Sunset
"Worse than any loss in body is the failing mind which forgets the names of slaves, and cannot recognize the face of the old friend who dined with him last night, nor those of the children whom he has begotten and brought up." – Roman poet Juvenal, 100 CE
"They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old; age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in morning, we will remember them." – Ode of Remembrance
AN: This was written for week four of the SpyFest Revival, 2016. I went through many drafts getting this story out, and while I still feel somewhat dissatisfied with it, the deadline draws near. Not sure about the style, but I feel any more light-heartedness might make it too flippant...
The nurse drew back the curtains with the carelessness of habit. "Good morning, Mr Harris," she said, stretching her mouth into a smile. "It's creamed corn and orange juice for today."
In the white-sheeted bed, the old man opened his gummy eyes and stared blearily at her. "I hate creamed corn," he said. "It looks like baby vomit."
"And you would know, would you?" she placed her hands on her hips.
"Yes. My son. He's visiting me today, you know."
Her face softened. "He had blond hair, didn't he?"
"Just like his mother," nodded Tom. "And… and my friend."
She dropped her arms by her sides. "Well, if you promise not to tell anyone, I could give you next door's breakfast."
"What's that, then?"
"Porridge with honey."
Tom sniffed. "If there's nothing better."
She smiled. He wouldn't get any visitors today, or tomorrow. Not since his wife and child had died. She buried the seed of guilt under another smile. She didn't know who his friend was.
The redhead came from New Hampshire, a place she liked to say was 'so cold your nipples could break off in summer'. She didn't know much about cooking, but she could cook a mean pot of porridge. When Tom came to visit his best friend in winter, she fed them porridge and hot chocolate for breakfast and ordered curry for dinner.
He wasn't normally one for stodgy, mushy food, but there was something comforting about the warmth of the porridge, with the dash of honey and slight spiciness of her not-so-secret ingredient, nutmeg. After much pleading and badgering and puppy-dog eyes, she'd eventually shared the recipe. He'd made it countless times for his own young family. His son was blond.
Later that day, the nurse found Mr Harris staring at a photo on his bedside table. "That's a pretty old photo," she said. "Is that you, there?"
Tom nodded instinctively. It probably was.
"Did you have black hair?"
He shrugged.
"Who was your friend?" He'd never come to visit. Maybe the friend was dead. At Mr Harris' age, death was a given.
"He was my friend," said Tom. He wondered if that was true.
The nurse sighed. Earlier that morning, it had seemed like it was a good day. Mr Harris had been coherent enough to make conversation. She liked when that happened; it distracted her from the reality of her job. Made it seem like she was a maid or something in a nice hotel, not a person who had to deal with living dolls every day. More often than not, however, blank stares and fetid bedsheets were her reality.
Tom dutifully swallowed the pills and continued staring at the photo.
"I dare you to eat that," teased the blond boy. Try as he might to remember, the name still floated out of reach.
"Ew, no! What is it?"
"Jack's cooking." The redhead. So that was her name. "She tried to roast marshmallows for us."
Tom could remember the voice, remember the grin on the other boy, but his face, his eyes, remained in shadow. They were best friends. But he couldn't imagine him any older. He'd done something important. Something just out of reach in the fog of his mind.
The smell of burnt marshmallows infused the memory. It was a warm day with the sun out, a rare occasion. A day when barbecues were lit spontaneously at households across the country. And at his friend's house, marshmallows were burnt, but that didn't matter because there was still chocolate, which melted in the sun and so had to be eaten.
He could smell the burnt sugar scent mixing with cocoa. He could feel the chill of orange juice in a cool glass.
When the nurse returned to feed Mr Harris his dinner and give him his shower, he looked as though he was asleep. He opened his eyes when she drew the curtains, but didn't speak. He liked to watch the sun going down, she knew. "And how was your day, Mr Harris?" she asked quietly.
He didn't reply.
"It's the weekend tomorrow. The forecast says it's going to be sunny. If you wanted, I could talk to someone to take you out into the garden. I won't be here tomorrow; I'm going to visit my sister-in-law. She lives in Dorset, but she was born in Italy…" She chattered on as she tied his bib and peeled open the lukewarm foil tray. Nowadays his hands were far too arthritic and shaky for that, much less holding cutlery.
"I think there's ice-cream for dessert tonight. There's chocolate, strawberry and vanilla. Which one do you want?"
Mr Harris was silent as he chewed. Not a good day, then.
She pretended he had answered. "Of course, they're all wonderful. I personally like strawberry, but only the very good strawberry… Not the artificial flavour, although that's good too when you want a bit of nostalgia. I tell you what, though, my sister-in-law makes the best sort of strawberry ice-cream. Do you like strawberry ice-cream?" This time she barely paused to register his lack of response before continuing.
"It's not gelato, although I like that too – it's more like sorbet; icy and not creamy. It has a really strong, fresh flavour. I think she adds mint leaves to it – she has an entire herb garden. Dorset is a lovely place. I always thought I'd move there when I retired… But, yeah – the ice-cream. It has a special name, like gazpacho – that's Spanish, not Italian – ah, but the name escapes me." She wiped up a bit of dribble with his bib, and sighed. "But you just eat your dinner there, okay? I'll talk to the matron about going into the garden tomorrow. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
Tom's eyes followed as the sun drifted downwards across the sky.
The first time Tom ever tried a granita was in Italy on the school trip with his best friend. With the Mediterranean sun peeking through the cracked in the cloth above them and threatening to melt the icy treats, they slurped briskly, laughing at the brain freeze from eating too quickly.
It seemed as though all of Italy was out for a late lunch before the afternoon siesta, and though it was the middle of summer, a light wind had picked up, playfully ruffling hair and setting strands of garlic swaying. The smell of tomatoes, fish, and oregano contrasted with the tart sweetness of the granitas and Tom remembered noting the moment, painting it in his mind, wanting to remember it forever.
He knew what came next. A party, with golden lights; neat canapés instead of the lavish messiness of the trattoria puttanesca. Different noisiness, good-humoured but more denigrating, descending from lofty heights instead of filling up the space. A blur of sounds and smells and emotion that he couldn't quite bring into focus.
Saying goodbye to his friend, not knowing if he'd see him again.
Tom didn't know whether he had.