a story i found....

He is Dapper. Dapper is the only word for that hat, although Jaunty is how his wife once described it.

His head is high, his carriage impeccable, but the hand on his cane shakes. His silver watch hangs loosely form his wrist. It is his Thursday watch; he always wears it alongside his navy suit. Shoes polished, collar buttoned, he rides the bus to town to meet his daughter.

On her lunch break she will meet him at the station and they will go to his favourite place for Devonshire Tea- Earl Grey for him, cappuccino for her, four scones-hold-the-cream (All that cholesterol isn’t good for either of us, and especially at your age…). He has made this lunch trip every Thurday since Caroline started that fancy job in town six years ago. A good job; he is proud of her.

He’s even more proud of his own ability to make this trip. Other men his age rely on their children to drive and cook for them, even (unthinkable!) clean and dress them. Mr Mckenna would sooner die than become a cardigan-wearing octogenarian dependent of his offspring’s weary tolerance. Actually, prays this daily for death to precede loss of dignity. And though he knows that tonight his hands will shake, every bone is his body holler with the strain of the day, it is a sacrifice he makes willingly because the day is important.

His daughter won’t know of his suffering, as she doesn’t know of the ten painful minutes this morning spent buttoning his shirt or the fifteen to put his shoes on. Such discomfort can be borne, the humiliation of it’s disclosure could not. He is of a generation where men are men, providers and defenders of the fairer sex, wearers of suitpants and short on words. This Thursday ritual is always at his expense; though his daughter’s salary is ten times his own she knows the importance of such matters. Her mother never earnt a penny of her own money, being of the generation where ladies are ladies and graciously so.

Her mother, if alive, would join these excursions, filling gaps with light chat and smothering her husband’s scones with cream (Honestly Caro, is this how you feed John?) No cream on her own plate (Must watch our figures, mustn’t we love?) Of course her mother has never been a part of the Thursday ritual because she died eight years ago, when Caroline was still working in South Perth. Still trying to conceive. Still married.

Mrs Mckenna never knew about John’s affairs- indiscretions, she’d probably have called them- and if she had would probably have asked what Caro had been feeding him.

Mrs Mckenna eventually lost the strength to cook for her own husband- her daughter still wonders if it was this shame that finished her- and Mr Mckenna at age sixty-seven learnt to cook. Solid, bland meals, the kind his wife had cooked him for thirty years. He is proud of his ability to make bangers-n-mash to perfection, considers himself as enlightened as the next man. Obviously one can’t be getting carried away with this enlightened business, crying or staying home to raise children, al that rot. But he enjoys the feeling of capability his new cooking skills bring. He is thoroughly independent, need rely on noone, and his spotless attire is further proof of this.

He stands as the bus slows to a stop, begins down the aisle. But the stop is less than smooth and the old man stumbles slightly back. Mortified by this weakness, he disembarks and walks slowly along the pavement while younger and more hurried people overtake him.

His head remains upright, his gait dignified. He may be old , but he isn’t doddery yet!

He uses is cane subtly for extra balance. Casually, as though it’s more for show than necessity- it’s a handsome wood and silver affair, and certainly contains an element of show.

Caroline is waiting for him, talking into that blasted phone of hers (I’m sorry, important lunch meeting, can we finish this later?... Hi Dad, won’t be a sec) and his annoyance at the phone is erased by pride that she keeps important people waiting to have lunch with him. They’d done a grand job all right, raising this one. Good looks; good job; and still time to spend with her old father. A pity about the marriage though.

Caroline hangs up, takes his arm, and they proceed slowly over the walkway to Myer. Caroline gives change to the Salvation Army lady, the one who’s been there every week for years. She remembers them and wishes a nice lunch. This weekly donation Caroline is permitted to pay for herself, as it’s considered a harmless female folly, similar to buying perfumes and such, a small expense that makes her happy which he otherwise takes no interest in.

Safely seated on the cushioned cane chairs at the restaurant, they chat quietly. Both staff and customers speak softly here, not like those ghastly new places with pounding music and kids serving you. He spreads jam evenly, hoping she doesn’t notice his and shake. She takes a quick mouthful of coffee, blames the tears that start to her eyes on the burning liquid. They speak of her work briefly; of her garden at greater length; of the latest political scandal, with considerably more amusement on her part. They do not speak of Mrs Mckenna, or of John, or of children in even general terms. Neither do they mention his health. These rules are as sacred as they are unspoken.

He pays while she reapplies lipstick. For a brief and painful moment she is the image of her mother, lips pursed and eyes narrowed at her reflection in the little compact.

She accompanies him to the bus, waving at the Salvation Army lady on the way. At the bus station they keep the ritual (You needn’t wait/ Oh I’ve plenty of time) without variation, and neither of them mention the empty evening facing them both.

She waves him off cheerfully, lipsticked smile nailed in place. He nods in response, carefully negotiating the steps.

He goes home to his empty unit, the pain already bad, the promise of worse to come.

She returns to her office, where she cries for ten minutes before fixing her face and keeping her next appointment.