Growing up, Tom and his wife Rosemary were the epitome of how I thought old people should be.
He was bearded , skinny and did lots of pottering in the garden, while Rosemary was abundant and wholesome. She wore floral dresses with an apron, her hair was soft and curly, in traditional old lady style. Her best feature was her face, it was warm, friendly and cosy looking, she was always smiling and had the roundest, rosiest cheeks I had ever seen. She was positively glowing. As a child she looked like the kind of woman you wanted to run up to and cuddle. She was always baking and making nice dinners for Tom. They were a wonderful couple.
I wouldn’t say we had much of a relationship, when I walked passed their house I always said hello, sometimes how are you. As I grew into a teenage they pretty much faded into insignificance in my life.
I went away for a few years and didn’t really give much thought to them. When I came back I saw Tom a few times in the garden, but was too self absorbed in what was going on in my own life to notice that I hadn’t seen Rosemary’s beaming red face since I’d been back.
Every time I saw Tom, he asked me how my dad was doing. I was abrupt with him. “Fine thanks” I’d say and walk off. My dad was dying, he knew that, so why did he keep asking how he was? I suppose I thought he was a busy-body, or just nosy.
I think it was a short time after my dad’s funeral that I saw her.
I was walking down the street with my son who was in a push chair. There was a van outside their house. A wheelchair ramp was being lowered. I approached the house and I saw Tom in the garden. ”Hello there” He was chirpy and friendly as always. ”Rosemary’s off for some fun at the day centre today aren’t you love?” I looked down. There was a lady in a wheelchair. A guant, pale lady. There were no rosy cheeks, Tom had done her hair the best he could but it was thin and coarse. Her head rolled from side to side. I looked in her eyes, there was nothing there. Black lifeless holes in her face. The only hint of emotion I could detect in them was sadness, a deep, dark sadness that if you looked into them too long would suck your soul away. She mumbled and pointed at my son I couldn’t make out what she was saying but she said something about him being a guitar player. I was stunned. I walked away feeling so sad for Tom, for them both, and cross at myself for not knowing.
Tom looked after Rosemary for years, it was a slow and painful decline. He did everything for her. It was the most amazing show of love and dedication I’d ever seen. He always smiled, he was always cheerful. He was never abrupt with me when I asked how Rosemary was doing.
Rosemary passed away. So many times I wanted to knock on his door and see how he was doing. Rosemary was his life, and now she was gone.
I never did knock on his door. I don’t know why.
Tom still lives 7 or 8 doors down from my mums house, and he never ceases to amaze me. A couple of Halloweens ago I took the kids trick or treating near my mums. I stopped outside Toms. I wondered if we should knock, Tom was in his 80’s, he lived alone, he might not like halloween as many old folks don’t. I noticed the light was on in the front room and a small pumpkin outside, I thought we’d give it a try. ”Don’t shout too loudly at him” I told the kids. They rang the bell. Maybe we should go. Suddenly the door flew open and there was Tom, dressed head to toe in a pirates costume “Arrrrrgh!” he shouted at the kids, before bursting out laughing and filling up their bags with treats.
Awhile ago I saw him at 8am picking up litter from the street. He is head of the committee for a volunteer group to re-vamp the local park. He is very much involved in neighbourhood watch. He found a kids scooter recently and knocked on every single door of the street to find out whose it was. Every morning he is up and ready to go, filling his day with helping people and helping the community. He is still as chirpy and cheerful as ever.
To me he is one of life’s amazing people.
We still only say ‘hello’ to each other. I always wonder if one day i’ll summon up the courage to tell him what i think of him, to say sorry for being snappy with him when he was just trying to help, to tell him what an inspiration he is, how much I admire his courage and strength, although in all honesty I don’t think I ever will. Some things are just too hard to put into words.
I am also looking into guitar lessons for my son.
