10 Across (Five Letters)

Life and love

His hands were scratched, the wrists under his frayed cuffs were bruised

Moving back was always going to be tough. But what choice did I have? None at all. I’d loved the buzz of city life and deep down knew I was going to miss it a great deal.

Familycomesfirst, I told myself firmly. You’ ve just got to do this. So trying to focus on all the positive things, like long walks in the woods with Buddy. I visualised us bounding though piles of autumn leaves, kicking them out of the way and feeling exhilarated.

I could take the time to read, maybe even finish a whole book without falling asleep from exhaustion on the Underground. I might take up art! I’d always fancied myself as a landscape painter. The possibilities were endless.

I allowed myself to daydream. What about wood-carving, tap-dancing or piano lessons?

No chance. I moved, all right. But those brief daydreams evaporated the second I opened my new front door to a man wearing his shirt inside out. He was smearing clods of mud on my front step with his wellies. “What’s your name, then?” he said. “Beth,” I replied. “Wow, what on earth is that?”

“Is that right?” He held out the ferocious-looking plant. “A small gift.”

Now, plants and gardens are not my forte and I certainly don’t possess green fingers, but it was touchingly wrapped in Cellophane with several curly, twirly, scarlet, ribbons. “Grew it myself.” He beamed. “That’s so kind.” My heart sank. I had visions of being dragged along to some local gardening club. Don’t get me wrong, I admire all you gardeners out there. I love sitting in gardens, love garden parties and really appreciate all the hard work, hedge cutting, planting out and so on that this involves all year round. It’s just that I am more of an indoor person.

All I wanted, once the removal men had gone, was a cuppa and maybe a chance to finish off the crossword in the local free paper before tackling the unpacking. I mean, surely, that wasn’t too much to ask? Just one day to get settled before my new life in the country began? “Come on in. I’ll put the kettle on.” I unwrapped the monstrosity, with its spiky green tendrils, and stood it on a large, dusty windowsill.

“Oh – it mustn’t be left in direct sunlight or it will die…”

Could be a blessing. Goodness! I hoped I hadn’t said that aloud.

“I think… It’s a spider plant,” he added more calmly.

“Really?” Parts of it did look a bit spidery, but I thought it looked more like some kind of cactus. “I’ll find a space for it later.” “No, no…” He became agitated again. My heart went out to him, despite my irritation.

“What about now?” he demanded. “It might be thirsty.” “Does it need much water, then?” Offering a mug of tea, I scrutinised him. He was a handsome man, tall, silver-haired and weather-beaten. Yet his hands were scratched and the wrists showing under his frayed shirt cuffs were bruised.

“The joys of gardening.” His eyes followed mine. “My name’s Ted, by the way. Yours?” “Beth,” I repeated, softly. “You look a bit down. Man trouble?” I hesitated. “Something like that…” How could I even begin to explain?

“Ah, love affairs. You young people… there are many ways to love. Me? I’m stuck with this.” He tapped his head. “Gardening, you know, I find it helps. Today some mice even helped me solve a crossword puzzle.”

Because of my IMPATIENCE, I had been THE ONE to miss THE POINT

“How?” I asked curiously. Like gardening, my knowledge of mice is limited. Maybe there was a mouse in the potting shed. That reminded me, I’d have to get some humane traps – tomorrow.

“Well as soon as I saw they were being playful – I knew the answer.”

He chuckled, his tanned cheeks creased with pleasure. “Love. Or rather loves. Simple!”

Love? Loves? What on earth was he going on about? He was a stranger speaking in riddles. If only I could just ask him to go.

Poor old Buddy was scratching at the door trying to say he wanted a walk. But how could I leave Ted, as he now insisted on being called? Instead I followed him, with his inside-out shirt, as he wandered around my house as if it were his own. Eventually, he sank down in the old rocking chair I’d had for years.

“Anyway, to cut a long story short…” He shook his head in wonderment. “There are different types of love. There’s agape love…”

I switched off. It was all too sad as he rambled on about mice and love and understanding. Understanding? I stared numbly at his hands, remembering far-off happier days. That dank smell of earth in the potting shed, those beautiful bronze chrysanthemums he was so proud of. Percy Thrower’s voice drifting across from a television.

Soothing. Calming. The air would be crisp and I could almost feel the scratchy wool of my school uniform.

Those same hands, once strong and capable, were now as frail as those late autumn leaves that cling on to branches.

At this time of the year he would usually be carving out a pumpkin.

“Carefully, carefully,” he would murmur. I always thought it was magical even though the face was scary. And when it was finished I was allowed to place a candle inside that would bring it all to life, a blaze of gold. It’s why this has always been my favourite season. “Let me count the ways of loving.” He was still rambling. I shifted, feeling slightly embarrassed. If only he could remember me. Mind you, I thought there had been a spark of recognition when he’d turned up on my doorstep. But then he asked my name…

The next day, I popped round to see Mum. Ted, as he is this week (real name Robert) was hanging on her arm. His shirt was now the right way out. We hugged. We cried.

Neither of us mentioned the stupid quarrel that stopped us speaking for all those months so many years ago, before I left for the big city.

“He has good days and bad days.” She looked exhausted. “We’ve been managing. But he wanted me to tell you he meant voles – not mice? Said it would all make sense.”

She handed me the local paper and as I read 10 Across, the penny dropped. Playfulvolesshowpreferences(5) How clearly I remembered him teaching me to do cryptic crosswords. I must have been about eleven.

“The number after the clue tells us the answer has five letters.” I could almost hear his voice. “Playful is telling us to mix a word up, which means it’s an anagram. And the only word that has five letters which fits is voles. So if you rearrange it, you have the word loves.”

“So why is the word preferences at the end of a clue about love, Dad?” I would have asked precociously.

He would have explained patiently and kindly that preferences can be another name for love, or in this case loves. Which would confirm the answer.

“Love is patient, love is kind,” he pipes up suddenly.

He had understood exactly what he meant. Because of my impatience, I had been the one to miss the point.

“Yes, Dad,” I said, kneeling next to him. “There are many ways of loving. And learning.”

“In fact, we never stop. That’s a universal truth.” He squeezes my hand. Suddenly his hand is strong again. “We never stop learning, Beth.”

He called me Beth!

It was far too early but we spent a happy evening carving out a pumpkin. Oh, the smile was wonky and seeds scattered all over the worktop, but we finished it. Together.

He insisted on being the one to place the candle inside.

I came away with a spring in my step and tears in my eyes. This man wasn’t a stranger. He may have had difficulty with his memory but he was still my dad.

How wonderful that someone with dementia can teach us all a thing or two. Especially about love and cryptic crosswords.

In fact, it takes a special kind of person to be able to do that, doesn’t it? In a strange sort of way, it gives me – it gives us all – hope.