The Last Man

Michael had written the agreement and presented it to Winifred with Roger. At first she balked, unwilling to sign the agreement at all. It was Michael, at his subtle, skillful best who convinced her to sign with one simple question.

"My dear Winifred, were you planning to be unfaithful to Roger?" It had stopped her cold, and with reluctance, she signed the agreement. He had cleverly written a counter clause that would penalize Roger if he were to stray, knowing full well that Roger's sense of honour and duty would never permit such a thing. Michael's courtroom skills, now in retirement, had not been forgotten.

Roger, like his father, had chosen a career in the Army. When he was graduated from Sandhurst, he was posted to Windsor Castle, and the most incredibly boring duty any young officer could have been assigned. Whatever glamour that might be attached to guarding royalty dissolved in the overbearing lack of adventure that marked almost every single day, with or without the Queen's presence. The occasional state visit by some foreign dignitary was the only respite for that year spent in luxurious purgatory. He was relieved when his next posting bundled him off to Duchess of Kent Barracks in Aldershot, Hampshire.

When Roger retired from the Army after twenty-one years, he was a Lieutenant-Colonel, decorated with an OBE, and ready for the scrap heap at age forty-three. He was on the sidelines when the Falklands War had broken out, but he would serve his time in hell nonetheless. He was sent to Kosovo shortly after making Captain. He had returned from Kosovo with the decoration, and full complement of nightmares. He came home to find that his friends Michael and Connie were facing a nightmare of their own; Connie had ovarian cancer.

Michael had resigned from his partnership, and had taken to being with Connie every moment of her remaining time. A skilled barrister, he had given up a life of luxury and contest to tend to her needs and pray for her recovery. When she died, mercifully at peace, the drugs numbing her pain, a large piece of Michael went with her. Roger picked up his old friend, mourned the loss of his unrequited love, and "soldiered on". The two men helped each other find an acceptable future for the other, despite their going in different directions.

After their discussion on Friday afternoon, they spent three pleasant days together, wandering about the local sights. They visited Slapton Sands, sight of a horrific training disaster the U.S. Army suffered in preparation for D-Day. A single Sherman tank stood nearby to commemorate the nearly 750 lives lost in the early hours of April 27, 1944, when German E-boats attacked a mock landing operation destined for the sandy beaches, supposedly representing Normandy shores.

A day trip to Polperro, the ancient smugglers' port near the Cornish border, and a stop on the way home at a very fine restaurant in Plymouth brought both their spirits up. It also gave Roger a respite from his near-obsession with Beatrice. He was anxious for Michael to offer some revelation toward his quest.

"Well, Michael, I'm off tomorrow morning and you still haven't told me what tidbit of insight you gleaned from our conversations," Roger said, somewhat miffed.

"Yes, well, that was not accidental. You would not want to take this as gospel, but I believe that you are truly in love with Beatrice, and I do not think that you have been able to acknowledge it yet," he said in a very straightforward manner. "Never mind my comments on getting to know her better, you have already decided.

"Over the years, when I was before 'The Beak', I learned to read faces and words spoken. I learned that not everything said was meant in the manner that it was presented, particularly from the more accomplished magistrates. Often they were telling me which questions to ask and helping me find the pathway out of the morass of facts. It was a key to my success, I believe. So ... what am I saying?" he paused.

"Yes, what are you saying, Michael?" Roger said quietly.

"In the matter of Roger v. Beatrice, you have already decided that she is your chosen one. You have rejected any alternative and have come to me for confirmation. That I am willing to grant. Therefore, it remains only a matter of strategy. For one so accomplished as you, I am surprised that you have not got a plan, but perhaps you are so startled by this new truth, that you cannot work your mind around the simplest of ploys ... the confession."

"Whatever are you getting at, Michael?" Roger asked, a bit irritated.

"Tell her exactly what you have told me. Tell her that you are smitten, but uncertain. Tell her that you too are not interested in anything but a genuine love. That is true, you know," his friend said with certainty.

"It is? How can you be so sure?" Roger asked, now curious.

"I have know you for a long time, my friend. You were never one for frivolous romances, even when you were single and 'on the prowl'. You always looked for the lasting relationship and that's what sucked you into Winifred's world. She was danger. It was written all over her, but you persisted because you wanted something more solid, more enduring. When she offered that, you jumped at it. You rationalized her unconventional lifestyle because you wanted something permanent.

"You were right to analyze your motives as part desperation and part lust. But, that is not why you married her. You wanted something she could not give – love. And now, Beatrice comes along and you can feel the same sensations ... except ... this, you know, is different. They are not anything alike. Go for it, my friend. Go for it. If she truly is 'the one', then tell her so. Be brave. Confess! Tell her of your doubts and your innermost feelings. I think, if you have been accurate in your description of her, that she will find your openness refreshing and perhaps attractive. After all, what have you got to lose?" he concluded.

Roger was quiet for a while. He was digesting Michael's words and their ultimate meaning. It appeared that it was a question of bravery. He had to take a risk with Beatrice. It could all come to tears if he was wrong, but he had to take that risk. There was no other way. Michael was right and had distilled all the facts down to a simple plot. Confess! He looked over to his friend and nodded.

The train from Paignton to London was a much more pleasant journey for Roger than the original trip three days earlier. He was resolved. He knew exactly what needed to be done. Win or lose, he would confess his feelings for Beatrice, and let the chips fall where they may. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, he thought. He wondered absently what he would do if Beatrice rejected his declaration.

Michael had given him confidence. He had thoughtfully examined Roger's emotions and experience and had offered clinical advice. Continue to pursue Beatrice. Tell her how you feel about her in no uncertain terms. Allow her to learn that you are not a frivolous man with devious intentions. Do not allow her to dismiss you without revealing your inner self to her. Above all else, be yourself ... the real Roger Wilkinson.

-0-

The Dénouement:

"Roger, how nice to hear from you," Beatrice bubbled.

"My apologies, Bea. I have been off in the country, doing some soul searching as it were," he said calmly.

"Whatever for, Roger?" she asked, surprised.

"Well, I would love to tell you all about it. Perhaps we can get together ... soon?" he asked tentatively.

"Why not come for dinner tomorrow? Come early ... say five ... we will probably have lots to talk about," she said with a bright voice.

"Yes ... that would be lovely. Five it is. I will see you then," he replied, feeling much more confident than a few moments earlier.

When he arrived at her home, Beatrice opened the door and Roger was taken aback at just how lovely she looked. It shouldn't have been a surprise, and yet, not having seen her for over two weeks, he was quickly reminded of what had drawn him to her in the first place. She was elegant and very attractive. She would have looked perfectly at home on the arm of a member of the royal family, he thought.

"Hello, Roger, please come in," she smiled broadly.

"Thank you, Bea, it's delightful to see you again. Thank you for inviting me," he said somewhat absently.

"You said you had been away for a while ... a retreat ... or something," she said uncertainly.

"Not exactly. I went off to Devon to visit an old friend. Someone whose advice and counsel I value," he said slowly.

"Counsel?" she asked, intrigued.

"Yes. He's a barrister – was, I mean ... retired ... wife passed away a few years ago. The three of us were very close ... from our early schooldays onward," he said, watching Bea's expression.

"Do you have a legal problem?" she asked.

"No ... not at all. I have a ... problem ... a puzzle ... well to be honest ... it's about you," he finally finished.

"Me?"

"Yes. You see, I have been trying to understand what you ... and I ... are all about," he stammered. "Dammit all, Bea ... I have been falling in love with you and I do not know what to do about it," he finally confessed.

"Oh ... I see. That is awkward, isn't it. What did you decide ... on your retreat, I mean?" she asked seriously.

"Ah ... well ... I learned that I had to try to convince you that I was truly serious about you ... us, that is," he blurted.

"What did you suppose I thought?" she asked with the faintest of smiles.

"I thought you might think of me as just a ... adventurer ... just a man looking for a good time with no serious intentions."

"And why would I think that?" she asked, secretly enjoying Roger's discomfort.

"Well, I am sure the fact of my absurd marriage, my long-term single status, my ... oh I don't know ... perhaps a glib attitude. I'm not sure, to be honest," he finally finished.

"Dear Roger, you are quite different. But, for the record, tell me what your visit to your friend in Devon decided about me," she insisted.

"I have decided that I am in love with you, Beatrice. I mean, seriously, permanently, irrevocably. There is absolutely nothing I can do about it. That is just the way it is," he pronounced.

"Well, isn't that something. The fearless war hero professes his love for the lonely widow," she smiled demurely.

"Are you making fun of ... this ... confession?" he asked, bordering on anger.

"No ... no I am not Roger. I would never do that for something so important as love," she said softly. "It took a lot for you to get this far, didn't it?"

"Yes ... although ... strangely ... I feel quite relieved," he said with a wrinkled brow. "I thought it would be much more difficult than it was. I am not used to telling someone about my feelings," he admitted.

"You have done a lovely job of it," she said sincerely. "I suppose you will want to know how I feel about you, won't you?"

Roger paused for a moment, perhaps dreading what might be her answer. Finally he nodded.

"I must admit, I had my doubts about you at first," she began. "For all the reasons that you mentioned, I was cautious. But ... somehow, I sensed that you were not who you seemed to be. You were not the slick, smooth-talking nere-do-well out looking for his next conquest. Charlotte assured me that you were not, but I took nothing for granted. It seems your friends know you very well, Roger," she concluded.

"I must remember to thank them. But what does that mean for us?" he asked simply.

"Well, I see no reason we should not continue to see each other and get to know each other more ... thoroughly," she suggested. "At our age, there is no rush, is there?"

"No ... I mean ... well, we haven't got forever, but for you, I will be patient," he smiled.

"Good! Then we can have dinner and talk about our future ... what we want to do together," she said with a glint in her eye.

"Yes ... splendid," he grinned.

After the supper, they retired to the drawing room, each with a brandy. They sat quietly together until Bea turned to Roger, leaned over to him and kissed his cheek. Roger immediately flushed, unprepared for this show of affection. He turned to her and putting his snifter aside, took Beatrice in his arms and kissed her on the lips with a gentle passion. To his delight, the kiss was returned.

"My friend, Michael, said something important the other day," he almost whispered. "He reasoned that you were not looking for another Malcolm ... that you were looking for another 'love'. A true, consistent and unmistakable 'love'. I am trying to be that 'love'," he admitted.

"Roger, that is so romantic. I want what I had with Malcolm. I can never have him back, but I can have love with the right man," she admitted.

"Yes ... that's what Michael said. We all want love. We all crave love. I have done without for a long time and I think I might have forgotten what it was all about. I know now that you have brought back that unique and special feeling in me. I am all at sixes and sevens over you, and yet I know that I want to be with you and I want you to want me. Do you think that can happen?" he asked hopefully.

"Perhaps it already has," she said wryly.

"What does ... what are you saying, Bea?" he asked tentatively.

"Don't look so surprised," she said sternly. "I'm human too. I have my wants and needs too. You came along at just the right time. I was beginning to wonder if I would ever find anyone ... someone ... who could enchant me ... make me feel whole again. You are the first man to hint that he could. I am still not completely sure, but I want to know ... to find out ... if Roger Wilkinson is that man," she concluded.

"By God, I will damn well try!" he exclaimed.

"Yes ... I am sure you will," she smiled. "In the meantime, I want the irrepressible Roger that intrigued me the first time I met him. He was great fun and I want him back," she exclaimed.

"With all his faults and foibles?" Roger asked.

"Yes ... absolutely. And that string of conquests he so openly brags of."

"Ah yes. Well, about that string of conquests ... please do not ask them for references," he pleaded brightly.

Again, she began to laugh. "Oh, Roger, you are good for me. I just hope you are very good for me."

"We shall see, lovely lady. We shall see."

And so they did. And she did, and Beatrice was suitably impressed.

"Roger ... I owe you an apology. I should never have doubted you. I haven't been shagged since Malcolm was alive, but you were magnificent. Bravo sir!" she enthused quietly. They were lying in her bed after a healthy, strenuous and extended session of sex.

"Shagged? Really, Beatrice. Shagged?"

"What would you prefer? Fucked?" she asked seriously.

"Well, if it was good enough for Shakespeare ..."

"But it's such a crude word. Perhaps 'shagged' is dating me. I should try and think of another word. I will work on that tomorrow. Tonight, I would just rather be shagged again," she laughed.

"Well, with your help, I would be failing myself as a gentleman to refuse such a request."

"And just what help would you care for, love?" she cooed.

"I will leave that to your vivid imagination. I am sure you will think of something," he smiled.

And so she did. And they did ... again. After all, a true gentleman has responsibilities. They slept close to each other, each wanting the touch and scent of the other. It had been a very lovely evening.

-0-

"Beatrice, love ... can we talk?"

"Of course Roger. You know how much I love to talk with you." she answered sweetly.

"We have been together now for several weeks," he began.

"Three, in fact," she interrupted.

"Quite! This skulking around business ... it's beginning to get to me ... gnawing on my bones, as it were," he confessed.

"Oh ... well ... what do you suggest the solution might be?" she asked. There was a knowing smile on her face.

"Ah ... well ... I would like to make an honest woman of you ... you know ... marriage and all that," he stumbled.

"Why Roger Wilkinson, are you proposing to me?" she laughed.

"Er ... yes ... as a matter of fact ... I am," he admitted, uncertainly.

"Well, as a proposal, it was dreadful. As a thought, it was lovely. I accept," she beamed.

"Oh, bloody good! Damn! That's marvelous!" he exclaimed. He paused, looked at Beatrice carefully, and asked: "What caused you to accept me as your 'last man'?"

"When you returned from your visit with Michael Sturrock, I was surprised ... no ... shocked at the change in you. You were so worried about your feelings for me, and how I would respond. You seemed so uncertain, and that was very, very different from the Roger Wilkinson of two weeks earlier. So I let my curiosity get the better of me and I telephoned your Michael," she said simply.

"You called Michael?" he asked in surprise.

"Yes ... might as well get it from the horse's mouth," I thought.

"As opposed to the horse's arse," Roger mumbled, causing Bea to laugh.

When she regained her composure, Bea continued: "Michael told me about Constance and your ... lost love. That meant a lot to me, Roger. It told me that you were not the frivolous man you made yourself out to be ... someone without a care in the world. You had sacrificed your love for someone out of duty and loyalty and that carries a lot of weight with me," she said seriously.

"If I were to be your next Connie, you could certainly be my next Malcolm," she paused. "Perhaps I'm saying that badly. I cannot be Connie and you cannot be Malcolm, but perhaps we can be lucky enough to be the next ones, the last ones," she concluded.

"You don't know how happy that makes me, Bea. I am certain of my feelings for you and now ... well, I feel like I have finally found what I was searching for," he said quietly.

"We are a couple of odd ducks, you and me," Bea said brightly. "But somehow, we fit rather nicely together, don't you think?"

"I could not have put it better myself," he grinned.

I've met some interesting people in my life, but Roger and Beatrice are two special souls. I've become their friend over the past months since they've moved into the cottage near my farm. They are bright, lively, fun, and damn fine neighbours. We should all be so lucky. They love to talk and it was that which attracted me to Roger's story, and made me think it was worth sharing. I hope you agree.