Open Writing

The old man bent his head to give me a kiss. Not to kiss me - just to give me a kiss, like a child. He is such an old, old man, ninety two or three. His wife is a mere eighty four, and they love each other with the joy and simplicity of little children You can almost imagine one saying to the other, "Come on, let's go out and play", and off they go, slowly, and carefully, hand in hand.

Each time I see them, they want to give me a kiss. They lived in France for many years, so the old lady kisses me on both cheeks a la française. Her husband used to follow suit, but lately I think he'd rather give me a single damp plop on the lips. He's much taller than I am, so perhaps it's easier: a lesser ritual.

They have been together for over thirty years, a second marriage for both; as she sits and tells me the bits and pieces of their lives, time and again. He sits beside her and gives her his adoring, undivided attention. Their spirits are as bright and shining as they must have been at the beginning of their love affair. If I had an envious turn of mind. I would envy them this gift that they have bestowed upon each other.

They've not lived here long. It's a small, new house round the corner, and they came back from France to be near a daughter who was dying. I look after their garden when they are away for a few days with another daughter. That's how I come to receive so many kisses.

Somehow, their life-clock has ticked on over the past few months, with visits to their daughter, the removal of cataracts, the repair of a hernia, and visits to the chiropodist and deaf-aid centre thrown in for good measure.

A week or two back the old lady rang me quite early in the morning. She told me her husband had disappeared. He had brought up the early morning cup of tea, and when she came downstairs he was gone. The old Renault car was gone too, a left-hand drive left over from their French life, and one which she hated him to drive on English roads at his time of life. She hadn't actually forbidden him to drive, but she was insistent that she was not going to sit on his right while off-roaders and juggernauts thundered past her side of the car.

I asked her some obvious questions, trying to ease her tension and dispel her worry, and in the end I found out that he was due to pick up a prescription from the clinic eight miles away. We worked out how long it would take to get there and come back, and all the time her voice was full of tears, and the unreasonable yet natural fear that something might happen to her love.

After half an hour I had done all I could to calm and reassure her, knowing at the same time that the odds could have been against him. I left her, still tearful, and saying that she was going to ring another daughter for comfort.

In the late afternoon I thought I should go and see if all was well again, so I walked round the corner to see if the Renault car was back. It was! I breathed such a sigh of relief. I wondered whether she had berated him for going off without telling her, and whether she had forbidden him to do it again. Perhaps they had just kissed each other and walked slowly round their garden, carefully, and lovingly, hand in hand.