THREE LOVELY LOVERS

Jimmy is obviously on his way out when he gets three visitors

The last day in Jimmy’s life was one of almost unbelievable memories.

It started with the headache and the way he just couldn’t get out of his bed, which didn’t matter one jot because he was alone in the house, so there was nobody who could call him offensive names for being lazy. There wasn’t even a single soul who could sympathise with him for feeling the way he did, headache and all. He knew that because he’d locked the door and left the key in the lock so that none of the spare keys that might be on key rings in various pockets could be used from the outside. He’d always lived alone, or rather, when he hadn’t been joined for the odd affaire he’d lived alone.

He’d given keys to, what, three very lovely ladies across the years and had never had the heart to ask for them back when relationships had soured and they’d left him, for good they’d said, though he’d always hoped. He’d always liked the fair sex but for some reason they didn’t seem to like him for long and he had no idea why.

So he was wonderfully all on his own, and Angela walked in.

He knew it was Angela because she looked exactly the same as she had way back when he’d been twenty one and she’d been at his birthday party.

And wasn’t she beautiful!

“Why, Jimmy, look at you now,” she said, and the voice had the same sweet cadence as had delighted him when he’d been twenty one, which was all of sixty years ago, “the years might have been kinder, I suppose,” she added, “and you don’t look so well.”

He didn’t know what to say so, true to form, he said nothing.

“I’ve come to return these,” she continued, and held out what might be called in some circles an unmentionable garment, the slightest pair of panties he’d ever seen when he’d bought them, and they still looked risqué, as if they were designed to cover nothing at all and let the air in.

“Why?” he asked after a moment, “don’t you like them?”

“Of course I do,” she replied, almost fiercely “I think they’d look gorgeous on a doll. It’s why you bought them for me that always worries me. I mean, what are they for?”

Jimmy was at a loss. Why had he bought such patently sexy underwear for a girl who was beautiful anyway?

“I … I ...I…” he mumbled

He was trying to make some sense of the younger him and the things he’d bought when Jemima walked in.

He knew it was Jemima because there was still a picture of her downstairs on the wall, taken when he’d known her, aged around thirty and pretty as any image anywhere, and she hadn’t aged one bit.

“Jemima,” he stammered.

“Christ, you look dreadful,” she said, “who would have thought that young roisterer could have become such a toad?”

He remembered she’d always been straight talking, but now it was offensive because it was true. He knew what he looked like and it was older than his eighty one years, decrepit, so ancient that he hated glancing in the mirror so didn’t do it so often.

And she was beautiful. He looked at her, and sighed. Why was she here? And hadn’t he loved her, like he’d loved Angela who was sitting on the end of his bed watching him and Jemima with an amused expression on her face. He’d loved both of these women. He thought.

“I’ve come,” said Jemima, “to return these,” and she held out a string of pearls.

What could have been wrong with those? Weren’t pearls exactly what young women liked? Didn’t they match any possible outfit they might choose to wear on any occasion, and anyway Jemima had never been particular about what she wore, preferring to wear very little indeed. He remembered that week at the seaside, when the sun had shone and she’d shown the world just why the bikini had ever been invented.

“What’s wrong with them?” he asked.

“Didn’t you realise that of all the women in the world, I didn’t like such trinkets?” she said.

“But you never wore anything sparkly. I thought you couldn’t afford to,” he stammered, searching for the truth and finding a lie.

“I’ve never been the sort of woman to accumulate so called precious things, and you should have known that. All I really wanted was love. Your heart would have done.”

“On a platter?” he asked as if it had been an option.

“Don’t be so daft!” she said, “you now what I mean, and if you don’t how have you grown so old without coming to terms with what people are about?”

“But you were pretty. Beautiful in fact,” he sighed, and added “and still are,” just in case there’s be another chance..

“And needed further adornment? I don’t think I did! What say you, Angela?”

“I’ve got some frilly knickers going spare if they’re any use to you,” Angela replied, teasingly, and held them out for Jemima to see.

“Awful!” murmured Jemima.

“You can say that again!” grinned Angea.

The door opened and Audrey walked in. Tall as she’d always been, lean and yet what he’d always considered well-breasted, and young as ever. He’d been in his thirties when he’d lived with her, not for long because the relationship had been going nowhere and she’d told him as much. Angela jhad always believed in straight talking and hated waffle which is probably why she’d left him.

“Well, Jimmy my lad,” she said as Jemima sat on the end of the bed next to Angela.

“You’ve got quite a line-up here,” grinned Audrey, “an old man like you and so many bits of fluff to choose from.”

“You’re… lovely,” was all he could say. Like it had always been all he could say. He remembered how awkward he’d often felt as he undressed in front of this tall and willowy woman, and how pathetic his small-talk had always seemed to be.

“I thought it was about time I returned these,” and she held out a handful of letters in opened envelopes. When she held him close enough he recognised his own handwriting and the fact that they were addressed to Audrey. He almost remembered writing one or two of them.

“I wrote to you,” he said, wondering what this intrusion might be all about.

“I know,” she smiled, “but it was as if you were writing to another woman. Listen to this…” and she pulled one of the letters from its envelope and read aloud, “my lovely woman, how much I yearn for you to come back home… I’m keeping the bed warm for you, and there’s champagne in the fridge…”

“I was fond of you,” he stammered, wondering what was wrong.

“Promising champagne to a teetotaller,” she said, “it never did sound like you were writing to me when I was away on business and you replied to my letters. And calling me a lovely woman when I’ve got a name! I mean, what were you thinking. So here you are: take them back. Burn them if you like, though you will observe that I’ve kept them for the better part of half a century waiting for this moment!”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean … I mean, I was fond of you…” he stammered, unable to tell her that he’d loved her, at least, not in this company of past lovers. But they’d shared his home for a while. And Audrey had cooked and cleaned while he’d gone out to work. It had been, for a couple of years, a pretty well ideal arrangement from his perspective, and when she went away for the odd week, on business she’d always said, well it had been a rest for him, a chance to recharge his batteries, so to speak, have a break from her.

She sat on the end of the bed with Angela and Jemima. It was a squash, but the other two wriggled closer together to make room for her.

“So we’re here, all of us,” murmured Angela.

“To take the old man to our Master,” smiled Jemima,

“Up the wooden hill to Bedfordshire,” laughed Audrey.

“So come along, Jimmy,” ordered Angela, and she stood up and held a hand towards him. “Leave these awful panties on your bed and come with me…”

She tossed the frilly garment onto his pillow and he struggled to stand on his feet.

“You’re a bit unsteady,” she murmured.

He knew that he was. He was always unsteady these days. It came with age, he supposed.

“And these pearls,” said Jemima, “leave these on your bed as well.” And she tossed the string of pearls to land next to the frilly undergarment.

“And these letters,” contlnued Audrey, “they’ll be your epitaph. Now come on. It’s time for walkies.”

The three women led him to the staircase. He’d had a stairlift fitted, but they ignored that. So he did what he’d done once before when he’d ended up in hospital and never quite felt the same again, and fell head over heels until, this time, his eyes jerked open and he was still lying in his bed with a throbbing head.

“That was some dream,” he thought, and he wondered where the frilly panties, the string of pearls and the collection of old letters had come from.

He thought he could remember, but he wasn’t really sure, and the depressions on the end of his bed looked as if an army might have been sitting there. But a dream is one thing and real life another and in both he’d fallen down the stairs. The thought made his heart not so much lurch as tremble.

But as we know, this was the last day of Jimmy’s life, so he closed his eyes for one last time, and passed away amongst the detritus of romantic failures which possibly represented the reason why he’d just died alone.

© Peter Rogerson, 01.05.22