31. The Young Window Cleaner

THE POETESS Part 31

I hate taking my memory back to that accident, to the dead face of a man I’d barely got to know before something about him, some tiny indeterminate thing, made me whisper that I loved him when he was dead. I hope now like I hoped then that if there was an instant of life left to him that he both heard and understood. But I’m sure for that infinitesimal fraction of time that’s exactly how I felt about him.

Outside Millers Cottage the sun is shining today after the drenching the world received yesterday. Sitting here in the comfort of my easy chair in what I cheekily think of as my pandemic parlour I can look out on creation, at the old ginger Tom,

‘Ah, Bastet…’ I whispered, to myself rather than to his haughty walk down to the stream.

They took me to hospital despite my own protestations that I’d been ridiculously lucky with barely a bruise on me. And when they got me there they kept me in overnight for observation. But there was nothing whatsoever wrong with me, though I did use the accident and Peter’s tragic death as a reason to take a few days sick leave from Woolworth’s.

For weeks my life was in pieces. I managed work all right because I could go onto auto-pilot and thus somehow get through the hours behind my counter.

I tried to write my emotions in fragile verse, but my emotions were just too raw and all I managed, or at least the only one I somehow kept, was this:

My creature had blown like angel’s dust

And missed me by a hiss of breath

Until I called it by the name of Lust

And saw it wither in Peter’s death.

And that was it, this dried out maid

Wandered where only the mourning strayed…

But life needed to be lived and I had to recover, which is where Stephen came in.

Call me a cradle-snatcher if you will, but Stephen wasn’t so long out of school and had set himself up with leathers and ladders to become a window cleaner. I was only too happy for him to clean my windows because nobody else wanted to. Strong Lane was becoming an obstacle too long and broken for those with cars to risk their suspensions on, though my little car had to. But Stephen towed a small cart behind his bicycle and somehow managed to jolt along.

I was in my spare room sorting out my wardrobe with the view of dropping stuff I’d never wear again at the nearest charity shop when I heard his ladder on the other side of the window sill. His face appeared, all youthful smiles, and it started to rain.

Rosie decided to be a good Samaritan and went down stairs to the door.

“Stephen,” she called, “it’s raining. Come in and shelter if you like. I’ll put the kettle on. Make us both a nice cup of tea.”

“That’s kind of you, miss,” he replied, gratefully.

“Rosie. You can call me Rosie.”

He climbed down his ladder as the rain started really slashing down, reminding Rosie of that day several years earlier when the caravan man Peter had been slaughtered by a careless and dangerous driver.

“Come on inside,” she urged him, and made two cups of tea, sitting him down opposite her at the kitchen table.

“I was afraid it would rain, miss… Rosie,” he said when they were both seated.

“Never mind. I’ll pay you anyway,” she replied, smiling, “it can’t be easy if your income is decided by the weather.”

“It isn’t,” he agreed, “and I’ve got bills to pay. Rent on my hole of a place. Gas and electricity, and I reckon the landlord’s fixed those meters to read too high.”

“That’s dreadful,” she murmured.

“And all I want is a room. Somewhere to keep my stuff and a bed to rest my head. Well, I’ve got that, but I’m always getting behind paying for it, and that’s mainly due to the sodding weather!”

“Where abouts is your room?” she asked, an idea forming in her mind.

“That’s why I came here first today,” he said, “I live on the Top road in one of those old terraced houses. It’s been divided into what the landlord fancifully calls flats, but it’d be generous to call them bed-sits!”

“That’s really quite near here,” she said thoughtfully.

“That’s why I came this way today. Thought I might fit you in before the weather broke.”

“How would it be if you had my spare room? No rent but pay your own way, clean my windows once a fortnight and maybe, if you’re at a loose end, push my lawn mower about a bit?” she asked.

“You mean that miss … Rosie?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t. When we’ve finished our tea I’ll show you the spare room. It’s not very big, but it’s clean and cheerful.”

And that’s what happened. Stephen Shockleworth went up the stairs and I showed him the spare room. There were a few of my things piled on the bed, things I’d been preparing to take to the charity shop. Other than that it was ready for him to move into, if he so chose.

I knew nothing about him, save for one thing. He had the most friendly blue eyes I’d seen for ages! Nobody bad, I thought, could have eyes as bright as that! And that’s what decided me to offer him almost free accommodation. I know I could go waffling about remembering what it’s like to be on the bread line, but that’s somewhere I’ve never been. I believe that at the back of it was my need to know that I’m not alone in a cottage so far off the beaten track. It’s what happened next that clinched the deal, though.

Rosie and Stephen were in the spare room, and he looked around, delighted.

“It’s wonderful,” he said quietly. “I’ve got some books that I like to read, and look: there’s a book case!”

There was, against a scruffy patch of wall.

Then he looked at her pile of cast-offs and picked up one of the garments. It was the mini-kilt she’d bought when she was about his age.

“Is this yours?” he asked.

“I was making a pile to take to the charity shop,” she said, “I’ve kept it so long because there are memories…”

“I bet you look gorgeous in that,” he murmured.

“”When I was your age!” she said.

“What’s age got to do with it?” he asked, bravely. “Go on, try it on and let me see how girls used to look in the olden times!”

“Less of the olden!” she smiled. “All right, if it might be an object lesson in fashion!”

And she did just that, pulled off her jeans and pulled on that skirt, and it still just about fitted her.

He looked at her. He saw oceans of long blonde hair, a smiling face that had been treated kindly by her fifty years, and legs that were the same legs as she had sported in the days of her youth. She glanced at her own reflection in the wardrobe mirror.

“You could say,” she whispered, “that I haven’t half aged well.”

“You’d best get back in your jeans before something starts happening to me down below, looking at you like this!” murmured Stephen.

“Is it? Likely to start?” she found herself asking.

“Right now I’m all of a dither,” he replied, “you do know that you’re beautiful in the sexiest possible way, don’t you?”

And, you know, I did...

© Peter Rogerson 06.04.21

...