Lizzie

Dan nodded. He got up and helped his father rise. He picked up his stick and shuffled to the door. "I do appreciate your being here more than I can say. You do know that, don't you?"

Dan nodded. He swallowed hard. "I do. And you know that I will come when you need me around."

"I know. Alright then, have a good night, Dan. See you in the morning!"

Dan watched him walk down the corridor. He had converted the study into a bedroom a few years ago, and he was happy that there were no more stairs to climb for his aged parent. When he saw he had safely reached his bedroom, he went and cleared away the coffee things. Then he went back into the living room and had another dram. His father had no internet or Wi-Fi, and the room offered little comfort. It was always too hot, the way the elderly's rooms are, it felt stifling and crowded and it smelled of tobacco and old people. When his father was sitting there it was okay... He sighed. Poor man!

He turned on the tv and watched the late news. It seemed there was a lot more rain about to come. He sighed, turned the thing off again and took himself to bed. He had his own room, but that, too, was old, and uncomfortable because of its associations. Better go to sleep at once, he thought. He brushed his teeth, set the alarm on his phone and turned in.

But sleep didn't come. He lay listening to the rain, and thinking of time and its ravages, and he tried to envisage his own life in thirty years' time. Would the barn look as awfully old fashioned and uncomfortable to whoever it was that came in to look after him? How would his life be when there were no more lectures to give, no more tutoring, no more talks with his learned and sometimes rather stuck-up colleagues? How would he feel when he couldn't drive safely any more, and when his friends died, one by one, and his voice had gone, and the pub would be out of reach anyway?

His father had never really tried to make new friends after he'd moved. All the friends he had had, had lived a long way off, and so they hadn't made a difference to his life. They were dead now, all of them. But Dan thought he had in all probability not seen any of them for the past ten years or more. Why hadn't they been a bit more outgoing? And would it have made a difference if they had?

He couldn't think of an answer. He hoped that later he would manage as well as he did now, but he wasn't too confident about it. He had no children, no family to speak of. He thought of the story Lizzie had told about those people running the B&B. They had been very lucky indeed. It was a really good idea, even though some people might talk, but so what? People always talked.

It was hard. He kept mulling the situation in his head for a long time before he eventually dropped off to sleep.

He awoke to the sound of rain. More rain, and more gloom. He sighed. It was to be expected; the meteorological office was usually right, especially when they forecast nasty weather. Oh well. He went downstairs and put the kettle on. There was no electric water cooker in the house. His parents had always maintained that it was an unnecessary expense - the way everything seemed to fall under that heading: new carpeting, new wallpaper, new paint... Even the bathroom was a shambles, he thought. Or rather so old fashioned that it was virtually impossible to have a decent shower. There was an enamel bathtub, with big old faucets that were so full of chalk it took a lot of strength to use them, and with a shower head that offered only a thin trickle of water. He usually washed at the wash basin because of it.

He went and washed, and got dressed before he went back to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. His father always got up at seven thirty, so he could have a little time to himself before he would rise. He poured himself a large mug of tea and took a pen and a notebook from his jacket. He had some inspiration for a piece of verse, and he knew that he'd better write it down before he lost the idea.

When his father came into the kitchen, about fifteen minutes later, the rough draft was ready. He had returned the notebook to his pocket, and got up to see to their breakfasts.

"Tea? And an egg?"

"Tea, please. But I don't think I want an egg. Perhaps just a sandwich without the crusts."

Another ritual gone, apparently. Dan shook his head, but made the requested sandwich. Then he got up and put some bread into the toaster. He looked at his father, hoping the fatigue he thought he saw was not really there. But he was afraid it was. He tried to keep a cheerful face, and embarked on a conversation about the weather. He knew his father liked to talk about it, and he embarked on a long story about global warming. Oh well, Dan thought, at least he shows some animation now.

After he had had half his sandwich, his father put down his knife and fork. "Alright, that's quite enough. Say, have you ever thought of finding yourself a girlfriend again? When your mother died - when we had buried her, the house became a silent kind of mausoleum, a box full of memories and silences and whispers and shifting lights that could have meant something, but I don't think they did. If I had been younger I might have tried - but then, maybe not. I mean, you must be lonely at times. You have been living on your own for longer than I, an old man, have."

Dan raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"Yes," he said, "after Flo died out there, I tried to find myself a new friend twice. It didn't work out, unfortunately. The first one just came to nothing and the second one seemed scared of the things that are important to me. I do have a lot of friends, and a few good female contacts, though, and I don't feel lonely at all. Not yet. I have wondered about what life will be like when I retire, though."

"When you lose your usefulness... Yes. That's when things start to change."

"I suppose so. I do have some time to look around yet. The problem is that the few women I like are married." He smiled, a little wryly. "And I met Zeb's widow a few months ago."

"Zeb's widow? You mean to say Zeb's dead?"

Dan nodded. His father had liked Zeb back then. They had had some special rapport, and they would talk for hours about all kinds of things.

"He died about fifteen years ago because of a traffic accident. The woman he married is a painter; she does book illustrations and the occasional oil painting. I think her work is brilliant."

His father nodded. "I would have expected Zeb to marry an unusual woman. Is she?"

Dan considered the question. "Not entirely," he said eventually. "She's certainly not your average girl though. I think she is quite independent, and she is good at harmonising. I sang a folk song in the pub when we first met, and when I saw her again she had written a harmony voice to it. And she is a sweet, friendly woman. She is very much in love with Zeb still, I think."

"Well, being good at painting and music is quite something. Has she illustrated any books I know?"

"I don't really think so. She mainly does children's books."

His father nodded. "Mmm," he said. "She sounds interesting. Does she look nice into the bargain?"

Dan grinned. "Yes she does. One of the women in the pub said her hair looked like a bird's nest, but I guess that is pure spite. She has a beautiful smile and nice eyes. And a good figure as well."

"Where does she live?"

"Half way here, roughly... Much too far. If she lived closer we could do some more singing together at times." He grinned. "She was on a walking tour. That seems to be another thing she does. Walking. She tried to find shelter for the night, and I chanced to meet her at the local B&B. It was full, so I put her up."

"I see. It is a small world, isn't it? She must have been very surprised to meet you."

"She was. So was I."

Dan saw her sitting in Jeannie's office in his mind's eye. He wondered why he had known there had been more than just walking to her trip. He had felt quite lucid about it somehow. He wasn't given to having insights as a rule. Strange, really.

He looked at his father. "Life is strange," he said. "I will tidy things up. Do you feel like coffee?"

"Yes please." He got up and took his stick, and he slowly left the kitchen.

Dan walked into the living room some fifteen minutes later to find his father asleep in his chair. He sighed. Things really weren't well. It wasn't that there was anything badly wrong, but it seemed he had just lost the energy to do do something with his long and lonely days. Do not go gentle into that good night... But actually, Dan thought, it really would be a good night - a great relief. Loneliness was the worst thing you could imagine. And his parents had always been of a retiring disposition which didn't help. There were no chances of meeting people. They had loved exploring the area around the house, and they knew every hill and brook, every public footpath there was to know. But they had only met sheep and the occasional fox on their rambles, no one to talk to, no one who would come and visit.

"Coffee!" he said.

His father stirred and opened his eyes. "Mmm," he said. "That smells good." He filled his pipe and lit it. Then he sat back and smiled at his son. "It's nice to have some coffee together."

Dan returned the smile, and they had their coffee in silence.

While his father's was having a nap, Dan spent some of the time after lunch going through the accumulated bills and further administration. After that he checked the upstairs rooms and the garage. He found that there must be some broken tile on the garage; there was one dark, wet spot in the wooden ceiling. There were a couple of spare tiles, and he took out the ladder and replaced it. It was an unpleasant job due to the pouring rain, but it was a good thing he had noticed. Half the tile had gone missing. He would try the garden when it was dry, which might well be another time.

That evening they had dinner in the kitchen together. Dan cooked. He had brought everything he needed, and he made one of his father's favourite meals. The food smelled good, he thought. It tasted good as well, but his father only ate a very small portion.

"I am sorry," he said. "I don't seem to have much of an appetite."

He did have a glass of wine, though, and they had their customary coffee after dinner.

Dan noticed that his father was very tired. A full day of his company was quite strenuous, apparently, and after their coffee his father excused himself and went to bed. It was only nine o'clock, but Dan didn't mind too much; it had been tiring for him, too. He had tried very hard to keep the old man entertained, and to make him talk and take an interest in life. It did take it out on you, he thought. He poured himself a generous drink, and sat down at the table to revise that morning's poem.

When it was ready, he copied it out on his phone so he would still be able to read it when he got home. His handwriting was notorious among students... My, he was tired. He would leave after breakfast, as usual. He hoped he would find Lizzie at home. Perhaps he'd better send her a text message. His WhatsApp didn't work here, but he could send a paid one.

He briefly wrote that he would try to see her the next day. He didn't expect a reply, but to his delight she did react, almost immediately, to the effect that she would be on the lookout for him. It gave a sudden shine to the day. Good!

XX

Breakfast had been a solemn affair somehow. Dan suspected that his father was happy that he could sit and let his muscles sag when his son had left, and at the same time he was sad to be on his own again. As for himself, he was happy to leave the stifling atmosphere of his parents' house. He would be back around Christmas; it wasn't really a nice prospect. A Christmas atmosphere was not to be found in there, no matter how many candles you burnt. It was even gloomier than being on your own when you could at least pop into the pub or talk to your neighbour...

The rain was continuous, cold and hard. The world swished by, streaked with grey and blurred, and he needed to put his whole mind into driving down to England again; if possible, the weather only got worse. Oh well, every mile took him further away from that stifling place. That was something, at least.

He had studied the map before he left at eight thirty, and he had a post-it with the main turnings stuck on the dashboard. It would be about two hours, door to door, he thought.

It was. He drove into Lizzie's village at a little before eleven. He had hoped there might be a map of the pace somewhere, but there wasn't any, so he pulled up at a pub to ask directions. Hopefully they know who she is, he thought. Apparently he needn't have worried. They did, and it was easy to find.

He pulled up on the path that led to the garage. Lizzie's car was outside, and he thought it might well be too large as the garage seemed rather small. It would have been big enough for a Morris Minor or some similar sort of car... The house looked friendly but decidedly odd. The architect must have gone out of his way to make something really special. He got out as fast as he could and ran to the front door. It opened at once, before he had rung.

"Do come in. Isn't it an awful day? You must be tired driving through all that rain."

She flashed him one of her brilliant smiles and gave him a hug.

"So this is where I live. Come into the kitchen; you must be thirsty."

She showed him the way. The kitchen appeared to be on the ground floor, and it was warm and cosy and a little cluttered, but there was a big table with good chairs, rather like in his own home.

"Tea or coffee, or something else?"

"Oh, tea, please. My, I am glad to be here. It was a horrible drive, and I am really worried about my father, so it is very good to see you."

"Is he very poorly? What exactly do you think is the matter?"

She filled the water cooker while she talked. Then she put a couple of tea bags into the teapot.

Dan looked at her. It felt good, sitting in her kitchen, looking at her face.

"I think the main problems are that he is lonely and fed up with life. He eats much too little and worries too much and he has no friends left."

"Oh dear, that is awful. So he just sits waiting to be taken away?"

"I think so. He still loves his pipe, I think." He thought about that for a moment. "Or perhaps that is just some way of holding on to his past, too. He told me mother used to give him a new pipe every Christmas." He wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "It is rather stifling up there."

"And you go there every six weeks or so?"

"Uhuh. I bring a book, but I was too upset to do any reading this time. I wrote a poem, and I replaced a tile on the garage. I worried, most of the time." He grinned, self-deprecatingly. "Not very useful, I'm afraid. Oh well, let's leave that for now. How have you been?"

Lizzie smiled. "I have finished my commission, just in time - it is too dark to work in this weather. Apart from that it's been quiet. I went to the Oak a couple of times, and we tried the four-part rendition of the Prickly Bush. Oh, and I'm trying to learn to play the autoharp. It's fun, and you don't need nimble fingers like you do to play the guitar." She thought for a moment. "I am trying to tidy up the place a bit. It seems I have just been accumulating things since Zeb died, without worrying about order or system. I found out that I had quite a few doubles in the CD collection. I'll show them to you. You can have them if you like."

She busied herself with the tea. Then she took their mugs to the table.

"And you?"

"I've just carried on as usual - going to the pub at times, visiting the odd people, reading, teaching... I have written quite a few poems. And played a lot of music - Mary Gauthier, Gretchen Peters, that kind of thing."

"I like Gretchen Peters. Is the other one as good?"

"I think so... I like them both, at least. They write lovely lyrics."

Lizzie nodded. "I can't imagine you listening to moronic ones," she said and grinned. "There are a lot of those about."

"Follow, follow, follow the leader..." He grinned. "Yes. I told my father about Zeb. I had taken him home a couple of times and my father really took to him. He was quite shocked to hear he died, and he wanted to know all about you."

"Okay. I think Zeb told me some time or other, but it had slipped my mind completely. Did they talk a lot back then?"

"Rather. It seemed they had a lot of things to talk about. Mmm, it's good to sit here having tea. Oh, Geoff gave me a photograph for you." He took the envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to her. "Do you have any new commissions waiting to be done?"

"Just the one, and then I will have my hands free until after Christmas, fortunately. I couldn't work against a deadline now. When I show you my studio, you will see how little daylight I get now. It just won't do."

She took the photo from the envelope and grinned. "Very nice," she said. She slowly drank her tea and looked at Dan sitting in her kitchen. If they lived closer together... She smiled with one half of her face at the idea.

"Let me show you my place. It's a little early for lunch yet, okay?"

"Yes please!" He got up and stretched himself. "I always get stiff when I drive for a long time."

Lizzie led the way to the studio. Dan followed her into the room and looked around. There were a few small oil paintings on the wall, and in one corner he saw a couple of portfolios. He took in the general aspect first. It seemed very well organized, he thought. A painter friend's workspace, back in Cambridge, had been an indescribable mess. He had done a few valid canvasses way back then, but his name just disappeared from the art world, and he had completely gone to seed. Now, it seemed, he eked out a meagre living giving private art classes to elderly women with too much time on their hands. Another victim to a too unorganized life, Dan thought.

Lizzie turned to look at him. "So this is the place," she said. "I spend most of my time in here, I guess. I love being here."

"I can imagine. It must be like my study - everything I need is in there, apart from the books in the living room. I spend a lot of time working there."

He wandered around the room, looking at the pictures on the wall and at the way she had organised her materials, and nodded. When he had almost done the round he came to the pin board and saw the two pictures Lizzie had done about his poems, and stopped dead in his tracks.

He turned and looked at her. "You know," he said, "this is uncanny. You have painted almost exactly what I saw in my mind's eye when I wrote those poems." He felt the hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

"Really?" she said. "Do you like them?"

"Like them? They're marvellous! They are!"

Lizzie blushed. "Thank you," she said.

Dan looked at her blush; he thought it made her look even more attractive, and very sexy. "You really know how to paint. Thank you very much for showing me."

Lizzie went to the door and turned off the light.

"Look," she said. "It's really too dark to work now. I told Kevin - he is the man who runs the publishing firm, you know - I would have to wait until the rains are over. Oh my, and he has a new boyfriend... He just went on about his looks. He said he had rococo legs. Fortunately he knows about colours and light, so he understood. I hope this winter will not see continuous rain."

"No. Horrible! This is a really nice room."

"Yes. It has a north window, which is what counts. I don't really know if the room as such is really nice. But at least it's mine. Let me show you over the rest of the house, if you like. Oh, by the way, will you stay the night? Or do you have to be back at work early tomorrow?"

"I'd love to. It would be nice to chase some cobwebs from my mind and to listen to some music together."