitchen was warm and bright. His best shirt hung on a chair, and the air smelled faintly of ointment and tea.
The best scent in the world.
Henry looked at his wife, and thoughtyes, twenty-eights not bad. But who else would know hed unwittingly pack a fur coat, and still let him in again?
Margaret, he called.
What now?
Ill take that coat to the cleaners tomorrow. And sort out the suitcase.
Do, she nodded. And fetch out the blanket, my feet are freezing.
Henry nodded, then bit into his burger with a hearty appetite.
Life carried on. And, really, it wasnt half bad at all.
