The Ebb and Flow of Life.

Dennis turned over onto his other side. Whichever way he repositioned himself, he still felt a dull pain all over. Oh, the joys of old age, he thought to himself sarcastically. Going to bed early just to ease the boredom, only to wake up at 6am. Days spent pottering around the small flat with nothing much to do. The highlight of his day was the visit from the home help. She came in at midday with his meals on wheels and a tired smile. Mind you, even the sight of her dry, red hair, straining out of a chignon gladdened him. After all, that and the shapeless, floral dresses was the closest he got to female company these days. He, who had been married twice and had a girlfriend or two; sometimes alongside the marriages.

He had divorced Betty, his first wife when she picked up a drinking habit. The tots were only two and four. She soon got herself together, put herself through typing school and married her first boss. She’d done alright really. Their two children who had been sent to Boarding school didn’t remember him the last time he had seen them.
“It’s best you didn’t come here again,” she’d said to him.
“It only upsets everyone. I’ll send you pictures and reports on how they are doing.”
Just like that.
In the living room, he had pictures of Danny and Josie on holiday. There they were graduating, with their proud parents besides them, smiling like Cheshire cats.

“Mr. Stevens,” the Meals on Wheels woman was saying. “Would you like bubble and squeak or shepherd’s pie today?”
He shuffled a bit closer, leaning forward to have a peek at the food trolley contents. “Shepherd’s pie please. Thank you.”
He pulled the drawstring of his striped pajamas in tighter. He didn’t bother to get out of them most days.
“How are you keeping?” she was packing up again. “Got over that cold?”
“It’s just about gone. It’s that time of year, isn’t it?”

When she left, he sat at the dining table and tried to show an interest in the food. On the TV was another film based on a true story. They were all the same. A mad husband killed his wife or vice versa and then got caught. He switched over and found a game show. He was having difficulty thinking of the questions never mind remembering the answers. His memory wasn’t very good lately.

One of the contestants looked like Lily, his second wife. She was Malaysian. He had met her at the hospital when he was admitted following his first heart attack. He was only forty two. No one had expected him to go this long before another. He’d liked joking about her bedside manner with his mates. She wasn’t so comely when she caught him with her best friend though. As they’d had no children, there was no excuse for keeping in touch.

After lunch, he went through his wardrobe. All these clothes he didn’t wear anymore. Suits and ties and flashy accessories. He thought he might give them to the Meals woman. Perhaps she had a male friend. The neighbour’s boy next door might appreciate them. He mowed his lawn for him and helped with odd jobs. Some things were purely sentimental: like the old portal radio his father had given him all those years ago or the coral pink twinset that had belonged to his mother. The radio had the brand name Admiral on one side of the dark plastic casing. The leather handle was soft and beautifully worn. The twinset was slightly moth bitten but the pearl-like buttons still shone. These too were on a shelf in the wardrobe.

His hands were covered in liver spots and stiff with arthritis. His fair complexion was slightly sallow; and his legs were thin and wasted.
The phone made him jump. He made for the extension on the dressing table across the room and reached for it as it stopped ringing.
Muttering to himself, he was turning away when it started ringing again.
“Hello,”
“Hello Dennis,” a voice on the end said.
He recognized the voice but was still searching for the name. Jonathan, Colin, Bill…
“It’s Peter here,”
“Yes, of course,” he was relieved at not having to go through all the possibilities. It wasn’t that many people called him. He just couldn’t always remember the right name.
“What about a game Dennis? I could come over about five today?”
“That will be fine. See you at five.”

At seventy, Peter is six years older and yet he moves in a sprightly manner. Widowed at sixty, he fancies himself to be a ladies’ man. Maybe it is just a charade to hide the fact he still misses his late wife. He has lived across from Dennis for what seems like forever.
They usually play chess as they drink numerous cups of tea. Talking about the past as they play, they often forget whose turn it is.

“The girls were something then, Dennis. Do you recall the dances?”
“Oh yes! How we danced. Rock n roll, jive, you name it…”
“Did I tell you that Maggie had the most fantastic beehive hairdo in those days?”
“She was a looker,” Dennis agrees.

On these occasions, the afternoon flies by. And when they each retire to their bed that night, it is in a happier mood. Company, even for just a few hours, is what they live for.

He looks at the framed picture on his bedside table. A young fellow is staring into the camera. He looks solemn in a dark suit, hair parted to the right like a wannabe Cary Grant. One arm is around a pretty, freckled young woman holding a heavily swaddled baby. His other arm rests on a toothy little boy in front of them. Behind them the background is of the seaside. Perhaps Folkestone, Kent or Brighton or even Blackpool. Pastel coloured beach huts adorn a pebbly beach. The waves dance on the shore, ebbing and flowing like life itself.