Now and Then, Part 1

**Content warning: Mental health, dementia**

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Harry checked the small brass carriage clock on the shelf beside the bed. He watched the second hand as it ticked soothingly around the gleaming white dial, his mouth moistening in anticipation of fried bacon, button mushrooms, and thick slabs of toast soaked through with melted butter. 

He stopped by the silver-framed mirror which hung beside the door, to knot his tie. 

“Blast,” he growled, shaking the numbness from his fingers. He’d slept on them perhaps — yes, yes, it must be that. He blew on his hands, which turned into a cough, which became a rattle, then a wheezing next breath as his ribcage stretched his starched cotton shirt. He paused and tried again.

Harry rolled his neck, clicked his shoulders, and winced. Eyes closed, breath held, he waited, still as a photograph, for the pain to pass. Hesitantly, he took his tweed jacket from a hanger in the wardrobe, shook it straight and slipped it on. He tapped his pocket: empty. 

He crossed the room and slid a half crown from the top of a stack of coins, which balanced precariously on the shelf beside the clock. Harry held it up and watched it sparkle in the sunshine pouring through the open window. He peered through almost closed eyes at the raised profile of the shining monarch and tried to remember who it was. 

What a curious thing to forget. Then, he…stopped.

The grumble of a large engine reverberated in the street outside, rattling the ill-fitting window sash in its frame. Indiscernible shouts filtered in from a man with a shrill voice, half drowned out by a beeping sound like a digital alarm clock going off. Harry turned to the window, as if he’d been switched back on, mouth open, eyes empty — the coin forgotten. 

The beeping sound stopped, and the engine coughed into silence. The bang of a door bounced back and forth between the nearby buildings, and it was quiet again. He slipped the coin into his pocket and left the room, closing the door behind him.

Harry descended the curved staircase that swept its way down into the foyer, his hand sliding silently along the smooth, dark handrail. The front door was open, and the scent of jasmine drifted up from the terracotta pots which stood like guards beside the concrete doorstep. 

He slowed, to savour the taste and to listen to the sparrows as they chattered busily in the hawthorn hedge bordering the front path.

The burgundy carpet pressed down softly, like snow beneath the soles of his brown leather brogues. He nodded good morning to a pair of elderly ladies who were chatting by the front desk before making his way through the foyer and into the dining room.

The waitress, the middle-aged woman with the too-loud and too-often laugh met him at the door, wearing the same, odd, dark blue dress that she always wore and emitting her familiar, clinical odour of extreme cleanliness. 

“Mornin’, Harry,” she said, with a sunny, white-toothed grin. “How are you today?”

He scowled and cleared his throat, uncomfortable with such levels of familiarity between guests and staff. He preferred “Mister” or “Sir”. 

“Table for one this morning, if you please,” he said, standing stiffly like a soldier on parade, with a straight back and high, broad shoulders. His wife was an early riser and would often skip breakfast for a long walk along the promenade. He didn’t expect to see her until late morning. 

His wife — he paused, and his pale blue eyes glazed over like they’d been touched by a charming December frost. His wife. He wondered if the statement would ever become normal — would ever not jolt him, excite him, spark through him like an exposed nerve. He hoped not. His wife. His guard dropped and he grinned.

The waitress showed him to a small circular table by the window with two high-backed wooden chairs. He would have preferred a tablecloth to be covering the plain, pine top — it should be white linen and freshly ironed, and there ought to be a crystal vase in the centre displaying freshly cut flowers, pink geraniums, or purple hydrangeas this late in June. 

Standards, he observed morosely, seemed not to matter anymore. He sighed, straightened his jacket, took a seat, and looked around the dining room as he arranged his napkin on his lap.

The ceiling was high and edged with a yellowing plaster coving. The walls were painted a dull mushroom colour. He couldn’t understand why they’d removed the royal blue striped wallpaper that used to hang there. It was so much more in keeping with the grand Victorian building. 

Or why the oil paintings depicting the local coastline, which once hung from the white-painted picture rail, had been removed, replaced by garish plastic signs marking emergency exits and fire drill procedures. 

Must he be treated like a child? He would speak with his wife (his wife — he smiled) when she returned from her walk. This hotel was not what it used to be, not by a long way. They would find another, more suitable establishment for their next visit.

He tucked a finger behind his collar and tugged a little slack. Why didn’t they open a window or two? There isn’t any air in this blasted room.

The waitress returned holding a tray with a steaming teapot and two plain white cups, jingling in their matching saucers. 

Another woman followed a little way behind, wearing a long, mint green dress which rippled elegantly around her legs and brushed the top of her brown suede sandals. Cinnamon curls rested gently on her tanned, freckle-covered shoulders. He knew they were cinnamon, because his wife had similarly coloured hair and she had told him so, many times.

This woman’s hands were linked behind her back, and she was bouncing on her toes. She appeared short of breath and her pretty face was flushed. Her eyes, marmalade in colour, were fixed on Harry’s, but when he noticed, she blinked and turned them quickly towards the floor.

“This is Julia. You don’t mind if she joins you for breakfast, do you?” the waitress asked, as she placed the tray on the table. “Only, she’s dinin’ alone, too.” She whisked out the other chair and ushered the woman into it before Harry could reply.

He scowled and prepared to protest but then stopped himself, blushed a little, and nodded his agreement with a vague mutter. He tried so hard to be a gentleman and was ashamed when he fell short. 

He coughed unnecessarily and scratched a non-existent itch on the back of his neck, then busied himself with pouring the tea, seeing but not registering as the waitress winked at Julia before she left, and Julia mouthed the words, “Thank you,” in response.

“It’s not what it used to be, this place,” Harry grumbled, holding aloft one of the cups and turning it in his hand. “They used to serve Earl Grey in fine porcelain, painted with pink peonies, with gilded rims and handles.” He ran his finger around the edge of the cup, sighed and placed it roughly back in its saucer.

Julia watched him and chuckled. “I think it’s rather nice,” she said.

Harry studied his unexpected companion. She was a similar age to him, not quite thirty — perhaps. She had warm, round eyes and an oddly familiar smile, with the left side of her mouth going higher than the right. She reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t remember who. It would come to him, perhaps. 

He caught himself staring and quickly looked away, pointlessly around the room and realised… for the first time— 

How strange, he thought. How had he not noticed? Was it always like this? Everyone was so — old. Fragile, grey-haired figures, perched in small groups, hunched with osteoporosis, handling their silver-plate cutlery awkwardly with inflexible, arthritic hands. He stared and then looked closely at his own. Funny, he thought, they suddenly feel so stiff.

He felt out of place and shuffled awkwardly in his seat. Perhaps it was that — perhaps the waitress had thought he and this stranger might have something in common. Presumptuous at the very least — he would speak to the manager about her later — but for now he smiled at Julia, and, missing the company of his wife, decided to make the best of it.

“Where are you from?” he asked, placing a cup before her.

“Well, actually, I’ve come from Australia,” she replied, taking a sip.

“Good Lord.”

“Not originally,” she clarified with a grin, replacing her cup in its saucer. “I moved there a couple of years ago. Originally, I’m from Manchester.”

“Really? So am I.” His shoulders relaxed, his brows lifted, and his eyes popped open like a pair of pale forget-me-nots. “Marvellous . . . quite marvellous. So, what brings you to the coast?” he asked, releasing his Lancashire accent, the one he kept locked away from the waitress and the rest of the staff.

“The coast?” she chuckled and trapped her bottom lip between her teeth, studying him from beneath low, threadlike brows. Then she smiled and continued, “I’ve come to the coast,” she said, “to visit my father; he lives here now.” 

She shuffled in her seat and seemed to compose herself. “I haven’t seen him in so long, and he—” She paused and caught her breath, and her face seemed to crumble. “He hasn’t been too good, since my mum died.”

“Oh,” Harry frowned, “and you’re so far away.”

It seemed like she tried to smile but couldn’t, so instead she swallowed hard and nodded.

Instinctively, he reached out to take her hand but quickly checked himself. What was he doing? He hardly knew this woman, this stranger — but there was something about her wide glistening eyes that stared unblinking at him. An animalistic, instinctual need to ease their pain filled him, so powerful that it squeezed his breath out and tightened every muscle in his body. 

He stared at her, and it was like he knew her, wholly — completely — like he’d never known or would ever know anyone. The room dissolved; the other diners evaporated. All that remained were those familiar, round, marmalade eyes.

“I think,”he said, when he could speak again, “that the only requirement a parent should put upon their children is that they should be happy. Are you happy?” he asked.

She nodded, her plump, cherry-red lips pinched shut, like she was stifling a sob — or a laugh.

He grinned at her.

She was trembling, still staring at him, and there it was again, the resemblance to — to — who? He raked through the most distant, darkest corners of his mind, but couldn’t find the face. He could feel himself getting angry, but then something sparked, a light in the distance, cutting through the fog that sometimes engulfed him.

“Jules?” he whispered into the reverberating chatter of the room.

“What?” She leant forward, gasping, so close that he could smell her perfume: roses and jasmine like the garden.

“What?” she said again, her voice louder, saturated with excitement. “Jules? Did you say Jules?”

But the light had dulled. The room was back, and the other diners too. He gulped a mouthful of tea. 

To be continued in Part 2…

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While you wait, here are other heart-felt pieces to enjoy:

• Unfinished Fragment – Poetry that explores what it is to grieve.
• When Schizophrenia Came – Personal essay on mental health and its impact.
• A Moment of Discovery – Short story detailing personal discovery.
• The Book, a Short Story – A story of writing and how it connects us.