What’s Going On, Old Chap? Fancy a Stroll? At Your Age, I’d Be Keeping Cozy at Home!

23October2025

Today the cold wind cut across my cheeks as I stood by the Aroad, the old wicker basket hanging heavy in one hand, the other ready to flag down any passing motorist. My back was as stiff as a church door, and I pulled my flat cap lower over my eyes. I wasnt planning on any grand adventure, just a simple walk to the village shop, but the road seemed endless.

It wasnt the first time Id trotted this dusty lane. Since Ethel fell ill and was moved to the hospital in York, Ive grown accustomed to the rhythm of the roadthe waiting, the hoping, the endless stretch of sky. Yet today something tugged at my chest a little harder.

Ethel had been weaker than usual when the night nurse called. She isnt doing well, they said. It would be good if someone came to sit with her. When a neighbour says you should be there, it feels as though the ground slips from under you.

Without a second thought I left the cottage, grabbing the basket that held a clean shirt, a handtowel, some apples, and a bottle of jam my wife had made years ago for when Im sick, Arthur. That jam was her way of telling me she hadnt forgotten me, that she still remembered every careful spoonful shed placed on the shelf with trembling hands.

Cars rolled by now and then, but none stopped. Some drivers glanced our way as if I were a dead tree on the roadside, not a man with a heavy heart. Others buried themselves in their phones, laughing or shouting, too busy for a solitary old man with a basket.

Finally a car slowed. My heart leaptperhaps this was the one. I stepped forward, clutching the basket close. The window rolled down and a young woman, eyes bright with a hint of amusement, looked at me.

What are you doing out here, old man? Out for a stroll? At your age Id be tucked inside.

Her tone was playful, yet the joke landed like a cold splash.

I opened my mouth to say, Im not out for a walk, Im heading to my wife whos ill, but the boy behind the wheel already lifted the foot off the accelerator. The car pulled away, leaving only a puff of dust and a heavy silence behind it.

For a moment I felt the whole road strike me in the chest. I stared at my gnarled hands, my worn shoes, the battered basket. Maybe I do look like someone who has nothing left to do on these lanes, I thought, a knot tightening in my throat.

Then I remembered Ethels eyes, the way she searched for me in the hospital corridor, as though asking, Are you here? Did you come? Beneath the wrinkles, the years, the weariness, there was still the bright girl Id danced with at the village ceilidh long ago.

Our love never measured distance or ageonly the beat of our hearts.

I stayed where I was. Im not leaving, Ethel, I whispered to the wind. You called for me. How could I not come?

The clouds gathered, turning the sky a dull slate blue, the wind grew fiercer. I tightened my coat around me, feeling my bones creak from the cold and the years, yet I didnt move.

Occasionally a cars headlights flickered across my weary face for a heartbeat before the darkness swallowed me again.

Memories flooded back: the mornings when Ethel had set a table for two after Id returned from the fields, the scent of fresh bread wafting from the kitchen. The nights she stayed up, making tea, pressing cool compresses to my forehead when I fell ill. Her gentle chiding when I forgot to take my coat, and my laugh, Leave it, love, nothings going to break me.

Now she was the one lying weak, and I, with all the frailty of age, wanted nothing more than to hold her hand. I had no medicine, no qualifications, no strength beyond loveyet sometimes love is the only remedy we have.

As dusk settled, a car finally stopped. Its headlights blinded me for an instant. The door opened, and a figure in a white coat, jacket over it, stepped out.

Mr. Baker? the voice asked, familiar as a warm cup of tea.

Yes Im here, I replied, voice trembling.

Dr. Smith, the doctor who tended Ethel, looked at me with a mix of surprise and sorrow.

What are you doing out here in this cold? he asked.

Im heading to Ethel no one came for me today and Ive run out of patience, I admitted.

He sighed, remembering the countless afternoons Id sat on a plastic chair in the ward, basket at my feet, eyes fixed on the door of the side room, hands clenching whenever Ethels condition worsened, brightening whenever a nurse said, Shes a little better today.

Come, please. I wont leave you out here, he said, taking the basket from my hands as if it were a treasured heirloom, and opening the car door for me.

On me? I asked, bewildered.

On you, Mr. Baker. Im going to the hospital too. Ill take you.

When I slipped into the passenger seat, warmth enveloped me like a longoverdue hug. For the first time that day, tears slipped silently down my cheeks as I watched the world rush by the window.

Dr. Smith said nothing about why I hadnt taken the bus or why Id stood in the cold so long. He knew that sometimes questions cut deeper than the chill.

Doctor I began.

Yes?

Ethel keeps talking about you. She says you have good hands

He gave a soft smile. She has a kind heart, thats why she sees the good in everyone.

The rest of the drive was quiet. I clutched the basket to my chest, occasionally dabbling the corner of my eye with the cuff of my coat. I thought maybe God hadnt forgotten me; among all the cars that passed and never saw me, the one that stopped was the one belonging to the man who cared for Ethel.

When I finally stepped onto the bright, long corridor of the hospital, basket in hand, my steps small but steady, I felt less like a pitiful old man on the roadside and more like a husband keeping a promise: Ill come to you, no matter what.

Ethel saw me immediately. Her tired eyes lit up, just as they had when she waited for me to return from the fields years ago.

You came, she whispered.

Of course, love How could I not? I replied, setting the basket down and pulling out the jar of cherry jam Id saved for this very moment.

I brought you that jam for when Im sick, Arthur. Now youre the one whos ill, but well get through it together.

She gave a faint smile, a single tear shining not from pain but from gratitude.

All the cold on that road, every refusal, every sharp remark from the young drivernone of it mattered now.

Because Id learned something vital: the world is full of people who pass you by without a glance, yet a single good soul can make you feel that you havent been left on the side of the road. And my love for Ethel it never needed a thumbup from a passing car. It found its own way through the cold, through weariness, through time, and always arrived at her bedside, in her weary gaze and in the still beating of her heart.

Next time you see an elderly person with a hand out on the road, think that it could be you or someone you love. Be the car that stops, not the one that merely kicks up dust.

Arthur BakerAnd as the night settled, we sat together, the jam sweet on our tongues, knowing that love had finally found its way home.