The Quiet Man

The Man Who Didn't Know

Her shopping is heavier than it looks. I can’t believe she carried it this far on her own, and in this weather. It’s a good thing I ran into her, really. It’s about to rain again. She’d slip and fall on the way to the high street and break her leg. You’d never forgive me if anything happened to her, would you. I don’t think you would. Who would take care of her?

She takes my free arm and tucks it in against her. She pats my hand. We smile at each other as if nothing’s wrong, as if nothing’s missing. We’re both such liars, aren’t we.

We walk together, as people do with their arms linked. I shorten my pace to account for hers, grip her shopping bag, and she leans against me slightly. That hip, of course. The damp: it must be causing her pain. She’s leaning against me and leading me forward at the same time. Herding me.

Is this a random meeting, or did I just fall into some kind of trap?

“Thank you so much, dear,” she says again. Her voice reminds me of you. Though: to be fair, most things do.

I hear her voice and I remember odd little things, like her calling your name from the door, or her complaining about your experiments in the kitchen, or her offering you a cuppa. You leaning down to hug her, you wiping your feet on her mat. Impossibly perfect memories. It’s a cliche: people never truly appreciate what they’ve got until it’s taken from them. But I usually did. Most of the time.

It’s a funny thing, being reminded like that: it hurts me and comforts me at the same time. A little tug of war that never really stops. Comfort and pain, comfort and pain, layered together until I can’t feel the difference anymore.

One day, maybe, I’ll be numb to it. But I’m not yet.

It’s not that funny, I suppose.

She squeezes my arm a little. I smile at her, but I think she sees through it. She wants to take care of me, like she used to take care of both of us. “Why don’t you come back home with me? I’ll make you a cup of tea, how about that?”

Oh. This is definitely not an accidental meeting. This is a trap, isn’t it. She must have known I’d be here, it’s the closest I’ll come to 221b. My patterns and habits betray me again; I circle around in the mornings, after I’ve written for a little while. When the silence gets to me. My habits are observed even now. By whom?

So she found the heaviest pans should could find and bought two, and stood here waiting for me, did she? She knew I’d stop, she knew I’d help. And what’s meant to happen next? I’d carry her shopping home, of course; it’s only a few streets away. A cup of tea in her kitchen, a heart to heart. She’d lead me back up the stairs, drop me in the sitting room like a terrified cat and wait for me to come back out from under the sofa. She’d wait for me to cry, and then pour me a drink. As if that will make this easier, or better. As if that would bring you back.

She’s persistent, I’ll give her that. The steely determination of a motherly woman in her seventies: not to be trifled with. It’s a bit hard to tell her no. She thinks she knows what’s best for me. There’s a lot of things she thinks she knows.

“Oh, not today, I’m afraid. I’ve got an appointment,” I lie. “I’ll get you a cab.”

“Let’s walk a little further,” she says, like I’m a child she needs to goad. “Just a little further, all right? It will be so much cheaper for me if we just walk down the road a little.” I should have seen this coming.

Not yet. I’m not ready to go back.

I don’t really know why she wants me to come back at all. Shouldn’t she just rent the place out to someone willing and able to pay? That isn’t me, not any more. What is it, pity? Nostalgia? Some misplaced sense of duty? Did Sherlock leave her a pile of money to house me in perpetuity? No. You wouldn’t do something like that, would you.