12October2025
I buried my wife, Margaret, many years ago. I was barely forty when she passed, and we were practically the same age. It has now been over a decade that I have lived alone, and I told myself I would never be interested in another woman again. Im not saying nobody ever glanced my way quite the opposite. One gentleman even proposed, but none of them were my Denis. That, I suppose, is the crux of the matter.
I have always been a great lover of flowers. The cottage garden that Margaret and I bought together long ago has long since become a floral paradise. When she died, my vegetable patches withered away; there was no one left to share pickles and preserves with. My eldest daughter, Beatrice, lives with her children in Bristol, and my younger daughter, Alice, moved to London for work. Thus the vegetable beds were overtaken by blossoms. The neighbours would often marvel at the beauty, though I could see them rolling their eyes behind my back. Let them think Im mad; the flower corner lifts my spirit, smells sweet, and keeps blooming well into late autumn. In fact, those same neighbours now come by each first of September buying bouquets for their grandchildren. I hand out my blossoms left and right without a second thought.
Last summer I began to notice a man slipping up to my fence. He must have been about fifty, standing there inhaling the scent, smiling to himself. I felt a sudden urge to roll my eyes. As soon as I stepped onto the porch, he melted into the overgrown allotment behind the garden. Who was he? Why, I wondered, did he keep his distance? He seemed a strange fellow.
Having a suitor now, Tom? asked Lydia, the neighbour who owns the plot next to mine, as she breezed up to my gate.
What makes you say that, Lydia? I replied. I have no one, and I dont need anyone.
She laughed, We cant see you hiding from MrPeterson. What are you scared of? No one will judge you. Youre a free man.
I invited her in, and Lydia was astonished that I didnt know MrPeterson. He has lived in our housing estate for years, his cottage at the far end of the lane. I rarely venture there; Im not much for socialising.
Simon Peterson is a very decent chap, works as chief mechanic for the local bus fleet, Lydia explained, He lost his wife two years ago. She used to be a keen gardener, much like yourself. Hes trying his best to keep her garden alive, though its a struggle. Hes been sneaking by to admire your flowers perhaps hes also looking at you?
I brushed her off, Dont be ridiculous, Lydia.
I started keeping an eye on the secret admirer. He was a striking figure: tall, dark hair thick as a crows wing, a touch of silver at his temples, always cleanshaven. One afternoon I caught sight of him through the kitchen window and, on a whim, stepped onto the porch and called, Good afternoon, neighbour. He startled, then managed a shy smile.
Good day, Tom, he said, his voice soft. Your garden is such a delight; I cant help but linger. Youre a beautiful soul. He then shuffled away toward the gate.
Hold on, I called after him. I hear youve got an impressive flower bed yourself. Might I have a look? I could show you some of mine.
Certainly, he replied, his eyes lighting up.
I opened the gate and invited him in. The path to my cottage is paved with concrete I laid myself years ago. To my annoyance, he ambled along it in garden flipflops, the rubber soles thudding loudly. It grated on me, but I forced myself not to dwell on his gait. We walked around the allotment, and I proudly displayed my horticultural achievements, promising to share seedlings in spring. He especially admired my towering hydrangea, which was in full bloom. I then invited him inside for tea with mint, and we chatted. What a pleasant fellow, I thought, momentarily forgetting the clatter of his steps.
Throughout the summer we spent many afternoons together: at my cottage, at his, by the river, and simply strolling around the estate. His garden, modest but tidy, hinted that his late wife had been a meticulous housekeeper. When the season ended we each returned home, and in the rush we never exchanged phone numbers a regret that lingered for weeks. I missed his company and found myself rather bored.
In November my younger daughter, Alice, returned home and introduced me to her boyfriend, Colin. Mum, this is Colin. Were thinking of getting married, she announced as we stood in the hallway.
Colin struck me as polite and attentive, clearly from a respectable background. Alice mentioned his father, Alexander Matthews, a widower who works for the Department of Education. Mum, you should meet his father. Hes a solid man. Maybe you two could keep each other company, she suggested.
I snapped back, Alice, have you lost your mind? What are you proposing? Im not looking for a match! She laughed and fled to her room.
Soon I met Alexander at a restaurant during a dinner for the childrens engagement. He was indeed a dignified gentleman, though something about his manner made me uneasy. He was fastidious, constantly rearranging cutlery, lamenting how modern diners had forgotten proper etiquette. He kept correcting his son for the slightest slip a misplaced napkin, sitting too far from the table. I found myself unable to eat, fearing I would embarrass myself before such a proper gentleman.
Despite my discomfort, I accepted his invitations to the theatre, a fine dining night, and even a twoday trip along the Thames for the sake of Alices happiness. He later invited me to his flat. The place was a showcase of perfection: everything aligned, colourcoordinated, shelves in exact order. During my halfday visit, a coffee cup Id left on the side table was swiftly lifted and returned to its precise spot, a stray magazine was neatly stacked on the mantel, and a curtain Id pulled aside to peer outside was redrawn with meticulous care. He hovered, correcting everything. Eventually I sank onto the sofa, stunned.
He took my hand and began, Tom, youre a wonderful man, perhaps we could
I cut him short, No, MrMatthews, that wont happen. I can only offer you a friendship as a fellow human. Theres someone dear to me I must think of.
I had no one else, yet as I spoke those words I remembered the days at the cottage with Simon, his clumsy flipflops, and how oddly comforting that sound was now. I realised I missed him more than Id admitted.
Alice has now been married for three years; she and her husband, Nicholas, have a son, Victor, a delightful grandson. My soninlaw turned out to be entirely different from his father, and they are happy that is what matters.
I am happy too. Simon and I share our afternoons now, and his walk is no longer shuffling; his garden slippers were simply a bit too wide, causing the odd thump. I finally bought him a proper pair.
Lesson learned: love does not keep a calendar, and even in the later chapters of life, a new bloom can brighten the old garden of the heart.