His knee was aching again. He knew that one day soon he would have to get it looked at. His guess, which he reckoned was fairly accurate, was that the cartilage was gone. He’d walked more miles than he could even begin to hazard a guess over the past ten years. And it had caught up on him.
Sleeping rough in the cold winters doesn’t help either. He liked to ignore that voice in his head. It irked him because it spoke a lot of sense. And he wasn’t interested in sense. He liked his life the way it was, just fine. Out here. It was his choice.
He’d slept on the same bench every night since he took up residence in this park. And the Fairview Park regulars agreed that it was unofficially his. Lash and Bones, fellow rough sleepers, slept in the park most nights. And while they weren’t friends, it was nice sometimes to pass the time of day with them. Bones loved telling stories about Fairview’s most famous resident, Bram Stoker. The coastline beyond the park was eerie at night and it was easy to imagine, when the fog came down, how it had played a part in inspiring Stoker’s stories.
Tom sat down on his bench and Bette Davis fell asleep at his feet almost instantly. His sandwich was limp and uninspiring. But he wasn’t complaining. He’d had it in his rucksack since last night, when the volunteers from the Peter McVerry Trust did their rounds handing out food and hot drinks. He sat back, feeling every day of his sixty-one years. Bette had the right idea. Time for a nap. I’m coming, Cathy. He closed his eyes and remembered back to that first evening his wife and he had spent together …
Cathy rented a one-bedroom apartment that turned out to be only a mile or so away from Tom’s place. How had he lived so close to such an incredible woman and never seen her before?
He felt big and awkward in her small kitchen, bumping into her as he tried to help unload the groceries, on that first night they met. She told him to sit. He watched her fry their steaks and chop tomatoes for their salad, her every movement a symphony. Her grace bewitched him.
He wanted to know everything about her life. He couldn’t get the questions out quickly enough. She was from Donegal, one of three children, and a carer for adults with disabilities.
‘Tell me about your work. What’s an average day like?’ Tom asked.
‘We offer supportive services to help meet the needs of adults with disabilities.’
Tom looked at the tiny woman in wonder. He’d known her only a few hours yet she had surprised him several times in that short time. He couldn’t lie, it was a physical attraction at first. But the more she shared about herself, the more he found himself struck by her beauty, not just on the outside.
‘We’re there for help with both the physical and emotional wellbeing of our attendees and their families too. Parents and carers get a break, and the adults themselves keep some independence when they come in to us. In the main they return home each evening, relaxed. That’s crucial.’
‘I have a patient who is a full-time carer for her son. When I ask who looks after her, she just shrugs. I can’t get her to recognise the importance of having some time off, taking care of her own needs,’ Tom said.
‘There’s huge guilt for most carers. All self-imposed, but real none the less. You should tell your patient about our programme. We might be able to help. You can change the world by helping one person at a time. That’s what we try to do at the centre. One at a time,’ Cathy said.
Tom felt a lump in his throat, catching him unawares. Her words moved him profoundly. He would never forget that statement. Ever.
His appetite disappeared and it seemed hers did, too.
‘Maybe I should have bought tofu,’ Cathy joked, pointing to Tom’s uneaten steak.
‘I’m sorry. It’s delicious,’ Tom said, quickly spearing a piece to prove the point.
She reached over and her fingers brushed his and they both felt another jolt. ‘There’s no need.’
Their eyes locked. Time stood still. Cathy put her glass down, the crystal tinkling as it hit the glass top table. The sound bounced around the kitchen and his eyes could not leave hers. They moved to her bedroom and they made love. He could not call it anything but that. It was tender, every touch a promise.
‘I didn’t expect this,’ Cathy said afterwards, when they lay in each other’s arms.
‘Breda, my receptionist, is forever saying that I am one of Ireland’s most eligible bachelors. Sure you couldn’t resist,’ Tom teased.
‘She’s right. A good-looking man and a doctor. At least in the top one hundred,’ Cathy joked back.
‘Thank you, young lady.’ Tom pretended to tip his cap to her.
‘I bet patients fall in love with you all the time.’ She started to laugh when she saw him blush. ‘I knew it! Spill!’
‘Well, there was this woman last year who kept making appointments, saying she was unwell. Breda used to tease me that she had a crush on me. But I thought that was preposterous. Then one day, she came in with a bad chest infection.’
‘Oy oy! That old chestnut!’ Cathy laughed.
‘I remember thinking she was looking very well for someone who needed a doctor. Then before I had a chance to so much as take her temperature, she had her blouse unbuttoned.’
‘Her blouse,’ Cathy snorted in response. ‘How old was she?’
‘About thirty, why?’
‘No one wears a blouse under the age of fifty!’
‘Well, she opened her …’
‘Her top, just say top,’ Cathy advised.
‘She opened her top and had on this red lacy thing that left nothing to the imagination!’
‘Oh my goodness, I am scarlet for her! What did you do? Actually, scratch that question. I’m not sure I want to know.’
‘I jumped up and called Breda in. I told the woman that I had to have Breda in with me for any consultation that involved chest investigations.’
‘Ah, the poor woman.’
‘Poor woman my hat. Funnily enough, she stopped coming shortly after that.’
‘I bet she did!’ Cathy laughed again. ‘Go on, tell me more. How many hearts have you broken …?’
‘I’m afraid that’s it, really. I did meet one of my patients out in a bar last year. She was pretty drunk and she made a bit of a clumsy pass at me. I made a joke about being resolute to stay single. Then I ran home!’
‘Are you resolute to stay single?’ Cathy asked, leaning into him.
‘I’ve always been open to meeting Miss Right. She was just tricky to locate. No matter how many women I dated – all lovely, or at least most – I never felt “it”.’
He looked at her silhouetted against the fading evening light. And realised something. She was it.
‘So, what is “it” for you?’ Cathy asked.