Halcyon Days - 1. His Tale

Why does everything ache? Even in bed. Nothing works like it used to – if it works at all. Any part of me that's not swollen, my skin hangs off it in dull, crinkly folds. Hills and valleys where there used to be broad, flat plains. Once upon a time when running and swimming were part of my life. Oh well, the realities of growing old …

Growing? You're bloody ancient, you daft fucker. Have been for ages.

Indeed. Old, alone, marooned. A piece of driftwood on life's furthest beaches. … The family's dispersed, as families do. What's to keep them here? In this backwater. They've got better things to do than look after me.

Nearly all my friends are dead, or gaga. My last visit to the nursing home … when was it? Six months ago? Three … eight? My memory's so poor now – something that happened fifty, sixty years ago, fine. Remember every detail. Last year? Not a hope. Last week, even. Must spend longer on the crossword – no giving up after half an hour. Maybe learning another language would help? Or not.

Hate these short, dark winter days – hardly able to get out, what with the cold and ice. Still have to get food, of course. Must do a list for tomorrow. Tomatoes. Must remember to buy some tomatoes – forgot last time. … The nights are interminable, this time of year. Once the curtains are closed and the doors locked, that's me imprisioned. Solitary confinement. Go to bed far too early, really, but there's nothing much else to do. And the heating costs too much. That last bill made my eyes water.

Anyway … John … He didn't know me at all the last time – sitting, staring vacantly into space, eyes wandering from one unrecognised spot to another. Poor thing. He didn't even register me. How long have we known each other? Blimey. More than half a century – well over. We first met trying to find our rooms at university. Me, studying classics, him … Fine art, was it? Something like that. It's all robotics, computers, science stuff now. No room for amo, amas, amat. Dead languages studied by people who are nearly all dead now.

Maybe John's gone as well. Probably. Hopefully – that's not cruel of me, is it? Haven't managed to get there to see him in a long time – not been well myself, of course. Have to look after number one. No-one else to do it for me. No dishy male nurse, with me wondering what's under his scrubs. Heart problems now to add to the long list of what's not right with me. Are there any members of the medical profession hereabouts who haven't prodded my dilapidated frame? Had me in one of their machines? One of these days, they'll decide it's not worth doing any more.

Miss the car. Nothing fancy though, was it? But it was mine, and it got me around. Part of my independence, which is being surrendered gradually, against every fibre of my being. Had to give up driving back in … oh, whenever it was. Public transport or taxis – they aren't the same. Yes, the bus is free, but it doesn't go anywhere near the nursing home. What's next? Having my privacy invaded by carers? Doing things to their timetable, not mine. Over my dead body.

He didn't have any relatives who might've made an effort to contact people – John was a bit of a outsider all his life. Never settled down. Eccentric, bohemian. Nomadic, that's the right word. What a funeral that must've been – nobody present apart from the odd member of the nursing home staff. And they were probably grateful the end had finally come. For him as well as themselves. Hate funerals, but he would've wanted me there. Pity …

Suppose mine won't be long off – some days it feels as though it'll be tomorrow, or the day after. Not that it's been planned yet. Never do today what can be put off until tomorrow. Except where money's concerned. Must update my will one of these days, if he has gone. Not that he was going to inherit a fortune or anything, but there is a bequest in there. …

Thinking of him has reminded me of those days at college when we went boating on the river. Glorious days in early summer, exams over, but term not quite finished. One day, we hired a rowing boat – neither of us fancied punting. It was less expensive – can't remember how much – and looked down-upon, but we both heartily disliked the posing, competitive element in punting.

God, we could hardly describe ourselves as rowers though. Yes, we were two reasonably fit young men, but that didn't mean you'd automatically be a good rower. Far from it. There was only one pair of oars. First off, we took it in turns to propel us and the craft in something approximating to the right direction – with the flow, wasn't it? If it'd been against us, we wouldn't have got anywhere.

John was far better than me, no question. Relatively speaking, of course. More co-ordination, better sense of rhythm, more power. It was beautiful watching him row – muscles and sinews getting a damn good workout. Not that you were allowed to take your shirt off back then. Heaven forbid. Still, the sweat made his cling in all the right places. Not quite see-through. Such a vivid image. After all this time. And he knew how good he looked.

John wasn't queer, or not that anybody ever discovered. Rather, it was simply the vanity of youth, showing off, and looking good while you did so. Did he know about me? At that point, no. Later? Not sure. We went our separate ways, and lost touch eventually. How sad that we reconnected at the time he came back here. To die, effectively. Why did he choose here? No idea. … The subject of our respective sexuality was never discussed between us then, or any other time. There was a kind of innocence about those times. Or ignorance. Nothing like that now, with all these … what are they called? Err … these … applications young people use. See? The brain does still work sometimes. And the internet – they seem to live their lives online.

Anyway, back to the boat. One time, when it was my turn to row, we made such a complete hash of changing places, that the boat damn near capsized. We both ended up sprawled on top of each other in between the … seats? – don't know what they're called in a boat. Helpless with laughter. We were lucky we didn't lose the oars. That would've been tricky. We must've looked like a pair of complete clowns.

What a wonderful, halcyon day that was. It shines so brightly in my store of memories. Poor John … Wonder if he remembered it so? We finally reached our destination – just a mooring point and a landing stage – rather later than we intended. Unsurprisingly. And some of the fun had gone out of it, in a way. John was developing blisters on the palms of his hands, and we hadn't got anything to treat them with. Two young men on a day out? We hadn't even packed any sandwiches or drinks. We just hoped there'd be a pub or a farmhouse where we could obtain something by way of lunch.

Those were the days. When a farmer's wife didn't mind handing out food and drink in return for a small payment. Milk fresh from the cow, newly-baked bread, their own cheese and pickles. Even sometimes, their own home-brewed ale. That was the life – carefree, bucolic, sunshine, fresh air, idyllic in many ways. Of course, we knew it'd be over in a flash.

Then it was looking for jobs. In my case, my first teaching position in a second, or third rate public school. Trying to conform to the stifling social rigidity of the late 1950s. Had we seen the last of the post-war rationing by then? Can't remember. Anyway, it felt like being shackled. Teaching Greek and Latin to dullards mostly. Life got better as the schools changed and improved. John? He never seemed to have a steady job, disappearing off at regular intervals, sending me letters from all over. Until he stopped.

Strange how the sun has never seemed so bright, so radiant since then. Apollo at his most benign. … Or is it my rose-tinted glasses again? Don't think so. Certainly, things were simpler then. Some things. Other things, important things, were hidden, outlawed. 'Confirmed bachelor' … that was me. Knowing myself, but not able to meet up with anyone else. Why are public schools in such out of the way places? … My brother was the one who got married, had the two point whatever kids. Of course, they've got their own children, and possibly, grandchildren now. Semi-detached, that's me. Part, but not part. That's why they're not to be bothered with my problems – they've plenty enough of their own. Don't want to be a burden. Ever.

So, anyway, having moored the boat, we found the necessary farm. Then loaded with our loot, we made our way to a meadow nearby. You don't see meadows like that anymore. More's the pity. Grass liberally interlaced with poppies, buttercups, and so many other brightly coloured flowers. Can't remember the names of them now. The picture's still there – that hasn't faded. The scents of all the vegetation in the sun, the sounds of the birds, and bees. Grasshoppers as well. There's something my ears haven't heard for decades – comes of living in suburbia.

We reclined on the ground. Nothing to sit on, of course, no couches, but we did perfectly well without. The food wasn't Roman either, but its simplicity was given added flavour by its surroundings. Then we just lay there, talking idly about anything and everything. Apart from the one subject which was never spoken about. Profound, silly, bizarre, politics, current affairs, classical history, anything which came into our heads. We solved the problems of the world that day, like you can do at that age. And we looked into the future … So frustrating to remember that, but not anything we thought of.

It was a day without compare – we were lucky to have had even that one single day. Most people go through life without any such. The Elysian surroundings, nothing planned or worried over, hardly anything spent in the way of money. Just bliss. That's how John lives on in my memory – brimming with wit, humour, carefree in his youth. So handsome, his fair hair glinting in the sunshine, fit, lightly tanned … Not the husk, the wreck of a human being who existed in that nursing home. Makes me want to cry, that does.

That's me, of course. Spending time in the past. Have to stop myself from doing it too often. That way senility, rather than madness, lies. It's the present day for me, with all its horrors and delights. Like? Oh … being able to talk to my remaining friends without leaving my bed. Ordering groceries to be delivered. Don't do it that often – costs too much. Only when there's heavy stuff needed – washing powder, cans, that sort of thing. It keeps my brain alive, keeps me connected. Can't understand people who won't try new things – the internet? It's not that difficult. Took me what? … a couple of days to get the hang of it? That's me, keeping my brain functioning, learning new things. …

Losing my mind – that's always been a line in the sand. Not on my watch. What's the wretched disease called? Starts with an a? Possibly … Words delight in evading my grasp, only re-emerging hours or days later. Of course, by then, the subject itself has been forgotten. Anyway, as soon as the dreaded symptoms make themselves known, that'll be it. Finito. That drawer over there has the pills. Sleeping pills, saved over time. Every now and again, the oldest packets get thrown out, but there's enough there. To do the job. Much sooner be dead than unaware of my own existence. …

Still. That time hasn't come yet. Maybe, won't ever. Life is there to be lived, enjoyed, savoured, day by day, until it is no longer possible. Just, always on my own. ... Poor John.