A FINAL LOVE

Alfred has had eyes for a particular woman since he'd been young...

Alfred Sykes was in a thoughtful mood as he watched Angela Raleigh walk past his house from his seat in the window alcove..

“If life is a battle with winners and losers”, he thought to himself, “then that woman is my loser.”

About sixty years had passed since he saw her for the first time as an adult, if 17 is adult. It was then: a lad was expected to earn his keep and pay his taxes back then, or else. And way back in what seemed like the dawn of time he’d seen Angela Raleigh for the first time, but she’d been Angela Jones back then.

How was it he could remember that day with such clarity? H’e been married to Gwen since then, had three children by her and had gone sadly to the crematorium to bid her farewell, and not one of the precious days he’d spent with her came to his mind as vividly as did the first time his eyes fell on Angela.

He had smiled to himself, a silly teenage smile full of pretence and hope, he was Alfred and she was Angela. Two A’s. They were meant for each other. That much was clear, with that sort of alphabetic configuration.

There she was pausing near his gate. The same Angela, and look at the way she leaned on the gatepost as if she wanted it to be her gatepost.

Back in the dreary old days he’d seen her walk that way, going, no doubt, from the home where she had been born to the shop on the corner for half an ounce of shag for her father’s pipe. And he’d watched her strolling past, prettier than any picture he’d ever seen, short frock tempting the breeze to blow it up and giggling at him if it did.

This woman at his gate wasn’t wearing a short frock these days but she did look just as pretty if not a tad older. Or if not older, experienced. But he was older too, a great deal older.

Now what was she doing? She couldn’t be, surely…? But she was… slowly, using a stick for balance, she was walking up to his own front door!

It takes time to stand up when you’ve been sitting in a comfortable chair for as long as he had, but before she rang his bell or knocked his door, the choice was hers, he was on his way into the passage, and waiting for her.

She rang the bell.

He counted to three, in his head, quite slowly, and then opened the door.

“Yes?” he enquired.

“Hello,” she smiled, the same smile only the lips were a little wrinkled, the smile he’d wanted to take to bed with him but had never had the opportunity or the courage because, maybe it was him or maybe it was her or it could have been both of them, but someone was too shy for sense.

“It is Alfred, isn’t it? Do you remember me?” she asked, “I was Angela Jones back then.”

“Angela?” He couldn’t control the stammer or the way his legs started shaking almost uncontrollably. And he couldn’t stop himself querying her name as if it was something brand new to him. Then he saw the beginnings of some sense.

“Of course I remember you,” he added.

“I thought I’d call in and see how you are,” she said with a smile, “we never gave ourselves much of a chance back in the dark ages, did we?”

“Didn’t we? Oh, and, er, please come in…”

He escorted her into his living room, glad that it was tidier than it might have been, but without thinking of visitors he’d spent half an hour that morning putting things where they should be.

“You keep it comfortable,” she observed. Not nice he thought, or tidy, but comfortable, and comfortable was best.

“I went around this morning with a duster, just in case…” he confessed.

“Just in case of what? A lady coming to approve it?”

“No, not that… I don’t get many visitors. The kids live at the other end of the country, I lost my wife a few years ago now and, well I spend most of my time on my own.”

“And in the dark ages we sometimes passed the time of day, exchanged a few words, that sort of thing, and we don’t even do that any more.” she murmured, almost, he felt, as if she was chastising him.

“I suppose we grew apart,” he suggested.

“Really? It wasn’t as if we were ever together. I saw you about, Alfred, and I really hoped ... you know…”

“You hoped?”

“Well, you did have that rakish hair style, all long and beatly, sort of almost sexy…”

He let his mind wander though his memories for the briefest of moments.

“That was a long time ago,” he admitted, “and you scared me. That short frock of yours…”

“Which one?”

“I forget exactly. Sort of, well, very short.”

“Ah that one. My parents hated me wearing that. They wondered what the neighbours would think, and I didn’t care.”

There was a sudden familiarity in the room, as if references to parental disapproval brought two elderly people a little closer together.

“My folks weren’t so keen on my hair, either,” he grinned. Then: I thought you looked… too good for me … in that smart little dress.”

“You did? That’s odd, because I imagined you were going to be off in a pop group and not look at me twice once you were rich and famous.”

She smiled at him.

“Do you mind if I use your toilet? You know what it’s like as you grow older?”

“Don’t I know all about it! It’s down stairs these days, next to my bedroom, I’ve had to have that brought down as well. My legs, you know… I’ll show you where the bog, I mean toilet, is. Come on.”

He did it right then. He took her one hand into his, so gently it might have been a shadow, and he led her to the passage and along it to a small room with the word GENTS on it.

“But I’m not a gent,” she said, smiling.

“Then I’ll make an exception for you,” he grinned.

“That’s the Alfred I almost knew,” she said, approvingly.

He waited until he heard the toilet flush and then prepared to lead her back to the front room.

“You say your bedroom’s down here?” she asked, “might I be nosey and see how a single man keeps his boudoir?”

After his wife passed away he’d had an extension built because it was a small and quite old house, and the extension was for his bedroom, and it which was bright, airy, and looked comfortable, and avoided the need to use any stairs.

“The proper bedroom’s upstairs, but my legs…” he explained, “Do you fancy a cup of tea?”

“Or something stronger, if you’ve got it,” she grinned.

“A drop of wine? I’ve got a bottle of wine that someone gave me for Christmas,” he said, “I’ve no idea what it’s like. Come on and we’ll open it and pray that we survive it!”

He led her back into the living room and fetched the wine, grateful that he could remember where he’d put it.

“Ah, Italian. I like Italian wine,” she approved with a smile.

“For a minute I thought you were going to say that you approved of Italian men!” he joked.

She smiled. “Can I make a confession?” she asked.

“Of course. Feel free.”

“For half a moment I thought you said feel me!” she joked.

“Chance would be a fine thing!”

“Now who’s a naughty boy? But my confession. I decided loads of times but needed an age to build up the courage, that I was going to come to your front door sooner or later. Not for old time’s sake because we had no old times, but because … I don’t know … because I like you a lot even though, you know, we don’t talk.. And I found the strength and the courage in this eleventh hour so here I am...””

“I think about you a lot,” he confessed, “the way you walk, your pretty smile…”

“All eighty or so years old!” she smiled.

“What do you want to do, Angela?” he asked.

“Finish this wine and have another glass ... and try to wind the clock back,” she sighed, “do you fancy a little kiss?”

He did and she did. Just a little one.

Because by the time it was only half way through she was standing up and pulling him back to the passage that led to the bathroom.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she asked as she held him through his bedroom door, “for the old times we never had?

He mind? Of course he didn’t! He watched as she propped her walking cane by his bedside table and pulled herself slowly and wearily onto his bed, fully dressed, and then relaxed with a huge sigh.

“Like old times we never had,” he murmured, and she might have heard him but somehow her ears stopped working in the same way as her eyes stopped seeing and her mind stopped thinking, because as far as she was concerned she was relaxing on a bower in Heaven and her god was staring down at her, concern written over every line of his face as he saw the truth, the depth and the finality of her unheeded love for him.

© Peter Rogerson 21.08.23

...