Autumn Flowers

SUGGESTION: The principle characters in this story are fifty-four and sixty-nine. If you find descriptions of sex between older people offensive then you may prefer to give it a miss.

'You took an awful long time to clean that table Jenny,' said Joan, 'and only one person sitting there.' She was smiling. We're best mates, and we've been running the little Tea Room at Gunshill Gardens for nearly eight years. She's ten years older than me, which makes some folks think she should have retired. Don't suggest it to her though, or you may be on the receiving end of a bit of a tongue lashing from the 'dear little old lady'.

'Some tables are just more difficult to clean,' I said, trying to keep a straight face. 'Of course you wouldn't know about it, as you never get out of your nice warm little kitchen.' Lots of the tables are in the open area of the garden, and the one I was 'attending' was on the grass about fifty metres away from the kitchen.

Joan was teasing me because I'd spent time talking to the table's sole occupant as, to be fair, I often did, and she had noticed. The table's occupant was a respectable-looking man whose age we estimated at about late sixties, and he was one of the volunteers who helped keep the garden a beautiful and productive place, growing a whole variety of fruit and vegetables as well as a wide range of flowers.

'Perhaps he's lonely,' Joan wondered 'Although he seems quite content with his own company, and he likes to work alongside some of the other volunteers.'

'Oh I don't think you should feel sorry for him. He's very self-contained. I like talking to him because he usually comes out with something a bit unusual, if you know what I mean. It's not just weather and comments on the produce.'

'Such as?' asked Joan.

'Well this morning he was talking about insects: describing some of the weird and wonderful ways they pollinate and provide food for species higher up the ladder. But another day it might be clouds, or rivers, or his longing for a coastline within easier reach, children, farming, teaching, occasionally politics: anything really. I'm surprised I ever manage to get away from him when he gets going!'

'Not the kind of thing we hear from most of our customers,' said Joan, 'I can see how it might be a change from the normal standard chat.'

I laughed, thinking that I'd love to have more of it, not shut him up. The odd ten minutes when neither of us was busy wasn't enough; but I wasn't going to confess that to Joan at the moment.

Better tell you a bit about myself, I suppose. I was born in Shropshire in 1969, which makes me fifty-four I think, but I don't worry much about age - there seems plenty of time to do that, I sincerely hope, and anyway being old isn't necessarily all bad.

I haven't travelled widely: London a few times, and Cornwall for several holidays when we could bear the 'are we nearly there' cries during the six hour journey. My husband, Jeff Mattox, is very confident and competent; he spent fifteen years managing the area's biggest agricultural supplies outfit. We did take one camping holiday in south Brittany, not realising that it's climate is much like ours. You could say it was a washout, but we did have a few fine days, although not enough to encourage us to go again. Anyway, we all decided that Scarborough had most of what any of us wanted, and knocked a couple of hours off the Cornwall journey and we stuck to it until the children were old enough to look after themselves, and we could please ourselves.

Unfortunately, self-confident as he is, Jeff was not keen on tangling with foreign languages or food, which meant that my only European trips after Brittany had to be with a couple of girl friends who loved the sun and everything about being abroad. Three was enough to be able to look after each other, so we had a lot of fun! I surprised myself, avoiding wickedness by a hair's breadth and an inbred tendency to behave what my mother would call 'half sensible'. It seems she had long ago decided that being fully sensible was beyond my generation, and perhaps not wholly desirable anyway.

The 'children' Mandy and Danny are now 23 and 21 respectively. They are very close. Jeff thinks too close, but I say 'what the hell, let them get on with life the way that suits them'. They know that we are there for them if they lose their way, but so far they seem to be sorted.

If you want to know what I look like I think 'unexceptional' might fit it. On the whole I'm a cheery person, but I've come to realise that I have unusual curiosity: I want to know the how, why and where of every aspect of life I encounter. Unusually for one of my sex I'm not that bothered about sharing every detail of my own life; instead I might ask a lot of questions. This sometimes leads to very one-sided conversations, and I have on occasions received (in confidence, of course) much more information than I needed or wanted. Even more rarely I've been told to mind my own business.

So who was the mysterious solitary customer for our Tea Room services? Much of this I've needed to gently prise from him because, like me, the one subject he doesn't naturally hold forth on is himself, Peter William Munson, born 1953, so he says, somewhere in the southeast of England. He grew to be above average in height, but he says that he has now shrunk quite a lot. He's balding like a monk's tonsure; his hair was obviously light brown, but is now mainly mid grey. I think he must be quite fit, because he often does three hours of gardening and doesn't complain too much of aches and pains. But then he doesn't complain much anyway, except to regret the foolishness of mankind, trashing the planet and determined to wipe each other out. It makes him super-appreciative of the good people though, and that's another reason I have fellow-feeling for him.

'Are you going to take this then?' asked Joan, 'or shall I take it to him myself?'

'No, I think I can stagger down to table twelve thanks Aunty Joan.'

'Well don't be long. There are three more orders will soon be ready.' Joan tried to sound fierce, but she knew that I knew she was just a fluffy pussycat.

'I'll be really quick, but I can't be impolite if he wants to talk.'

'Nonsense, just kick his shin and tell him you've work to do.'

We had variations on this conversation every week, but it didn't seem to make any difference, except that I waited 'til there was a lull and went to talk to him again, me standing with hands on the back of a chair. On this occasion, the pause came about twenty minutes later. He was sitting reading a magazine by then. I asked him what it was he was reading.

'Reintroducing beavers in Shropshire.' He put the magazine down. I was tempted to ask him to tell me about beavers and why they were going to be introduced, but that seemed like a conversation for another time.

'What time will you finish tonight?' he asked, somewhat to my surprise.

'It's usually about half past four by the time we've cleared up. Why, do you want to take me into the woods and ravish me?' I don't know what came over me. I gasped and put my hand over my mouth. I needn't have worried.

'Well, I confess I hadn't been thinking of that, but I am now!' he laughed. After I'd apologised he went on, 'I know that you usually have a lift with one of the gardeners, but I wondered if I could take you home tonight, for a change? I live in Curkshall, and I think you do, so I won't be going out of my way.'

'Yes please, that would be great; Matthew has to go out of his way a bit to drop me off, so he won't mind. I'll come and find you in the car park - you'll probably be the only one there by then.'

With Joan's words ringing in my ears, and still deeply embarrassed by my outburst, I hurried back to the kitchen to collect and serve the next order, and work the afternoon out. I did have a moment to pop over to Matt and let him know that I wouldn't be needing a lift that evening. He was a shy boy, and didn't show any surprise or interest - probably pleased that he didn't have to try to listen to my chatter while he drove me home.

We were finished soon after 4.30 and I hurried round to the car park. I hadn't let on to Joan that I was going home with Peter, partly because we were busy, partly because I didn't want the inevitable teasing which would follow, and also because embarrassment for my howler about ravishing in the woods had made me self-conscious. Joan's son had come to take her home ten minutes earlier and I had shooed her out and told her I'd finish clearing up and lock up the Tea Room. Relief.

Peter was waiting in his smart electric blue hatchback, which I later learnt was a hybrid. I think I knew what a hybrid was - not all ladies of my vintage do.

Peter got out and opened the passenger door for me. Nice and high, so easy to get seated quite elegantly. Peter got in and looked at me. 'Not causing any difficulties this I hope?'

'Do you mean embarrassments? Nothing like my outburst this afternoon.' I answered.

'What outburst was that then?'

'I'm not going to repeat it, but it included the word ravish.'

He roared with laughter. 'Oh that. I enjoyed it.'

'But I didn't.'

'Best forget it then. I don't work that quickly, for future reference.' I don't blush easily, but at that moment I was sure that I could have successfully hidden in a plate of ripe tomatoes without disguise. After that it got easier, thank goodness.

We'd had quite a few chats while I was working, and he was taking a rest from the chrysanthemums or the courgettes, or was bringing produce over to the kitchen, and I knew that his three children were spread around the globe in the USA, New Zealand, and far north Scotland. It seemed that visits to them or from them were infrequent, although they kept up online contacts.

'My late wife thought that I was too detached from them, but I'm sure they'd had enough of me by the time they left home. Headteachers spend their working lives telling people what they can and can't do. It's hard not to do the same with your family. My children voted with their feet as soon as they were old enough. What about yours, have they stuck around or gone roaming?'

'They share a flat in Bristol. Far enough away to avoid excess parental nosiness; cheaper than London and with many of the same attractions.'

'It's quite unusual for adult brother and sister to share, isn't it?' Peter asked.

'They are quite an unusual pair. Danny behaves more like an older brother, although he's two years younger than his sister Ellen: he's much less impetuous. I think he calms her down a bit, and picks up the pieces when she has one of her emotional melt-downs. In fact I think she's jolly lucky to have him.'

'What does he get out of it then?'

'She is glamorous, funny, excitable, and when the mood takes her, she cooks like an angel. Danny loves her, and she loves to be loved. She also manages his social life, which avoids him slipping into what she calls his hermit tendency.'

'Sounds like an ideal partnership. My three never paired, but my daughter was the youngest and she got plenty of looking-after by her two brothers. Fortunately she wasn't bolshie, and was often the one to mediate in boyish squabbles.'

We'd reached a point where I could conveniently be dropped off, and Peter pulled in to the side of a road with hardly any traffic. I got a bit bold.

'I only work all day on Fridays and some weekends. Rest of the time it's morning or afternoon. Perhaps we could meet up for a coffee one of my free times? I get a bit self-conscious about too much nattering when I'm supposed to be working!'

'That would be good. What's a good morning next week?'

'Well Tuesday is one of Jeff's golfing days, and I'm only working from one o'clock, so 10.30 that morning would be fine. How about Bruin's?'

'Good plan. I'll meet you there.'

'I'll look forward to it. Thanks for the lift. 'Bye.'

He turned the car and drove off. I had no idea where in the town he lived. My house was less than a kilometre out of the town centre, and somehow he must have known where I lived, because he'd dropped me at the end of the road connecting to our Close, leaving me with only a hundred metres to walk.

I didn't see Peter again that week, so I had a chance to think about what I was doing. I found Peter attractive in almost every way. He was a quietly handsome man, still slim despite, by his own admission, having 'thickened' over the last twenty years or so. At seventy he didn't look, move or behave as an old man; but we have become used to lots of people of both sexes not looking their age.

I'm sure that my head was turned because he was not typical of the men I'd met through my life, but also because I was so disenchanted with my own marriage. I had vaguely hoped that Jeff and I might cast cares aside and discover some of the excitements we'd been missing the last twenty-five years, when he retired. I say 'vaguely' because I don't think I was convinced that Jeff would suddenly change from a fireside-loving semi-educate to a globe-trotter with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. I was fond of him in a way, but it was the fondness ground out of a shared life, thankfully saved some of the drudgery of my mother's generation, but still always feeling that I existed primarily to service this Alpha-minus male. He never abused me except for the level of expectation that I would cook, clean, wash, iron, garden, look after the children's needs, and have sex with him when he fancied it - which wasn't very often.

If I'm honest what I wanted was a feast for my brain, my sensibilities, and perhaps my body, and I'd given up hoping I'd get this sort of nourishment, stuck where I was. If my honesty with myself extends beyond my own longings I would have to admit that I was using Peter as a potential jail breaker. I didn't think he would mind, and I was not so washed up that I had nothing to offer in return!

*

Tuesday came round quite slowly that week. Bruin's (with the apostrophe in the right place!) is not uncomfortably smart, but on the other hand doesn't have you watching out for insect or rodent life. I liked it as well because it was large enough to have space between the tables so that you didn't have to listen to discussions of uncle Bernards prostate problem, or Aunt Emily's prolapse on the next-door table. Nor did you have to share your news about your hot flushes with them - unless you wanted to, of course.

I arrived bang on time and Peter, as I'd guessed he would be, was already seated and reading the riveting pages of the local rag. He was facing the door and looking up from time to time, so he saw me and got up to greet me, leaning over the small table to kiss my right cheek. I sat down and so did he.

'Good to see you,' he said. 'Everything o.k.?

'I'm a bit nervous,' I confessed.

'Why's that then?' he wanted to know.

'It's a bit like a first date, isn't it' I said, 'and I haven't had one of those for more than a quarter of a century.'

'I hadn't really thought about it like that. Just having a chat with a new friend. Unless the idea of 'ravishing' still lingered in your consciousness?'

'Oh you won't let me forget, will you?' I laughed.

'I hope not!'

Changing the subject I went on: 'are you well? How's your dodgy elbow?' He'd been having arthritis problems in an elbow that he'd broken playing goalkeeper in his school football team. I tried, but couldn't quite manage, to imagine him as a fourteen-year-old in shorts and a goalie's jersey.

'I'm fine. But I'm a bit concerned that you're feeling nervous about meeting me. I like to think of myself as quite unintimidating, but maybe I've got more of a Gruffalo with age?'

'No, definitely not. More of a 'Percy the Park keeper'.

'That's a relief,' he laughed.

'It's just that meeting a man alone in public is not 'normal' for a married woman, even in the twenty-twenties, unless the man's related in some way. It's silly to be bound by convention, I know, but that's how I was brought up, and that's how I've been expected to behave. Difficult to rub it out of my mind, and hence the nerves.'

'Don't worry, I do understand. It was brave of you to suggest this meeting, so you're half way to dealing with this barmy convention, which is not really a logical one is it?'

'I'm not very logical. But I do see that, if we were somewhere nobody could possibly know us, we would be of no interest at all. O.K., let's put that aside, because my brain is agreeing with you!'

The waitress, who may have been watching this animated conversation, had remained discreetly behind the counter. She now appeared and asked for an order. We were soon supplied with two flat whites and a large, toasted teacake, which Peter divided neatly in half.

'If you had your time again, would you still become a teacher?' I asked him, thinking that once again he had gently guided me to understanding of, well, myself really. He did seem to have a natural teacher's talent.

'Probably, but with hindsight I probably wouldn't be so altruistic.' I lifted a hand from the table to face him, suggesting a pause.

'You'll have to explain that one.'

'What I would have liked to do was a couple of years teaching part time in a university, study for a doctorate - probably in environmental science - and then lecture and organise undergraduate courses at a higher level. Instead I thought that there was a greater need for people like me in state secondary schools, and with hindsight that was arrogant as well as selfless, and that's probably why I wouldn't do exactly the same again.'

I was tempted to heap praise on him for his sacrifice to the common good, but I resisted, determined, in this relationship, to avoid 'little woman' syndrome. So, surprising myself, I said 'It's funny how selflessness can sometimes be a self-indulgence.'

'Absolutely. It's not uncommon. But what did you do after school?'

'Well I don't think I ever had a choice which way my life went - at least, I was never aware of it if I did. Five GCEs wasn't exactly the password to glory, so I took a job at seventeen in a nursing home. By the time I got married five years later I was the deputy manager. Then I had my first child, stopped work and never really started again, except odd shifts where I'd worked before. It feels all quite feeble.'

'So you don't feel you've achieved anything? Don't you think that your children, your husband, your patients, have all had parts of their lives made better by what you've done for them. Not everyone can start out with a vast eternal plan, let alone fulfil it, and thank goodness; vast eternal plans have rarely been to humanity's benefit. But what do you want to do now?'

'I feel like a chick still trying to break out of its shell. I'm alive and have potential, but so far I haven't hit the magic spot to crack the shell and liberate myself. I don't exactly feel lacking in achievement, but I crave more experiences.' I looked him straight in the eye. I knew it was a totally unfair thing to be doing, but I was desperately hoping Peter would help me. I could see he was flustered.

'From the way you are looking at me it feels as if you want me to be one of your experiences. Hmmm. It does sound fun, but I don't quite feel I have the CV for it!' He had a broad grin as he spoke.

'Put like that you make me sound like a tart. But I did wonder if you could help me find the break-out key, and maybe help turn it a few times?'

We looked at each other and laughed: a barrier had been breached. I felt I had a friend now, and not just an interesting acquaintance.

*

I went home to think about what I've just described. I'll be frank: what I contemplated now was the possibility of fucking this relatively old man, as part of a developing relationship. The word 'fuck' was a newcomer in my personal vocabulary, and I loved it: so direct and unambiguous. I'd rolled it round my tongue and my lips; onomatopoeic was something that I vaguely recalled from my English classes, and I felt sure that 'fuck' was definitely that.