Beau … (another short story)

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I had already quietly queried him about the prospect of living in the cottage at the back of his lakeside property. He had said at the time that he would think about it. When I heard later, from someone else, that he was thinking of letting the cottage behind the house I knew some progress had finally been made.

The last few months had been rather tough on him too. His wife of forty-seven years had died abruptly in the spring. Jessie and he had been a devoted and happy pair. Now he was like a skipper without a ship. Adrift. We all knew he was sad and lonely, and we were trying to help the best we could.

At 88 years of age he was not really capable of managing on his own anymore. He had said himself that he was having trouble remembering things, was getting mixed up and confused. And that was why I had suggested it. If I lived in the cottage, I said, I could be nearby and keep an easy eye on him. He would have the security of knowing someone was there, and the freedom to not feel like a burden to others. He had said he would think about it.

My mother had arranged for him to come to dinner at our house, to sit in the garden and enjoy the summer breezes. He had accepted. Dinner was at 7, he had been invited for 6 and he turned up at 4. I met him at the door. And he sheepishly apologized.

“I forget everything. I knew I was coming here tonight, but I couldn’t remember exactly what time, so I thought I would just come around earlier rather than later. I hope you and your mum don’t mind.” I didn’t. I called up the stairs to her to say ‘William was here’ and then I took him for a turn around the garden. We had two hours to kill.

And as we walked I marvelled at how courteous and kind he was. How gentlemanly and attentive. Gallant even. (Drifting or not.) As we passed through the cedar hedge he held up his arm to let me proceed first. At the asparagus bed while I was showing him the growing fronds he bent over double to see what I was pointing at. At the pond he remarked intelligently about the waterfowl and his hand grazed the plant life. He opened the garden gate for me. His remarks were always so pleasing and conversational. He asked me questions about my life here at the house with mother. He mentioned how well he had liked my father. How sorry he was too at our recent loss.

As we strolled along over the manicured lawns I could tell that he was further accessing the possibility that I move down to his cottage by the lake. I tried to project a persona that was both amicable and attentive. Like him. Easy to get along with. Friendly.

We passed by the striking peruvian daffodils, the last ones that dad and I had planted together, and he was delighted to see those too. “You could plant some of those in my garden,” he said conclusively. I looked at him, smiling, “Certainly.”

When we arrived back to the garden patio I asked if he would lend a hand to put out the cushions while I got the drink tray organized. I showed him where the cushions were and took one out placing it on the metal seat. I tied the draw-strings at the back into a quick knot to secure it tightly. “See?” He smiled and said he would get right to it. I left him for a time while I got the rest of the evening ready.

Mother came down soon and took over entertaining him. I left them alone until supper.

Later, in twilight, after he had gone home, I went out to bring in the garden cushions.

Every single one had been carefully tied with a secure bow. Not a knot.

Few, I thought, these days, as I gently pulled the draw-strings, are so very very thoughtful …

…

‘Beau’ was composed & written four months after my dear old dad died at 80 years of age on June 1st, 2002. I continue to miss the old boy. Both of these fine gents were of ‘another era’ … long past, long gone, but still, not forgotten, yet.