The Face of a Life

The Face of a Life

Today started like any other weekday with my usual drive to work, only I never arrived. The route offered the comforting familiarity of the rush hour, along with the news and traffic reports from the local radio station. Nothing had changed; the world was still as messed up as ever. The weather was the only variant although still predictable – cloudy with showers later, yesterday was sunny, tomorrow probably more rain.

I saw him standing at the edge of the pavement looking for a break in the incessant line of traffic. His wrinkled neck stretched out from his heavily stooped back, like a tortoise peering out of its shell. His right hand, with its knurled knotted knuckles, draped over a walking stick that appeared to be propping him up. His other hand, equally knurled, held a plastic bag with what seemed a few items of shopping. Slowly he glanced from right to left and back to right again, gazing at the cars as they passed.

I had left home a little later than usual and the heavy traffic contributed to further tardiness. If I slowed down for him, it would add another ten minutes to my journey. I edged forward close to the car in front, making it clear I wouldn’t be letting him through. As the line of cars moved, I stalled mine. ‘Oh damn it!’ I screeched, desperately trying to start the engine before he noticed.

He looked up, raised his hand in a sign of gratitude for the opportunity, descended from the curb and began his epic shuffle across the road. It quickly became clear he would take much longer than anticipated. His upper body hunched over his walking stick whilst his feet caught up, one at a time, ready to take the next step forward and repeat the same slow rhythmic pace. It wasn’t a particularly wide road; just an ordinary one lane two way local street heading into town, but for him it could have been an airport runway. Slowly he made his way across, occasionally glancing over his shoulder and raising his left hand as if thanking me for my patience.

‘Come on Granddad.’ Bellowed one of the men in the white van behind me. I could see them through my rear-view mirror, the three men, barely into their twenties, laughing. My attention went back to the old man who was only partway over the first half of the road. ‘Bloody dithering old codger,’ I muttered to myself. ‘He should be in a home… look at him.’ I moaned out loud to an empty passenger seat. As he raised his hand once again either as a reminder he was still crossing or as a gesture of appreciation, the plastic bag he was holding split and its contents dropped to the ground. ‘Oh, now what.’ I blurted exasperated.

‘Come on Granddad… give it some wellie.’ The van driver yelled from his open window. Their impatience was visible from their faces and the sound of the engine revving. I too find old people a great source of irritation, especially when in a hurry. Like mobile chicanes they stop when least expected, and block your path with their cumbersome shopping trolleys. They cruise through supermarket aisles at a snails pace, wavering endlessly over pricing. Milk could turn sour before they make their choices.

‘Get a shift on Granddad… some of us have a job to go to.’ Shouted one of the men in the van, joined by laughter from his companions. I could see the old man wouldn’t be going anywhere fast. I pulled over, grabbed a spare bag I had in the car and went to his aid. Holding on to his walking stick with trembling hands, he was attempting to reach down to the few items strewn across the tarmac. I feared that if he managed to lower himself to the ground he would stay there. He appeared too frail to be able to rise from a crouching position and I doubt I had enough strength to pull him up unaided. ‘I’ll get them,’ I snapped. I picked up a can of beans, a small loaf of bread and a pint of milk, and walked with him the rest of the way.

‘Sorry love,’ he said with sorrowed eyes and a distraught voice. He was clearly shaken by the experience. The drone of traffic had started as soon as we were out of the way, although it was easing as we were reaching the tail end of the morning rush. Pointing in the direction of the van that had long since sped out of sight, he added, ‘at their age I would have given them a run for their money’. He waited for his breath to catch up. Lowering his head he went on, ‘at their age I was fighting the Jerrys on Normandy beach.’

He stood stooped with his hands resting on his walking stick. ‘My best friend was hit in the head and dropped dead right there in front of me’. He looked down at the pavement as if searching for his friend. I listened, not knowing what to say. Had he expected a response from me or was he simply sharing a moment of his life he hadn’t forgotten? Listening was all I could offer and perhaps all he required in the moment.

He raised his head and stared into the distance beyond the skyline, with tears gathering in the pockets of his droopy eyelids. ‘I had to step over him and carry on fighting for my life and for my country,’ his voice shaking with the emotion he carried. ‘More than these lads will ever do in their lifetime,’ he mumbled, barely audible. ‘That was June 6th 1944… I remember it well, like it was only yesterday… only I could run then,’ he chuckled. ‘It was my nineteenth birthday that day’. He stared into the now empty road that lay before us as if watching a film of his life. ‘That was the day I made the decision that if I survived the war I would marry my sweetheart.’

He turned and faced me, revealing his deep blue sparkling eyes, peering beneath white bushy brows that matched his equally white windswept hair. He had a broad smile that showed a perfect set of teeth; all his own of course, only the type that come out at night. His face was heavily wrinkled with each line marking the hardship of a life lived.

‘Dorothy… we met at a dance.’ Although looking at me, I could see in his eyes he had travelled back in time to when they met. ‘I called her Doty… beautiful she was.’ His face lit up as he spoke of her. ‘We were wed in the church just down the road a couple of years after the war ended,’ he paused. ‘We were both so young then… we were married for sixty-five years.’ Words escaped me and for a moment we fell into a companionable silence. I could feel the warmth and love he had for his wife. ‘She made a mean apple pie,’ he grinned licking his lips.

He spoke of the four sons they had, how they raised them with little money, and how they were all grown up with families of their own. ‘We couldn’t afford expensive things but what we had we valued,’ he said. He talked about his younger days when he had the ability to run, climb, build and mend. ‘We respected our elders, not like these days… youngsters of today show no respect for anyone.’ There was a tone of disillusion in his voice.

Gazing into the distance once again, he continued, ‘my missus passed away a couple of years ago’. Tapping his walking stick he went on, ‘I’m just waiting for my time when I can join her.’ A tear escaped and slowly zigzagged its way down his wrinkled face. He glanced at me, ‘for now, I take my daily stroll to the shops to make sure my pins don’t rust.’ Leaning forward, he whispered, ‘I don’t want to go into a home… they boss you about like you’re mentally incontinent… they all do it, seen it with friends,’ he paused. ‘Won’t catch me in one of those places.’

He took the bag of shopping I’d been holding, ‘I best be off love before it starts to rain.’ He was about to leave but stopped. ‘Thank you love, I’ve enjoyed meeting you... now for a nice hot cuppa.’ He turned and went on his way.

I returned to my car, sat in the driver’s seat and watched him stooped over his walking stick shuffling along the pavement. I didn’t know how long I was there staring into the distance after he had long gone. A new wave of traffic with morning shoppers and delivery vans had picked up. Images of the old man and the stories he shared swirled in my mind like a cauldron of soup. I imagined him as a young soldier going into battle, scared but strong, fit and healthy; as a thirty-year-old father of four and devoted husband; and as a hard worker and practical man at ease with his tools.

I drove into town unhurriedly, avoiding the main square – it was market day. I was familiar with the town’s layout and required no conscious thought to find my way into the multi-storey car park. I picked up a take away coffee and walked over the road to the memorial garden. Being only minutes from where I work, the garden was a popular venue on sunny days for lunch breaks and team meetings. I had enjoyed the tranquillity it offered within the bustle of a busy town. I liked the manicured lawn, well kept flowerbeds and the scattered oak benches. At its centre was an obelisk that stood tall as a memorial to the fallen soldiers. It displayed carved slate plaques with the names of the men who fought in both world wars.

I’d never paid much attention to the monument, noticing only the poppy wreaths laid around it each autumn. I always bought a poppy, only because everyone in the office did and I didn’t want them thinking I was miserly or uncaring, but never gave it further thought beyond the few pence I dropped into a collection box.

Today I wanted to read the inscriptions that were chiselled into the stone. I wanted to know the names of these faceless men that fought for our freedom. Men like the old man I’d met earlier. I read them all. Some had the same surnames, maybe related – perhaps a father and son, brothers, or uncle and nephew. Could the old man’s friend be one of the names forever carved into this plaque?

A couple linking arms walked towards the monument and stopped to read the engravings. They were possibly tourists from the way they were dressed. ‘So many lives lost and so young,’ muttered the woman. They continued silently scanning the list. ‘There he is,’ the man blurted with an American accent, pointing to one of the names. ‘W C Lamott… that’s him,’ he added. ‘Someone you know?’ I asked. ‘My uncle,’ he replied. ‘My father’s older brother… died in Arnhem.’ He stared at the name. ‘He was only twenty,’ he mumbled, almost in a whisper. ‘My father passed away this past week… we’re over for the funeral,’ he told me, although an explanation wasn’t required. ‘I wanted to piece together some of the family history,’ he went on, ‘never met him… my uncle, died long before I was born.’

A small group of school children arrived with their teacher and a couple of helpers. Armed with a clipboard they began making what appeared to be copious amounts of notes, accompanied by numerous questions the teacher tried to answer. I’d never noticed how much attention and interest the war memorial attracted. I’d grown up with it but only now cared to see it.

I reached into my handbag and pulled out a crumpled poppy that had got lost amidst the debris accumulated at the bottom, and placed it at the foot of the obelisk. My thoughts drifted to the old man and how he had survived the turmoil of war. The sadness of loss of his friend still lived within him in parallel with the love for his wife and family. The image of his deep blue eyes, broad smile and wrinkled face that told the story of a life lived, will remain firmly etched in my mind.

– END –