Little Liddy

LITTLE LIZZIE

Richard Bennett scowled at the trousers and shirt laid out before him and flung them onto the armchair with a frustrated sigh. How was he supposed to go out wearing these? The trousers were crumpled, with barely a hint of a crease left, shiny at the seat, and five kilos lighter as he was these days, they hung off him like a sack. The shirt was an even greater tragedy once sky blue, now an indeterminate grey, its cuffs frayed and collar limp, a disgrace. Lizzie wouldnt have let him pop to the village shop in such a shirt, and yet here he was, preparing to lecture at the university in it. He never cared much for clothes, but hed always looked rather dashing, more than just presentable. Not anymore.

He used to take it for granted, shirts appearing, suits and jackets changing, a new tie here, a pair of smart brogues there, a cap for windy days. All he needed to do was slip a hand into the wardrobe or, at most, mention to Lizzie that he needed to look the part tomorrow.

Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie what have you done, running off like that, what sort of trick was that? He never expected such betrayal. Shed always been younger by nearly a decade, never any real illnesses, nothing serious even now, just a few days with a bit of a temperature and a silly cough that refused to loosen its grip. Shed have managed with one of her herbal brews, stubborn as she was, but she needed a medical check for her teaching job before the new term. Off she went with the other teachers to the clinic nothing more than a formality, really and yet, from there, she was sent straight to hospital and the nightmare began. By New Year, it was already over.

Richards mind understood, of course, but hed grown to hate that drab NHS health centre down the road, as if it were the culprits, not the ones whod sounded the alarm. Somewhere in the back of his head, it seemed logical: if it all began there, they were to blame.

Hed met Lizzie when he was a second-year postgrad teaching a seminar in calculus, and she, fresh as morning dew, was a first-year student. Strange, really, how shed caught his attention. He liked bold, boisterous girls, but she was nothing of the sort: cheeks flushed pink from the cold, freckles even in February, childishly plump little fingers with bitten nails and smudges of ink. It was those fingers that did it he was utterly disarmed.

Before he realised what was happening, he was walking her home after lectures, dropping in on her and her gran to pinch pierogi, and after that, what else to do but get married?

In the forty years that followed, Lizzie doubled in size, snipped off her plaits, smoked her way through two packs a day, and eventually became the deputy head of a maths school, but Richard saw her the same childs hands, gnawed nails, and a tender ache in his heart for anyone but her never surfaced.

They didnt live a fairy tale far from it. Forty years brought plenty, including Richards own indiscretions, a handful of small ones and two big ones that had him walking out the door. And Lizzie wasnt a saint either, leading him a merry dance for three years with the director of the local car plant that sponsored her school. But they had two daughters their anchors and whatever storm, their ship held fast to those.

It was never fair. First they scraped by, packed on top of one another, then the girls came and life revolved around violin lessons, art school, hockey and endless childhood illnesses. And now, when there was finally space enough, the daughters living lives of their own, the grandkids appearing only on high days and holidays, when peace and happiness ought to have settled in Lizzie had gone and thrown it all away. He had no idea how to carry on without her instructions.

Richard hadnt been prepared for Lizzies absence not remotely. It took time to process it, and even at the memorial, he acted more as if at a birthday party than at a wake, enough that people whispered he must not be grieving much at all, certainly not enough to deserve their special sympathy. They were wrong. The shock just hit him later, a few months on when spring arrived. A crushing loneliness and melancholy fell on him, he lost weight, and couldnt stand being home alone.

Uniting with the daughters was out of the question: the eldest was forever off with environmentalists, saving dolphins or tracking migrating birds, while the younger had vanished into her husbands household, all her attention on the baby, with no space for a father in her tightly wound routines. So Richard started visiting his friends.

Visiting was generous: he appeared at all hours, ate hungrily, dozed in their armchairs, sipped tea with ginger biscuits, spilling crumbs everywhere onto his faded shirt, their tablecloths and sat silently, only leaving when it truly became impolite to stay. Then it was back home to repeat it all the next day.

He barely cooked for himself, though hed been the house chef with Lizzie for decades somehow, for just himself, it held no appeal. He looked a wreck: tired, faded, unkempt, which finally spurred his friends into action. They decided Richard urgently needed a new wife.

And so, tonight it was the theatre again, this time with Annabel Chambers. Nothing would come of it. Hed only ever gone to the theatre with Lizzie, and even then, it was for her. He always found it contrived, stuffy, artificial, and dull. But Lizzie would beam at the stage, save the programmes, excitedly relive each scene for him; how could he refuse? Now, his friends pressed tickets into his hand with well-meaning persistence, dragging him through the slushy streets to sit for hours with aching back and sore feet, crammed into stiff shoes, surrounded by cloying perfume, offering tired ladies watered-down juice and stale eclairs in the interval. He only dreamed of getting home to bury his face in a pillow that still smelled, he told himself, of Lizzie. But he couldnt offend his friends by refusing, and he understood he simply couldnt live alone though why life must go on at all was a mystery.

Tonight, Annabel was rather pleasant sprightly, elegant, cleverly made up, easily a stunner a decade ago. Fifteen years his junior, a petite figure, confident, and more than a little worldly. Standing next to her, Richard felt doubly old and worn out, but she was blatantly flirting, suggesting plans for the coming weekend.

The play was decent, at least short and without an interval. But after, convention meant he should invite her to a café; alas, fortune smiled.

Annabel confessed she lived nearby, had cooked a lovely roast and a pie that could do with sharing, and would he join her? It was clearly staged, but Richard craved the warmth of a real kitchen, so he readily accepted.

Annabels flat was immaculate, a little jewel-box of a place scented with cinnamon and vanilla. She slipped off briefly and returned, looking years younger in casual joggers, cheerfully bustling about, feeding him shepherds pie and banoffee tart, keeping a lively conversation. He even thought for a moment hed be happy to stay here forever, in this gingerbread house, where memories wouldnt throttle him at night or sneak out during the quiet hours. Perhaps a new life could really begin.

Richard reluctantly left past midnight. They had plans, now: the Museum of Private Collections tomorrow, shopping for a proper wardrobe afterwards cant have you embarrassing your escort, shed teased and lunch at hers on Saturday. Shed wanted an outing to her cottage in the countryside, but her daughter had asked to drop the granddaughter off instead; so, lunch in town it would be, with the little one, and the cottage saved for Sunday.

On Saturday, Richard got a fresh haircut, took years off his face, pulled on a dashing plaid shirt and soft corduroys, picked up flowers and a box of chocolates for the granddaughter, and headed out.

The communal stairs smelled deliciously of roast duck and something sweet baking; Richard caught himself humming as he caught his reflection in the old lifts mirror.

Annabel greeted him with bright warmth, as if welcoming a soldier home from the wars, and whisked him off to the kitchen.

Wheres your granddaughter? Richard asked.

Ill call her. Shes being a little mardy, hiding out in the bedroom, Annabel said.

Richard, meanwhile, put the flowers in a vase, uncorked the wine and apple juice for the girl, sliced the bread, and took his place at the table.

Richard, meet my granddaughter this is Lizzie! she announced.

He looked up to see a pair of clear, searching eyes, rosy cheeks, and a dusting of freckles across a pert nose. Lizzie eyed him with mistrust, gnawing at her thumb in nervousness.

Dont let me die here, Richard thought, stifling his panic, and quickly excused himself from the room.