Passing Time
Ros Thomas
The Weekend West
Published: Saturday November 21, 2015

I arrived at the bus stop, breathless, having jogged across the park and up the grassy embankment to the highway. An elderly gent on the bench seat acknowledged me with a nod. His Labrador, sprawled at his feet, raised one eyebrow in greeting and thumped its tail lazily on the concrete.

“Excuse me,” I asked the owner. “Have I missed the 99?”

“Nothing green’s gone past since we’ve been here.”

Relieved, I sat down and remarked on his dog: “How old is he?”

“Bess? She’s nine.” He reached down to stroke a floppy ear. My bus-stop companion bore a remarkable likeness to Ernest Hemingway: a still handsome face framed by an impressive white beard, trimmed to follow a strong jawline. A navy fisherman’s cap, complete with rope braid, angled across his brow. I noticed the sharp crease in his cotton trousers and his polished brown lace-ups, one of which was wedged under Bess’ barrel chest. Only his walking stick hinted at infirmity. It was topped with a brass duck’s head, the bill worn smooth from constant handling. As we waited, he absentmindedly tapped the footpath with his stick.

“Where’re you off to then?” he said, suddenly. I wondered if he was hungry for conversation.

“I have a dentist’s check-up,” grimacing for his benefit. “Hope it’s a quick one.”

“I’ve given up on teeth,” he said with a chuckle, which turned into a wheeze, exploding into a coughing fit.

When he’d composed himself, I pointed to the duck’s head. “I’m quite taken with your walking stick. I’m supposed to convince my mum to use one – she’s getting a bit unsteady – but she won’t budge. Although I haven’t seen a fancy one like yours.”

“Bought it in London,” he said, giving the handle a twirl. “Been a beauty. Only problem is, the ferrule wears out every six months.”

“The what?”

“The rubber cap bunged on the end here. See?” He raised his stick. “Ferrule. There’s all kinds, but I like this one with the raised bumps underneath. When you’re resting your whole weight on it, it’s the difference between standing up and falling on your face!”

“Who knew walking sticks could be so technical!” I said. He chuckled again, no wheeze this time.

“Do you live near here?” I said, happy to make small talk now it was obvious we’d both missed the bus.

He pointed his stick over his shoulder. “I live three streets that way. Same house for 42 years. My wife died six months ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” I said quickly, surprised he was sharing such intimacies with a stranger. “It was a long illness,” he continued matter-of-factly. “I was relieved for her at first – she was 81 – but as the months go by, I’m realizing she was the last person I could talk to about the past. My friends are too busy with their own troubles.”

“Do you have family here?”

“One son in Sydney. The other in Albany. They’re good to me, but they got their own families. And I’m getting on for 83. Some days, I can’t imagine getting to 85, but then again, when I was 75 and first diagnosed with cancer, 80 seemed unlikely too.”

“My mum’s turning 80 next year,” I said. “She reckons she’s reached the age of invisibility.”

“Hmmf.” A thoughtful silence stretched between us. “This is the problem for old people,” he said finally. “We’re no longer involved in the main business of life: production and reproduction. I’m not sure how we’re supposed to make ourselves relevant again. But at least we can give you young ones the encouragement to keep at it.”

“Quite frankly, I worry more about losing my marbles,” I said, voicing a private fear. “Dementia runs in the family and I’m terrified it’s sneaking up on me.”

“Luck of the draw, ain’t it,” he replied. “I have problems with my lungs and a weak heart. I’m more deaf than not, but I can hear what I need to with this little gadget in my ear. I can’t see properly and my hip gives me hell, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned – it’s that you’ve gotta keep going. Nothing else for it.”

I heard the crescendo of an approaching diesel. I swivelled to see the 99 bearing down on us and leapt up to wave at the driver.

“C’mon old girl,” I said to Bess the Labrador, still flaccid on the footpath. Her owner, bracing on his stick, heaved himself up.

“She’s allowed on the bus, is she?” I asked, scrabbling for change in my pocket.

“Oh, I’m not waiting for the bus,” said my new acquaintance. “Bess and I just stopped here for a rest. We’ll head off home now. Nice talking.”