The children were grown, and the moment she retired, she up and fled from me, can you believe it?—grumbled the silver-haired man in his hat to his chess partner.
Autumn had just begun to scatter its golden leaves across the yard. The weather was splendid, the air crisp and free.
It had always been the way—throughout summer, the pensioners spent their days in the park near their building. They claimed a quiet nook with three benches close together, gathering all season long once the heat faded.
When winter crept in, the habit held. The grey-haired men still stepped out to pass the hours on those same benches by the house.
—Ran off just like that, eh? Might’ve been your fault!—chuckled the chess partner across from him.—No good woman leaves a decent man.
Reginald had been in the same spot himself years before and knew well where the roots of such a flight might lie.
The silver-haired man lifted his eyes—same shade as his hair—and smirked.
—Checkmate, Reggie. As for the wife—she did it to spite me! Knew I couldn’t manage without her, that’s why. Right before marching out, she said:
—I’m sick of waiting on you, Nigel! Can’t do a thing on your own—well, now you’ll see how it feels!
Didn’t even say where she was off to…
—So how’s it been, then?—Reggie asked, remembering his own ordeal.
—Dreadful. Worse—lonely! First day, I nearly celebrated. Even bought a bottle of scotch… Stuck it in the fridge, but couldn’t bring myself to open it.
No one’s there to scold me, no warnings of—don’t you dare!—No ruckus about the place. Just like that, the urge vanished. Such a heaviness came over me…
Reggie laughed. He understood Nigel perfectly. He’d weathered the same storm, exactly as Nigel described.
Nigel stared at the chessboard, lost in thought.
The men nearby watched, some anxious, others pitying. No one wanted to be left alone at their age.
Sure, there were quarrels in the daily grind, but that’s what a partner was for—to make life whole.
—Just ring her up, say you’ve seen the light, repent,—suggested the youngest of the lot.
Nigel waved a hand.
—Who knows what she wants?!
—When I was a lad,—Nigel’s neighbour from the fifth floor suddenly spoke,—I herded goats back in the village. If one wandered off, I’d lure her back with a carrot. Try it with yours—things’ll sort themselves.
—With what, a carrot?—Nigel snorted.—She’s got everything! No room for error here.
—I’ll call her,—offered the bloke from the landing.—Say I’ve knocked five times and no one answers.
—Brilliant!—Nigel perked up.—She’ll come flying back, think something’s happened. Meanwhile, I’ll have flowers, a cake!
With that, the men parted ways.
The next day, as planned, the neighbour—Victor—rang Nigel’s wife and spun the tale: hadn’t seen Nigel in days, door bolted, something amiss—best hurry home.
Nigel wasted no time. He dashed to the shops at dawn, fetching treats, then to the florist for three carnations before scurrying back.
—Blimey, I’m knackered,—Nigel thought.
But apologising in pyjamas wouldn’t do. He changed into his grey suit—the one Margaret bought for funerals—and set the table.
Everything ready: bubbly chilling, kettle whistling. He waited.
Too hot in the suit, but he couldn’t remove it—must greet Margaret properly! He paced to the window. No sign of her.
Then he resolved to meet her with the flowers. Gripping the carnations—one already bent—he sipped a drop of scotch to steady his nerves.
An hour passed, flowers clutched on the sofa, drowsiness creeping in. Nigel lay carefully to avoid wrinkling the suit. He pressed the blooms to his chest—no fumbling when she arrived.
Margaret returned late that evening. Five hours by train from her sister’s, then a cab.
Approaching their building, she froze—no lights in their windows!
Her heart raced as she flew up the stairs.
Keys turned silently. The flat was still. No sound of her Nigel.
—Dear Lord, what’s happened?—she thought.
Light flicked on. Then—the sitting room.
She gasped, knees buckling.
There lay Nigel—in his suit—two wilted carnations in his hands.
Margaret sank beside him, head bowed, tears falling.
—Margaret! You’re back!—Nigel beamed, offering the flowers.
—Alive!—she shrieked.—Been carousing, have you? Knew I couldn’t leave you a week! What sort of man are you, Nigel?!
She raged as Nigel sat smiling.
—How fine it is to have you home,—he mused.—My runaway lamb… Lured you back.
—Smirking, are you?—Margaret fumed.—Just you wait!
—Love you so, Margaret,—he said softly.—Won’t let you go again.
The words disarmed her.
—A week was enough… Don’t leave me. I’ll do anything.
—And no drink?
—Didn’t touch a drop till now. Just a sip.
—Right,—she huffed, clicking on the kitchen light.
—Oh! Oh!—came her cries from the kitchen.
—Fine carrot, that,—Nigel mused.—Now to surprise her daily… She won’t run again.
