The elderly man

A Story by phil

An elderly man relieves his memories.

It had always been his wife’s wish to have her ashes scattered at the bay, for it had always been their special place, full of memories.
The old man wheezed as he struggled down the steep path, the tavern, now faded, the green paint peeling, was just visible at the bottom, built into the rocks themselves. The old man stopped for a moment, to catch his breath, overlooking the bay beneath, memories coming flooding back to him. With a smile on his face he continued struggling down the path, stopping to catch his breath as he walked. Upon reaching the bottom the old man found one of the broken chairs, supported by two fish crates in place of one leg and sat down to rest, shutting his eyes, imaging back to his first time there.

It had been his place to start with, well his parents he supposed, for they were the ones who first took him down to the bay, back when it burst with life, now only a memory, lost in time. He couldn't remember his first time there, but his first memory, or memories he supposed, after a life time they blurred together, was off this place.

The tavern thrived back then, alive with the sounds of chatter from fisherman after a long day at sea, smoke from clay pipes giving a hazy look. The boats were pulled up on the beach below, safe from the sea beyond the bays natural walls, able to rest before going out to sea again. Outside the tavern came the shouts of fisherman and punters alike, buying and selling the catch of the day. He sat with his Mother, building a sandcastle, which the dog, the runt of the litter from the farm their cottage was on, dug away at it as fast as they built it, waiting for his father to come back from the sea.
Eventually completing the sand castle in time for the tide to fill the moat and slowly ebb away at the castle and bring in his father’s boat. Even at his young age he had to work, carrying crates of fish up to the market, where his father auctioned the fish. The first of money was always spent in the tavern, Ale for his father, mead for his mother, and ginger beer for him although he was always allowed a sip of his father’s Ale.

It was the old man's Father who had first taken him into the calm bay, holding him as he learnt to swim. At first it was frightening to go under the water, but he joined his father laughing and enjoying himself. Soon he was a strong swimmer. As years passed and he grew into a man he learnt to sail on his father’s boat, venturing out to catch fish with his father. Joining in the banter with the other fisherman, the thrill of the auction at the end of the day, but still only allowed his ginger beer.

It was in the tavern the man had his first full pint of Ale, aged 15, it was the day his mother died, a life time of hard work had ended her life early. His father and he walked down to the tavern in silence, his father smoking his clay pipe, the smoke rising up, before disappearing into the unknown, perhaps joining his mother in heaven above. They entered the tavern and silence fell, a mark of respect of the death of his mother. He was given a pint, now accepted into manhood after her death. Her funeral was held at the church above the bay, though life was tough and had to go on, but from then on he joined his father in drinking beer, smoking a clay pipe too, handed down to him by his grandfather.

Three more years went by in this fashion, sailing out to catch fish and bringing them home, never dreaming of a different life, but always envious of old Bill who ran the tavern. Bill looked to be as old as the bay itself, and it was a standing joke he would talk of retirement, but most thought he would die pouring ale. The man never dreamt he may one day run the tavern on old Bills death.

It was when out with friends on a warm Sunday afternoon after church his eyes wandered over the tavern to the beautiful girl outside, clearly on a Sunday outing with a church to the coast. Perhaps from an inland village? Then suddenly she looked at him, and smiled, so with nerves and Dutch courage he left his friends in silence and walked out and introduced himself to the girl. They sat all afternoon, chatting about everything and nothing. Together watching the sun set, then in the darkness ran down to the sea, laughing as they stripped off and swam in the still warm ocean, before making love between two rocks, hidden from the busy tavern.

It was an embarrassment to crawl out as his friends came looking for him, and pick up the now wet clothes from the oceans floor. Although, cocky as he was in his youth he brushed it all off, as he dressed, though she was a bit more embarrassed. Even more so when she realised she had been left behind, a miscounting of heads by the vicar. He walked her the five miles to her home, over the moors to the big town, which felt like a foreign world to the country boy.

The next week he picked her up with a horse and trap borrowed from the farm, they walked down and sat, just she and he, together at the tavern, a candle from home between them, dripping wax onto the old green bottle that it sat in. They talked long into the night and it was with a heavy heart he walked her up the cliff path and drove the cart to her home.

Many more nights were spent with her over the year to come, and it was a year later, a week after his 19th birthday they sat once more at the tavern, on that very same table. He pulled a string from his pocket, on it a ring tied. He let the flame of the candle burn through the string as the sun set before them. He spoke about a tradition in his family of having a fire to mark the start of marriage, and the ring to be warm from the heat, as he slipped it on her finger, asking her to join his family traditions and marry her. She answered with a kiss and it was once more they returned home after gathering clothes from the sea bed.

They were wed in a small church that sat above the bay, their reception, a small gathering of friends and family at that already magical tavern. It was then, probably fuelled by youth, lust, love, and perhaps some alcohol that they decided to use their savings to buy the tavern, for old Bill had sadly passed away. Years were spent happily there. Summer evenings spent lying under a blanket in the tavern together. Watching the stars or listening to the rain fall on the tin roof. And winters spent in a make shift shelter at the back hiding from the winter storms which attacked the bay and tavern.

Early spring was spent redecorating the tavern before welcoming the first patrons, but alas, the time came they knew they had to give it up. Pregnancy for her and for he a call up to the Great War over sea's which. With all the men abroad taverns and communities like his were lost, never to recover with so many lives lost. She moved in with his father as he fought the Great War, returning battle scarred to a wife and child he didn't even know. Four years he had been away.

A house bought far away where there was work in a factory, producing weapons much to his hate, and another two children meant it was a decade, and the death of his father, before they returned to their old home. The beach now as deserted, a ghost of his childhood, it was he who taught his children to swim in the sea, he who was woken in shock by the cold tide ebbing at his feet. Their dog, a descendant of his childhood dog, who dug the sandcastles his wife and children built.

Many more happy memories were formed in that bay, the family camped beneath the old tavern, watching their children sleep and the stars beyond, was when his wife told him she wished to have her ashes scattered there, to be in their special place forevermore. Soon their children were adults and away starting their own families who too were bought to experience the wonders of the magical bay. He and his wife grew old watching their grandchildren grow up on the beach.

Then it was only last week, as he watched his son teach the youngest of six grandchildren to swim one ran up to ask Granny to wake up and play that she would not wake up. He had been heartbroken, then funeral held at the same church they were wed at all those years ago, the same both his parents were buried at.

The old man stood up, aching, he walked over to the sea, where he knelt and built and a sandcastle, as he had all those years ago, before emptying his beautiful wife’s ashes over it. He watched as the sea ebbed away at it, like it had in his childhood, taking her ashes out to the bay she so loved. The old man returned to the broken chair, supported by two old fish crates, he lit his old clay pipe and shut his eyes, only to see his wife coming to greet him, them now both youthful, inviting him to hide behind the rocks and make love again. He let her take him away. A smile on his face.