It’d been four months since Florence’s world fell apart. It hadn’t come as a surprise, Thomas’s passing, but that didn’t help insulate her from the crippling pain she felt. He’d been valiant throughout his illness, but now Florence was alone, and failing miserably at her intention to be upbeat and positive on her visits.
“We’ve got new neighbours,” she said softly, replacing the flowers into the vase. “There’s none of the old gang left on the street now. With these new neighbours moved in, that’s the last of the old ones gone,” she told him. She paused for a few long moments to reflect on this. “A nice bunch of young lads, the new neighbours,” she said finally, pressing on. “Polite enough, but like to play their music until late. If they’re having a party they usually come ’round to warn me in advance, and one of them even invited me over to join them for a drink. Can you imagine? I told them they didn’t want to have some eighty-six-year-old fuddy-duddy around spoiling their fun!” She glanced around the cemetery. “Anyway…” she said. “At least it’s a lovely day for a visit.”
Florence fell quiet, head stooped. Her shoulders heaved, ever so slightly, and she bit her bottom lip. She looked back up, read the words on the headstone, and shook her head in disbelief. She just couldn’t believe he was really gone. Even after four months, it was still difficult for her to make sense of.
“I’m fine,” she said eventually, although her voice, choked by emotion, told another story. She made a deep sigh, wiping her cheeks. “I promised I’d be fine, and I’m doing well, Tom. I promised you I’d be strong, but I miss you terribly, my love,” she told him, placing her fingers to her lips and then down onto the headstone. “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring flowers this time, but I’ll bring fresh ones soon, as I said,” she promised. “Anyway, I should be going now, my dearest. I’ve so many things to do today!” she told him, taking up her handbag and carefully raising her old bones from the pitch of grass in front of the headstone. She blew a kiss and turned to move, before taking a moment to glance back, saying, “I love you, Tom. From the bottom of my heart, I love you. Happy anniversary, my darling. I’ll always love you.”
Florence had always been honest with Tom. In fifty years of marriage, she’d never told him a lie. Well, maybe an occasional white lie, like when he’d gained a couple of pounds after his knee operation and needed some positive reassurance. But telling Tom that she’d be able to cope after he was gone was a doozy of a lie, as it turned out, however, as it was a promise she now found herself failing miserably at keeping on a daily basis. Coming to see him was the only thing keeping her going, but at the same time, feeling the need to hide the truth from him was compounding her grief. And the truth was that she wasn’t coping. Watching the man — her husband and closest friend — whom she’d adored for her entire adult life gradually wasting away had destroyed her. She felt utterly helpless, and the only comfort she could offer him when he was still alive, because of his worry for her, was the assurance that she’d manage with things after he’d gone. She knew then, of course, when she’d given him that assurance, that it was a promise she’d find almost impossible to keep. But it was all she’d been able to give him at the time.
They’d lived in the same cul-de-sac, the two of them, since the houses there had been built. In fact, they’d even camped out for several days before they went on sale to ensure they’d secure the house they wanted, with a deposit they’d spent the previous few years saving for. Living in a tent for several days, along with other couples also camping out who would become their future neighbours, was a fond memory they’d often reflect back on, when Tom was still alive. It was an idyllic setting, their street, populated by optimistic, exuberant couples, eager to make a home for themselves, eager to build their families, and eager to forge long-lasting friendships of their neighbours.
Life had been good for both Florence and Tom. They dealt with the typical ups and downs one might expect to encounter along life’s journey. They’d hoped two would become three, but while that hadn’t happened, they worked hard their entire lives, and were respected and well-loved by those around them.
Over the years, many of their friends, family, and neighbours had moved away, and those that hadn’t had popped their clogs. Sadly, in this way, as the years progressed, Florence and Tom’s social circle diminished. Neighbouring homes, so loved and well-tended by their owners for so long, were being snapped up, once vacated, by buy-to-let landlords who often had little regard for the calibre of the incoming tenants so long as the rent was being paid. Some of these new neighbours were nice enough, mind you, but some, unfortunately, not so much. And it was never the same as before. And, gradually, one by one, the meticulously tended gardens on the street became more and more derelict in appearance. Empty beer cans and discarded cigarette butts even ended up, astonishingly, thrown in Florence and Tom’s front garden from the less considerate and less scrupulous of the neighbours, something that would never have happened in years past, and bit by bit any sense of community spirit gradually eroded until very little remained.
Their garden was only a modest patch of grass, but it had once boasted the finest floral display on the street, a focal point for those passing to stop and have a chat with Florence and Tom, who could very often be found stationed outside with a gardening implement of one sort or another in hand, and a teapot in the house happily ready for pouring upon request. They’d spend hours tending to their flowers or giving their lawn a fine edge, and it broke Florence’s heart to now see the garden they’d taken so much pride in over the years currently in such a state of decline. But her attention had necessarily been focussed on taking care of her husband, during Tom’s illness, and now, four months after he’d passed, Florence simply didn’t have the same motivation or even physical ability to provide the continuous upkeep the garden required. And seeing the garden in its current neglected state only served as a painful reminder of what it used to look like in happier times.
Florence didn’t return to Thomas’s grave a couple of days later as she’d promised. In fact it had been a fair bit more than a few days, as she didn’t care to, or couldn’t bear to, leave the house, fretting on the incident in the supermarket and letting it weigh heavily on her mind. Her cupboards were now virtually empty, and for the most part she sat in darkness, curtains drawn, with a good number of lightbulbs having blown and without the ability to change them herself. She would have asked her neighbours next door for help in replacing the burnt-out bulbs, but her neighbours weren’t actually the nice bunch of lads she’d described to Thomas. They were in fact boorish drunks often carrying on most evenings to an extent that Florence found it impossible to get any sleep. She was never one for watching the television, but at least it provided her with another set of voices in the house to help drown out the incessant din from next door, and so she kept it on now most times. She’d not slept well or eaten properly for she didn’t know how long, and one day blurred into the next. The only thing keeping her going was the thought of going to see Tom again one day soon. She was in the fierce grip of depression, however, and the thought of even opening the front door presented a challenge she couldn’t face or overcome.
Florence had promised Tom she’d cope without him but the truth of it was that she wasn’t. She wasn’t at all. And she was at the stage of wondering what the actual point in continuing was. She wanted to be with Tom. She just wanted to be with her Thomas.
The sound of a car engine roused Florence from a fitful dozing on her sofa. The flickering light from the muted TV caused eerie shadows to dance in the corners of the room, and with the curtains drawn over she wasn’t sure if it was day or night. She pulled her blanket tight as the sound of footsteps thundered up her path. This was followed shortly thereafter by a deep voice, shouting something just outside her front door, but she couldn’t make out what the person was saying as her blanket was at this point pressed tightly against her ears. She cast her eyes over to her phone, in hopes of calling the police, but the cordless handset w
asn’t sat in its cradle. The voice at the door went quiet for a moment, and was then replaced by a sharp rapping at the window. Florence’s heart raced. She thought of throwing off her blanket and executing a hasty exit via the patio door at the rear of her house, but she was paralysed with fear, and her limbs wouldn’t respond. “Hel-hello!” she called out, her voice shaking, hoping against hope any potential burglar might be discouraged on hearing that someone was at home. “I’ve… I’ve got a dog!” she said. “He’s… he’s very large!”
There was some further tapping at the window as the vague outline of an oversized, shadowy figure could just be made out through the curtains, looming there ominously on the other side of the glass. Florence gave a start as the figure jockeyed for position outside the window, trying to catch a glimpse inside through the sliver of a gap left between the curtains.
When the figure moved away from the window, Florence prayed it was the end of the ordeal. But then, whoever the intruder was, they were at the door again. As she heard the letterbox being prised open, terror gripped her, and she once again darted her eyes around in a desperate search for her phone.
“Florence,” came the voice again, plainly now, through the open slot of the letterbox. It was a familiar voice, now she could hear it clearly. “Florence, my love, open up,” it said gently, almost in a whisper this time. “Florence, it’s me. It’s Sam.”
“Oh my,” she said, as a wave of relief washed over her. She rose shakily to her feet, casting her blanket aside down onto the sofa, and she carefully made her way to the door. Then, still a little confused, she moved to the window near to the door, pulling aside one of the curtains a bit in order to confirm both that it was daytime and that it was indeed Sam on her front steps. It was. He stood there on the stoop smiling back at her, presenting himself for inspection and holding aloft a pint of milk and a loaf of bread for her kind consideration.
Florence was happy enough to see Sam, but opened the door somewhat cautiously and tentatively, as from looking out the window she was now aware that there were three young men on their knees on her front lawn doing she-wasn’t-entirely-sure what. “Sam…?” she said.
The hulking figure of Sam, at least six-foot-two, with a mop of golden locks and arms like Popeye, filled the doorframe. He leaned forward and placed a kiss on her cheek. “Are you okay?” he asked, the concern in his voice evident.
“I thought you’d gone?” she said, accepting the loaf of bread with one hand and then taking his hand in hers with the other.
“No, no, silly,” he said mildly. “Remember, my darling? I’ve been away for three weeks. I left a note on your fridge to remind you. Has nobody from social services been ’round?”
Florence shook her head and then smiled. “I wondered what the note on the fridge referred to,” she said. She peered past Sam to the figures in her garden. “Are your friends okay?” she asked.
“They’re just fine,” Sam told her. “Aren’t you, boys?” shouted Sam to the boys, in a tone which made abundantly clear what sort of answer might be expected should they be foolish enough to actually respond.
“Oh,” said Florence simply, confused as to what was going on.
“Florence, these are the boys from next door,” explained Sam.
“Oh,” Florence said again. Although she’d certainly heard her neighbours enough times, this was the first time she’d actually ever seen them.
“I’ve just asked them very nicely not to throw their rubbish into your garden, and they’ve very kindly offered to pick up all of the empty beer cans and fag ends that have somehow managed to appear in your garden over the course of the last few weeks,” Sam told her. “Oh,” he added, turning to address the three lads in question currently foraging through the long grass. “And now that the weather’s getting a little better, you lot are going to help Florence cut her grass when you cut your own, yes?” he said, placing emphasis on the ‘when you cut your own’ part, making it eminently clear that he wanted them to considerably up their game in regard to their own garden-centred endeavours.
“That… would be lovely?” said Florence uncertainly.
“Anyway, I’ve brought you some supplies,” said Sam, turning his attention back to Florence. Of course she’d already taken the bread, but the milk was in danger of turning to butter from all the churning if Sam didn’t stop waving it about in the air. “And why are you sat here in darkness? Have you had more lightbulbs go out since the last time I was here? I knew I should’ve changed those other ones for you! And why on earth have you got the curtains closed, luv?”
“I’m not really sleeping at night at the moment, so the best I can manage is little catnaps on the couch during the day,” replied Florence, almost apologetically.
“Fuck!” raged Sam. “Oh, sorry, I’m not angry at you,” Sam quickly explained, noticing the look on Florence’s face. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone away, is all. Have they been playing their music at all hours again?”
Florence nodded in response.
“Pop that kettle on, Florence, my lovely, and we’re going to get everything sorted out for you,” Sam assured her. “I just want to have another friendly chat with the boys outside about the music levels, if that’s okay? Back in a moment,” he said.
As Florence tended to the tea in her kitchen as per Sam’s request, Sam, meanwhile, strolled out into the garden, where he gripped the lad closest by the scruff of the neck. “What did I tell you little bastards the last time I was around?” he growled.
“About the… the music?” replied the lad, gripping onto his bag of collected rubbish, and with several beer cans shaking loose and falling out.
“Correct,” said Sam. “I have no problem with you lot having a bit of fun, but not every bloody night, yeah? And have some respect and keep the bloody volume down so you don’t disturb Florence and if I see any more rubbish in her garden then you’re really going to piss me off. Understand?”
“Yup,” said the lad, as casually as he could muster, so as not to lose face in front of his mates, although this was a rather pointless endeavour as he was presently lifted up off the ground by the scruff of his neck and clutching a bag full of refuse he’d been forced to collect.
“Look, she’s eighty-odd years of age, and has just recently lost her husband,” Sam went on, setting the boy back down, and with his tone now softening somewhat. “And the poor thing isn’t sleeping nights because of your poxy music.”
To be fair to the three of them, their faces sank. They were early twenties, and possibly living away from home for the first time.
“Sorry,” said one of the others. “No, honestly. I’ve got a granny of a similar age. What say we drop in on… ehm…”
“Florence,” offered Sam.
“On Florence, yes. On Florence, once in a while. You know, if she needs shopping or anything…?”
Sam smiled. He could see they weren’t entirely a bad bunch, just a bit thoughtless and selfish at times, perhaps, as young people can sometimes be.
“Are you her grandson or something?” asked the lad Sam had forcefully accosted a moment earlier, who was now rubbing his neck.
Sam shook his head. “No, I’m just her postman,” he explained. “Or, was, that is. Same as I was yours, until I had my round moved.” Sam took a step over towards the other two, which caused them to give a little nervous start, fearful their own necks might be manhandled next. “Don’t worry,” he told them. “Here, I didn’t mean to get so angry, boys. But she means a lot to me, understand? Look, spend some time getting to know her and you’ll know what I mean. She’s proper salt-of-the-earth, Florence, and has a wicked sense of humour. I got to know the pair of them quite well when I worked this route, and I told her late husband that I’d look in on her after he was gone as she’d be all alone, her friends and other family members having all either moved away or passed on. So please, guys, be nice, yeah?”
With assurances by the lads given, and the matter by all indications settled to Sam’s satisfac
tion, Sam returned to the house. He spread open the curtains of the living room, letting some sunshine back into the home once again. “I’ve brought you a little souvenir back from New Zealand, Florence, but I’ve left it in my flat. It’s a beautiful place, Florence!” he called out to her. “New Zealand, that is… not my flat. Right, and the boys next door have promised to turn the volume down so you can have a good night’s sleep, okay?”
Florence appeared with a pot of tea. “That’s very good of them,” she said. “I hope they don’t think I’m a party-pooper, Sam?”
“Nonsense. I was just telling them what a laugh you are, and how you’ve been a good friend to me,” Sam told her, accepting a cup from the tray and allowing Florence to fill it for him. “Ta, thanks for that,” he said, blowing on the surface of his tea for a moment, and taking the opportunity to cast a discreet glance around the living room as he did so. It was fairly evident that she wasn’t coping well, from what he could see. “Tell you what, Florence. I think I’ll pop down to see the people at social services, see if we can’t get a friendly helper to come ’round and give you a bit of company?”
“That’d be nice, I suppose,” replied Florence. “If they’re not too busy? I don’t want to be a bother,” she insisted.
Sam placed his cuppa down onto the side table for a moment, chewing his lip. “Florence,” he said softly, turning to face her. “You know I care about you, don’t you?”
“I do, Sam. And I care about you as well,” she answered him, taking a sip of her own tea and letting it warm her old bones. It brought some colour to her cheeks, and she allowed herself a slight grin. “Sam, you’re not about to tell me that you think we ought to be more than just friends?” she asked, batting her eyelids suggestively.
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