First Love - A short story
Once there was an old man who spent his days watching the world go by. Each day he would wake up to the sound of birdsong outside his window. He would give a huge yawn, stretch until his bones popped and belt himself in to his plaid dressing gown. Then he would haul himself into his wheelchair, put in his teeth and wheel himself over to the window where he would weigh up the rocks he had lined up on the windowsill, pick up the biggest and proceed to launch it at the tree.
"Fecking noisy birds! Every fecking morning. Nothing but flying rats!" he would grumble to himself.
He would then wheel himself to the kitchen, still muttering and grumbling, and make a strong cup of tea and a slice of burnt toast while he read the morning paper. Each day was the same routine. He was a creature of habit; get up, berate the birds and read the paper before brushing the crumbs from his beard.
By eight a.m., he was always dressed in his tweed trousers and beige checked shirt with polished leather brogues. On cold days he would add an old, worn cardigan with leather patches on the elbows and a crocheted blanket over his knee.
By half past eight he could always be found sitting beside the front window with a cup of tea by his side and a battered, leather-bound diary on his knee. His staff could set their watches by him, he was so consistent. The old man would spend each day watching the world passing by his window, watching the people scurry past like ants as they busily went about their business. He would occasionally utter a fervant exclamation and furiously scribble something in his diary and then go back to watching the world pass by. He spent hours in this manner, moving only for comfort breaks. His staff brought his meals to him in his little nook by the window and he would eat while watching the world pass by. Only when the light faded would he move away from the window. He would often spend his evenings reading one of the many books he'd collected during his long and remarkable life before retiring to bed and doing exactly the same again tomorrow.
He had been doing the same thing for so long that changes to his routine made him grumpier than normal and he was pretty grumpy to start with.
"Sir. That journalist has arrived to see you."
The old man grumbled under his breath for a few moments.
"Stop dithering then and show the young upstart in." He went back to muttering under his breath whilst he furiously scribbled in his diary about something he'd just seen.
He paused briefly at the creak of the door and then carried on recording his musings. He refused to turn around and acknowledge the interloper in to his ordered day. It still rankled that his staff had manipulated him into giving this interview but they insisted that he had a fabulous story to tell which would interest generations to come. Even so, he was determined to make things as difficult as possible.
"Good morning Mr Smith. My name is Peter. I really appreciate you agreeing to see me."
The old man smirked to himself before turning around to greet his guest. He knew exactly how to deal with insincerity. He had no doubt that his housekeeper had briefed the young man about just how difficult he could be before she showed him in.
"Don't stand on ceremony lad! Sit! You don't need an invitation do you? You certainly didn't to get in to the house did you! Mrs Watts, would you bring tea for me and my... I suppose he's my guest, please."
"Certainly sir."
Peter stood still as a statue, appearing shocked and dumbfounded at the brusque greeting he had just been subjected to.
"Why so shocked lad? Surely the staff warned you I am a cantankerous old goat."
Peter blushed deeply, looking uncomfortable.
"Erm...no. They didn't. I mean...erm..."
Peter stuttered in to silence and turned even redder. The old man laughed.
"Relax lad. Take a seat and make yourself comfortable. You want to hear my memories don't you? You'll be here a long time."
Peter perched nervously on the edge of the leather armchair that had been placed ready for him.
"Relax! I'm told my bark is worse than my bite." The old man chuckled.
"So my boy, what do you want to know?"
Peter shifted in his chair.
"You're not what I expected Mr Smith."
"What, you expected me to be taller?" The old man chortled; he was starting to enjoy himself.
Peter blushed again. He placed a small tape recorder on the table next to the old man and took out a notebook from the satchel he had placed next to his chair. The old man knew he was making him nervous. He watched as Peter fumbled through his bag, and then turn even redder as he pulled out a pencil and spilled the contents over the floor. The old man laughed as Peter dropped to the floor and quickly scooped everything back in to the satchel. Peter sank back in to his chair looking flustered and picked up his notebook and pencil.
