This month’s big news in Oxford is that Black Sheep Coffee has moved to the corner of St Aldate’s Street. It used to be on George Street, and I had stopped going there after a man sat down at my table and told me that I looked like a girl he had sex with.
The new Black Sheep was grander with two stories, brown leather chairs, and screens that you ordered from. The only interaction you have with a human is to listen for your name, and to say thank you when they hand over your coffee – a millennial dream.
I wasn’t the only one who was keen to try out the new coffee shop, every table was occupied, apart from one that was in the middle of the cafe. I placed my Americano down and unpacked my laptop – making my home for the next hour.
Just as I was opening my laptop, an elderly man shuffled past. He was holding a cappuccino and was gazing around like a lost child. He glanced at the empty chair opposite me, and I knew what was coming next.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” he said.
“Sure…” I replied, and hoped he had a book with him.
He did not. Instead, he sat down with his mug and stared right me.
“Dennis Cook,” he said, holding his hand out.
“Mary.”
I shut my laptop, internally cursing my parents brainwashing me about manners.
Dennis was clearly in his 80s. He had the face of a retired postman with welcoming eyes that blinked purposefully behind thin-framed glasses. There was a cloud of white hair that was cut neatly. And he was smartly dressed like my grandad, wearing a checked shirt and a polo jumper.
“I couldn’t work those screens over there,” he said, “and can you believe they don’t take cash?”
I feel bad for the oldies who grew up in the shadow of WW2. They learnt how to read actual maps and do long division in their heads, yet we scoff at them because they don’t know how to add milk to their virtual carts. We spoke about the evolution of technology for a bit before we went onto careers.
“I was in the army once upon a time,” he said. “On one of my leaves, I got a woman pregnant. She wrote me a letter to tell me. I told her Maggie, I’ll marry you and look after you, but I don’t love you.”
“I guess that’s one way of doing it,” I replied, not knowing if this was a dick move by Dennis or not.
Perhaps Maggie didn’t buy into the love thing. She may not have been deluded by Humphrey Bogart and saw marriage as a business move, not an emotional one. Or she had no choice. The fact that Dennis was going to stick around to take care of her was her best option—even though she knew it wasn’t love.
“Two kids. She did her thing, and I did mine. We were married for 65 years.” Dennis said proudly, and then his face dropped an inch. ” She died during covid. Only a handful of people were there, and it was over in 5 minutes. And it rained…” He went silent momentarily before continuing, “but that’s life, isn’t it? Do you have a husband?”
“No, not there yet.”
“Good job. Love is rare. After 7 years people lose interest in one another.”
Like most people, I keep my head in the sand when it comes to the realistic side of love. I don’t want to hear about how the butterflies inevitably get farted away. Or if you’re not one of the 50% that gets divorced, then you’re left in separate armchairs, with only the familiar saxophone of Coronation Street’s theme to fill the silence.
I wouldn’t go as far as believing we all have a soul mate. I think only having one person seems a little ridiculous with the ever-growing population. I reckon it’s more of a busload of people to pick from (double-decker). And when you find each other life is better, it’s easier, fun and kind of magic – like Ant and Dec or Snoopy and Peanut.
Unbelievably, Dennis’s practical love life didn’t stop after Maggie died.
“My ex-daughter-in-law fell on hard times after my son left her. He found another woman and refused to give her anything.” (I’m going to say this was a dick move by Dennis’s son). “I ended up buying the house next door and allowed her to rent it whilst she was bringing up the children. Years later, when Maggie became poorly, she nursed her. And then, when Maggie died, I suggested we should get married.” I almost spat out my Americano. “Then she can have what I have when I’m gone.”
“And your son is ok with this?”
“He doesn’t know. We’re not going to tell anyone.”
I didn’t want to press on the fact that the son will most probably find this out at a very inconvenient time, be that at the funeral or the will meeting.
Dennis had plenty more to say; he spoke about his watch, his old job as a porter at Wadham College, and how, as a child, he slept on a bed frame with his siblings until he was put into care.
As the conversation moved from subject to subject, he would now and again take a breath and say with a smile, “It’s really nice talking to you, you know?”
And I’d reply, “It’s really nice talking to you too Dennis.”
THE QUACK 