Holiday by Stanley Middleton Page B

spouse had died six years ago, but had been something of an invalid all her life, though she’d borne him three sons. ‘You any children?’
    ‘No. My son died. He was two years old.’
    The man paused, frowned at Fisher, deeply, rolled uncomfortable in his chair, like a caricature Dr Johnson, and blubbered his lips. For a time his stiff-fingered right hand tapped the table, as if to call the company to order.
    ‘Your wife not here with you, then?’ he began.
    ‘No.’
    He did not seem to notice Fisher’s reticence, but described his own sons, good boys in their way, who resented his longevity. ‘I’ve handed my house over, the farms. I don’t trouble them. Why should I? But they’d like nothing better than my money. I don’t blame them. They’re at an age when they’d use it merely for pleasure because they’re all established. And that’s the best way.’
    Fisher mumbled about death duties.
    ‘I’ve straightened that out. As far as one can.’ But there followed no technical disquisition on the subject, and when Fisher said he must leave, the old man struggled up, brushing his tweeds, reaching for a black bowler on the hatstand. On his feet he seemed slower, more awkward, less monolithic, though Fisher did not offer assistance as he crab-crawled down the steps to the pavement.
    ‘I’m eighty next,’ he said, arriving, pulling car keys from his pocket. ‘Feel it too, sometimes.’ He glanced round the street. ‘Do you ever think you’ve wasted your time?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I didn’t think it at your age. Certain amount of drink and cards. Nothing out of the ordinary. I’m not claiming that.’
    ‘One must have recreation.’
    ‘Eh? Eh? Oh. Recreation? Depends what sort. Drink. I looked at women.’ He spouted this to the whole street. ‘Now all I want to do is sleep. Even when I remember things I’m confused. I never trained myself for old age. Never believed it would come. Nobody does.’
    The old man tipped his hard hat, hobbled over the road to his car, and drove off without so much as a glance backwards. Fisher noted the number-plate, but knew that would have left his memory inside ten minutes. The meeting sobered him; he’d no desire to laugh at the fellow, landed gent’s accent or not. It was as if he’d assembled a jig-saw only to find that key pieces were missing. By quizzing Arthur Mann, of the history department, he could probably get the fellow’s name, and, if Arthur acted normally, half-a-dozen anecdotes, but that could only darken counsel. A wealthy man drove twenty miles to drink a cup of cheap coffee because that was, perhaps, one of the few ways he had left to amuse himself. As a sentence, that made sense, but was deeply unmeaning, fatuous. He struggled to put his dissatisfaction into words, but found he could not. His formulation lacked subtlety, perhaps, needed qualification, but his dismay sprang from an unpalatable event, not from his inability to describe it. Nobody should be left unprotected as that old man appeared; yet he was one of the lucky, with money, care, fair health.
    Fisher sat on a low stone wall under a sandy bank.
    ‘I never trained myself for old age.’ That was the nub, the heart-cry. Not many people prepare themselves, but they did not confess it out loud in the street to strangers. How did he know that? Was it a statistical judgement? One person in a thousand made such a statement in such circumstances twice every three years? No. A man of good family, with property, financially comfortable, with the bossy voice of his class, the unshakeable appearance of superiority, had spat it out to upset his listener’s prejudices and preoccupations. A bad omen. Someone about to meet his estranged wife walks warily away from ladders.
    Chattering holiday-makers passed, repassed as he sat.
    Terry Smith, with his two in tow, called out, ‘Midmorning break. Ice-cream and a tiddle,’ and moved on happily enough. Fisher occupied himself with mental accountancy,