ask him next week. See how things go from there.
But I shall have to be careful. Driving him back I was acutely aware of an amorphous question between us. For my part, the answer was plain: no. He sat with his hands on his knees, keen as mustard, I reckoned. When we stopped I flashed a cheek at him, the conventionally polite thing to do. He paused for a moment, I daresay wondering why I hadn’t turned to him with eager eyes and parted lips. Then he just brushed my cheek with his and got out of the car with the speed of one who is fighting to control various urges. I drove away very pleased. The last thing I wanted was more fumbling with Bert. He behaved perfectly. It means there’ll be no complications in our future business of the house … or friendship.
Odd, then, that driving home a sort of weakness fluttered through my whole body. I felt the chill that descends when something that might have been possible didn’t happen.
I’ll ring him, but not for two or three days.
GWEN
Thursdays are what I hate: Thursdays are the days I most dread. There’s not the safety of going to the Grants for the morning. Gary knows I don’t work Thursday mornings and then takes his chance, takes me unawares.
This morning I’d just slipped down to the shop to get the paper, looking all about me, as I always do, when I saw him across the street. I quickly looked away, but not before he’d smiled at me, knowing I’d seen him, and my heart started its beating. I gave up the idea of going on to Tesco’s to get a few things for my lunch: Gary’s sometimes trawled the aisles, a few yards behind me. It gives him a kick to see me in a state. Sometimes he goes ahead of me, lingers in the cereals or the washing powders, knowing I need to be there. He gives me one of his sickening smiles and goes off to buy himself a packet of Marlborough while I’m paying at the check-out, my fingers all of a fumble. Then he’s waiting for me outside. Follows me home, about ten yards behind me. He doesn’t try to get in, these days. But he just stands watching, knowing he’s got me all shaken up.
I still can’t work out how I came to my decision three years ago. But I suppose we all sometimes do things that seem right at the time, then live to regret them. He’d been following me for months. Never attacked me, just unnerved me. Then that day I thought maybe he’s a troubled soul, maybe I can help. Maybe if I just talk to him, listen to what’s on his mind. Maybe he’ll realise I can’t help and he’ll stop bothering me. So when I got to the door – he was just a few feet behind me, closer than normal – instead of hurrying in without looking back, my usual way, I said would he like to step in for a cup of tea? It didn’t occur to me I might be inviting an attack of some sort – me, an elderly woman with a scarf and my perm coming undone: not exactly your Nicole Kidman. You have to trust people. Instead of smiling, he just nodded and followed me in. He sat at the kitchen table, didn’t seem interested in his surroundings, never mentioned my nice clock or anything. Then he began to talk, all about his childhood and that, all very sad. I felt so sorry for him. If he cleaned up a bit and had a haircut he could be quite a presentable man, despite missing a few teeth. I don’t know why, but when he started talking I forgot all about the annoyance and frights he’d given me. ‘I forgive you, Gary,’ I said, when he got up to go. He apologised very gently. He said he hadn’t meant to scare me, just found me a lovely woman who he hadn’t dared approach. ‘Let’s be friends,’ he said. I had the feeling I’d be his only friend in the world.
I don’t know how it was, he only ever came in for a cup of tea, never brought me so much as a pot plant, but I fell in love with him (I’d never have guessed you could feel so dizzy at sixty). I never breathed a word of this, but I think he knew. Then one afternoon, I remember I’d just disinfected
But I shall have to be careful. Driving him back I was acutely aware of an amorphous question between us. For my part, the answer was plain: no. He sat with his hands on his knees, keen as mustard, I reckoned. When we stopped I flashed a cheek at him, the conventionally polite thing to do. He paused for a moment, I daresay wondering why I hadn’t turned to him with eager eyes and parted lips. Then he just brushed my cheek with his and got out of the car with the speed of one who is fighting to control various urges. I drove away very pleased. The last thing I wanted was more fumbling with Bert. He behaved perfectly. It means there’ll be no complications in our future business of the house … or friendship.
Odd, then, that driving home a sort of weakness fluttered through my whole body. I felt the chill that descends when something that might have been possible didn’t happen.
I’ll ring him, but not for two or three days.
GWEN
Thursdays are what I hate: Thursdays are the days I most dread. There’s not the safety of going to the Grants for the morning. Gary knows I don’t work Thursday mornings and then takes his chance, takes me unawares.
This morning I’d just slipped down to the shop to get the paper, looking all about me, as I always do, when I saw him across the street. I quickly looked away, but not before he’d smiled at me, knowing I’d seen him, and my heart started its beating. I gave up the idea of going on to Tesco’s to get a few things for my lunch: Gary’s sometimes trawled the aisles, a few yards behind me. It gives him a kick to see me in a state. Sometimes he goes ahead of me, lingers in the cereals or the washing powders, knowing I need to be there. He gives me one of his sickening smiles and goes off to buy himself a packet of Marlborough while I’m paying at the check-out, my fingers all of a fumble. Then he’s waiting for me outside. Follows me home, about ten yards behind me. He doesn’t try to get in, these days. But he just stands watching, knowing he’s got me all shaken up.
I still can’t work out how I came to my decision three years ago. But I suppose we all sometimes do things that seem right at the time, then live to regret them. He’d been following me for months. Never attacked me, just unnerved me. Then that day I thought maybe he’s a troubled soul, maybe I can help. Maybe if I just talk to him, listen to what’s on his mind. Maybe he’ll realise I can’t help and he’ll stop bothering me. So when I got to the door – he was just a few feet behind me, closer than normal – instead of hurrying in without looking back, my usual way, I said would he like to step in for a cup of tea? It didn’t occur to me I might be inviting an attack of some sort – me, an elderly woman with a scarf and my perm coming undone: not exactly your Nicole Kidman. You have to trust people. Instead of smiling, he just nodded and followed me in. He sat at the kitchen table, didn’t seem interested in his surroundings, never mentioned my nice clock or anything. Then he began to talk, all about his childhood and that, all very sad. I felt so sorry for him. If he cleaned up a bit and had a haircut he could be quite a presentable man, despite missing a few teeth. I don’t know why, but when he started talking I forgot all about the annoyance and frights he’d given me. ‘I forgive you, Gary,’ I said, when he got up to go. He apologised very gently. He said he hadn’t meant to scare me, just found me a lovely woman who he hadn’t dared approach. ‘Let’s be friends,’ he said. I had the feeling I’d be his only friend in the world.
I don’t know how it was, he only ever came in for a cup of tea, never brought me so much as a pot plant, but I fell in love with him (I’d never have guessed you could feel so dizzy at sixty). I never breathed a word of this, but I think he knew. Then one afternoon, I remember I’d just disinfected
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