The Last Man

"I meant every word. Are you suggesting that I am insincere?" He waited for a response. The look of cynicism on Bea's face suggested she was not buying his approach, and it was time to change strategy. "Well, fortunately, I do not easily take offense. Thick hide and all that," he said, somewhat pompously.

"Does this act work on other women?" she asked, again with a look of disdain.

"Oh yes ... quite well in fact. I have a long string of conquests to my credit. The tried and true is always the best, my dear. Always the best," he boasted.

"I don't believe a word of it. You would like me to think you are a scoundrel, a cad. I don't believe a word of it at all ... but I will give you marks for inventiveness. You really are different. Charlotte said I would find you interesting, and she was right."

"So ... Charlotte has been trying to play matchmaker, has she," he said with mock derision.

"Of course ... that's her role. She was born to it," Bea laughed.

They continued walking in silence for a while, stopping occasionally to admire the flowerbeds on the perimeter of the stately home.

"You mentioned that you came here ... to England ... before you were married. Where are you from?" he asked.

"Canada ... Ottawa in fact. My father was an ex-Brit and was in government service ... some secret project or another. I never knew. He stayed after the war and met my mother and they were married and out popped me," she said quite merrily.

"How did you get here?"

"My father was adamant that I would get the best education, and I was sent to private schools that were almost exclusively run by former Brits. By the time I was finished, I think I was more English that you English," she laughed again. "I came here when I was nearly twenty for a vacation, met Malcolm, and I never left. England is home for me now."

"Lucky England," Roger said, almost under his breath.

"Thank you," she smiled, looking at him. "Have you always had that moustache?" she asked abruptly.

"No ... no ... I have it on good authority that I was not born with it," he chuckled.

"Seriously, Roger, why do you wear it?"

"Well," he paused, "when I was young, I was a bit insecure about myself. Not so cocksure of my way around the ladies. I thought I needed something to give me ... confidence, I suppose. Make me look a bit more mature." he said, turning toward her. "I looked quite ridiculous in fact. I have some old pictures which prove the point. But ... I persevered with it and after a while, it became part of me. I shaved it off a couple of times, but on both occasions I was told I 'looked funny' and should grow it back. So, in the end, I grew into it," he punned.

"I always wondered why men would grow moustaches or beards. It seemed quite incongruous to me," she suggested, as they wandered through the impeccably kept gardens.

"Decorative, my dear. Purely decorative. As women choose to change their hairstyles, men choose to decorate themselves in different ways. Tattoos, now earrings, odd clothing, long hair ... the usual things. We all like to be unique, you know," he said.

"Well, you've certainly achieved that Roger. We have been talking for almost an hour, and I have not had a second when I was not interested or intrigued. You have just established a new record. Congratulations!" she smiled genuinely.

"Would you care to join me for dinner, Bea?" he asked mischievously.

"That would be just lovely. Where were you thinking of?"

"I think that table by the fountain would suit us perfectly, don't you?"

"Yes ... perfectly!" she smiled.

He offered his arm and Bea took it, walking elegantly together toward their chosen destination. A sidelong glance by Roger confirmed that their little theatre had attracted Charlotte's attention. They would undoubtedly hear from her at some point.

It was growing dark, just after nine, and the evening air had cooled. Roger escorted Bea into the historic old home and joined the other guests in the great hall.

"I'm glad I don't have the upkeep on this place, Roger. It would break me in a week," she said seriously.

"Well, as you know, Charlotte and Warren do not have to worry about that. They are rolling in it, and have been for ages. Something to do with computers, I think," Roger offered.

"Charlotte had pots to start with," Bea confirmed. "When her parents pop off, she will have even more. The rich get richer," she concluded, her voice trailing off.

"What do you do for entertainment, Bea?" Roger asked, changing the topic.

"Oh ... I read, go to the theatre now and then, do a bit of gardening in my little plot ... the usual," she said wistfully.

"Doesn't sound like it holds a lot of excitement for you. Most of those things can be done alone, can they not?" he suggested.

"Yes ... I admit it ... I am a bit of a loner."

"Well ... here I am to help you change that."

"Oh ... we are back to that are we?"

"Back to what?" his brow wrinkled.

"The seduction ... I thought you might have put it on hold for a bit."

"Really, my dear Bea. Why on earth would I ever not be trying to enchant a lovely woman like you? As long as I breathe," he smiled, speaking softly.

"Stop it, Roger. You're getting away ahead of yourself. I told you, I will not be easy to persuade. Perhaps I should have chosen pistols. It would have been all over with by now." There was a reflective quality to her voice.

"Please do not give up on me, Bea. Do not give up on yourself, either. I find you fascinating and you have already admitted I am not a bore. What more could a woman want?" he grinned.

"Oh, Roger, you really are a caution. What am I to do with you?" she asked, exasperated with the trivialities.

"Invite me to your boudoir?"

"Now that is just plain cheeky," she shot back.

"Ah well, in for a penny, in for a pound," he sighed.

Beatrice stood looking at him and suddenly, without hint, began to laugh. It wasn't a belly thumping, deep throated laugh, but it was a genuine laugh all the same.

"You are irrepressible. I think I will permit you to court me," she said slyly.

"My dear Beatrice, I would be honored to prove my worthiness as your companion, and I hope, your lover. I solemnly promise that I shall not disappoint you." It was offered in his most sincere voice.

"Roger, I think there is something I should tell you straight away. I would not want you to harbour any illusions. The next man in my bed will be the last," she said forthrightly.

"I don't think I understand," he said with a wrinkled brow.

"I have only ever loved one man in my life, and it was so perfect and so ... rewarding ... that I promised myself that I would only chose another man if he could give me what I had with Malcolm. I admit, that is a tall order, but, there it is. I will be extraordinarily careful with my choice, Roger," she concluded with emphasis on careful.

"Hmmm ... quite a challenge," he mused, his hand on his chin. "How will you judge your suitor ... me ... I mean?"

"I have no idea. When I married Malcolm, I was young and impressionable. He swept me off my feet. The marriage might have failed considering how quickly it all happened. But, it did not. It was magic, and I want that magic back again. I will not settle for less," she concluded, looking him straight in the eye.

"Well, you have certainly handed me a challenge," Roger said, nonplussed.

"Do you accept the challenge?" she asked, the challenge now being in her question.

"Yes ... of course. Anything worth having should be earned." He couldn't help feel a bit apprehensive.

-0-

Roger invited Bea to the theatre the following week, and then to dinner at his club in London, the week after. He didn't see Bea again for almost two weeks. Two reasons precipitated the interruption. First, he had to travel to Brixham, in Devon, to see an old friend with whom he had often discussed his "life issues." The second was the reason for the first; namely, his indecision on what to do about Beatrice.

Brixham was one of those delightful fishing villages so common along the south coast. It formed the bottom of "the jaw" of Tor Bay, Torquay being the top. It was an unprepossessing little town with none of the "British Riviera" complex. It was mainly a port for commercial fishing interests, largely ignored by tourists, and it was here that Michael Sturrock had made his home, buying a small cottage on the hillside for what was almost nothing in today's property market. He had spent carefully in renovating and improving the modest home, and today, "Rose Cottage" was a little jewel in a lovely Devon jewel box.

Michael was there to greet Roger as he stepped off the Virgin Rail coach in Paignton on a gloomy, drizzly day in early June. "Hah!" Roger thought as he searched the waiting room for his friend. "British Riviera indeed!" He was not in the best of moods. The hours spent in the rail carriage had given him too much time to think. The conundrum of Beatrice Eldridge would not be easy to untangle.

"Roger!" Michael hailed. "Wonderful to see you again. You look fit and ready for battle," he offered heartily.

Michael was a short, stout, tweed-covered caricature of a man. His face was covered in an unkempt grey beard with assorted stains giving it a mottled appearance. His round, red face poked out from behind the foliage, and every time Roger saw his friend, he marvelled at the happy look in his eyes, and on his tobacco-stained teeth. He was perfectly imperfect, thought Roger. Michael was just the tonic he needed now.

The two men shook hands and slapped each other on the back as they headed for the car park. Roger was carrying a single overnight bag, Michael noted. He would not be staying long, he thought, and he wondered what had brought about this welcome visit. It must be something important.

"How are you, my friend?" Michael asked carefully.

"If you mean my health ... I'm fine ... fit as a fiddle," he boasted.

"Ah ... we are in for a problem solving session, are we?"

"Yes ... exactly ... a riddle almost," Roger said, looking at his lifelong friend.

"Well ... that sounds marvellous. I love riddles. What's it all about?"

"A woman, of course," Roger answered with a rueful smile.

"Wonderful. The most difficult of all riddles. I can't wait. Especially since you are such an old hand with the ladies. This one must be a dandy!" Michael exclaimed.

Roger put his bag in the back of Michael's thoroughly thrashed Mini Cooper. While its body had been neglected, its innards were in tip-top shape. In a moment, the little green "brick" had sprung to life and they were off like a shot, blasting their way through the narrow back roads, avoiding the traffic and the local constabulary, Roger noted. Any other person might have been terrified, but his old friend was a master at rocketing through tight spots and around obstacles and traffic circles, and within fifteen minutes, they were sliding to a stop in front of Rose Cottage. Roger laughed at the adventurous ride, long used to Michael's "Stirling Moss" complex.

"They've never caught up to you yet?" Roger asked.

"Oh yes, now and then. Mostly I just get a lecture, but I've had my share of write-ups," he admitted.

"I am not surprised. On the other hand, you are not likely to change, are you?" It was a rhetorical question and begged no answer from Michael.

They entered the cottage and Roger was once again reminded of the lovely, quiet surroundings his friend had achieved. When Michael's wife Constance passed away, he escaped London and moved here to reconcile the tragedy of his loss with the memories of their life together. All three of them had gone to school together, and if Michael had not married Constance, Roger certainly would have.

The ghost that she had become in her last days nearly destroyed Michael, but his inherent optimism, and the support of his friends, including Roger, had pulled him through. It had been seven years since Connie had passed, and now Michael was back to his old self for the most part. He boldly pronounced that he would never marry again, since there could never be another woman like Connie, and it was that statement that Roger remembered when facing his challenge with Bea.

"Well, Michael, I suppose you're wondering about this 'woman thing' I came to talk to you about," Roger began.

"Indeed. It has not been that long since you jettisoned Winnie. I would have thought that might have put you off your feed for a bit," his friend replied.

"I have met the most extraordinary woman, Michael. Her name is Beatrice Eldridge and she is originally from Canada. She is living in a cottage in East Sussex, not far from me, and is a friend of friends of mine, the Mantels. She is very attractive and very bright ... just the ticket for an old warhorse like me. We seem to be able to talk to each other and actually have something interesting to say. It is such a change from Winifred and her little troupe."

"Sounds wonderful, Roger. What's the catch?" he asked, listening attentively as he slouched in his old leather chair.

"You once told me that you would never marry again, Michael, because you could never find another Connie," Roger began. "Beatrice is telling me something along the same lines. She loved her Malcolm, and when he died, she vowed not to take another lover unless he was the equal of her late husband. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how I can be another man and win her over."

"You can't! You are quite right. It cannot be done ... should not be done. You are who you are. But tell me about her. What about her first husband?" he asked.

Roger quietly told Michael everything he could remember Bea telling him about Malcolm. When he finished, his friend had a small smile and almost imperceptibly, nodded his head.

"Is she attracted to you at all?" he asked after a pause.

"Yes ... I think I can say that. Yes, I'm confident she is attracted to me, but this condition she set upon me is the frustration. I need some clear-headed thinking, my friend. She is too good to let get away and yet, I just do not quite know how to convince her that I should be her 'last man'."

Michael sat quietly for some time before rising and heading for the little kitchen. Roger watched silently as he removed two glasses and a bottle of very good French brandy. He poured two healthy measures, and then added a bit of ginger ale to one, leaving the other alone. He walked back to the lounge and passed Roger the straight brandy and put the mixed drink down on the small table beside himself.

"This calls for a bit of 'think juice' I reckon," Michael smiled.

"Cheers," Roger offered as he raised his glass. "Here's to wisdom, however we might find it," he said soberly.

"Roger ... I hope you won't mind if I ask you some pointed questions?"

"Of course not. I expect that from you. It is the reason I am here. I mean, besides your wonderful company and friendship, that is," he grinned.

"Yes ... well ... let us try and get to the heart of the matter, shall we?" Michael said, pausing for a sip of his drink. "Did you love Winnie?" he asked suddenly. "I mean, really love her -- that 'cannot do without you' kind of love?"

"I have asked myself that question a thousand times, Michael. It has been hard to get at the truth, but now, with the benefit of hindsight, I suppose the answer is no. That has been a very difficult reality to come to terms with, I can assure you," Roger said quietly. "The fact is, I have to admit to being a fool. I broke every rule I ever set for myself. I submitted to her demands because I thought I was in love with her and I was willing to do anything to have her. I was a forty-four-year-old fool who was getting frightened of being alone in my old age.

"When I lost Connie to you, I couldn't find anyone else to replace the way I felt about her. I hope this doesn't hurt you, Michael, but you see, I was just as in love with Connie as you were. I envied you, and I stopped really trying to find someone for myself because every time I did, she came up short to Connie. Sad old sod, aren't I?" he finished.

"No ... no ... I knew all that. But you were too much of a gentleman to ever interfere or do anything to hurt us. We have known each other too long not to be able to read the signposts. But that does not explain Winnie, does it?"

"No ... as I said, it was the fear of getting old and being alone. She was a smashing looker, as you know, and a real terror in bed. I guess that was what made me go along with that absurd relationship. If I could not have her all to myself, at least I could have a part of her, and that seemed to be enough. I talked myself into it, I suppose."

"Well, I am just glad Connie was not alive to see it. It would have been very upsetting for her, to say the least. You see, she loved you too, but she was faithful to me. She was never sad or regretful about it. It was just the way things worked out. You were off in some Army place or other, and I was here. I am glad that when she chose me, you and I remained very good friends," he smiled.

"Here's to friends," Roger responded, raising his glass once again.

"So ... back to the problem at hand," Michael began again. "I have to ask you ... have you ever been in love? Besides Connie that is," he smiled.

"I don't think so. But now, I am not so sure. In the past, if a likely lady put up too much of an obstacle to my getting to know her, I would simply move along to the next. Bea has me thinking that I do not want to give up, but I'm damned if I know how to go about proving myself to her. I think she is convinced I am some sort of gadfly ... flitting about from woman to woman with little concern for them. I am nothing of the sort, of course," he said with emphasis.

"For what it's worth, I suspect she is telling you that she is not interested in a casual relationship. What she is looking for is not another Malcolm ... it is another 'love'. Someone totally committed to her the way you described Malcolm to me. This business of meeting each other at the station each night ... that's strong stuff. She told you that because it meant something very important to her.

"I think you have to examine yourself, Roger. You have to know for certain that this woman is right for you. You have been hurt once already and so has she. She is being careful, and so should you be as well. This love business is very tricky stuff. If it were not, most of the poets, songwriters and novelists of the past millennium would be out of work," he laughed.

"Yes ... well ... there's the rub. How do I know? What or who will tell me?" he asked, looking away.

"You will. Think about how you felt about Connie. Did someone come up and bop you on the head to tell you that you loved her? You knew. I knew. It was inside us both," Michael said with confidence. "I think you have got to spend more time with this woman to get to know how you really feel. I can see you are smitten, but that may be quite different from the love you both seek," he finished.

"You are no help at all, Michael," Roger laughed. "I knew all that when I came here."

"Yes, well, there are some differences. I think you have told me something very important," he mused. "Something very important, indeed."

"And just what was that?" Roger demanded in a friendly tone.

"Oh ... just wait a bit. All will be revealed, my friend, all will be revealed," Michael said, rising and picking up the two glasses. "You'll catch your death of cold drinking out of that damp glass," he smiled as he trundled to the little kitchen once more.

For the next hour, they played catch-up on their lives, aside from Roger's encounters with Beatrice. Roger and Michael had not seen each other since Roger's divorce had become final, and the two went over the bizarre circumstances that led to the final separation. Roger had been eternally grateful to Michael for almost forcing him to create a pre-nuptial agreement. It resolved the financial problem for Roger, and penalized Winifred for her unfaithfulness.