He had a little light lunch before they came for him. A slice of his favourite hickory smoked ham, some mature self-levelling brie and a crunchy red apple—sliced thinly through the mandolin as he preferred it. He washed it down with a cup of tea, made with the choice of leaves his wife brought with her when they married; that he had come to love over the years. Not too much for him these days; he didn’t need the energy at his time of life.

The doorbell rang the same chime she’d chosen, the last time they remodelled. When he’d moved to the seniors’ complex, they had been kind enough to send a man round to disconnect it from the old place and fix it up for him. The electrician was kind and helpful. “Anything to make it comfortable for you,” he said, “We want to make it just like your real home.”

“Grandpa. Grandpa. Are you ready.” The little girl squealed at him. Excitement he could hear in her even before he opened up.

“Come on. Come on. Are you ready?”

She came through the door in a bluster, hurrying him along gathering the things he’d placed on the little chair by the door in readiness for their afternoon’s adventure.

“Don’t forget your hat.” She reminded him of his trademark tifter. The one that almost matched his tie—and although she didn’t know it, his socks too.

He slipped on the special shoes he’d had made, all the easier to slide on and off with his slow-moving joints. Quietened now, the girl patiently watched his stiff fingers zip up his jacket, until he was ready. She tried to tug him faster to the open car door, but she also knew from previous experiences, not to pull too hard, for he was fragile these days, which she was not.

“Julia. Gentle. Grandpa is getting on a bit, you know. Help him now.”

Her mother gently remonstrated with the girl and watched as the old man edged his way into his position in the back. Julia jumped in beside him, continuing with the chatter. The car started, everyone belted up, and they were on their way.

“We’ve been working hard all summer on this,” Julia continued, her exuberance in full flow still. “It’s going to be wonderful. I have a lead in the second half, you know.” She looked at him expectantly and with an encouraging smile, she found a licence to continue her babble.

His eyes and ears zoned out as he often did when with the young these days. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to show interest, but he couldn’t keep up with them most of the time, so he rose above the words. He looked out of the window at the poplars shading the street from the glare of the sun, still high above, despite the late summer day. He sat straighter as they passed their old home and saw the yard sale going on there.

His daughter caught his sad, broken eyes in the rear-view mirror and regretted that she’d driven along the road past the old house.

“Never mind, Dad. Old clutter, that’s all it is now.”

He saw the varied detritus they’d accumulated over the decades. He’d had to be very selective as he chose what to keep and what to leave. There was a lot less room in the seniors’ home, of course. Bric-a-brac from the loft; odds and ends from the kitchen; old tools and familiar pieces from the garage. He noticed the heavy wooden wardrobes from the two guest rooms. Probably unfashionable now. The master bedroom had robes he’d fitted himself. They were screwed deep into the brick by his fair hands, though no doubt still ripe for renovation in the longer term. He thought of the week of afternoons he’d spent fixing them in and how Eileen had brought him tea and biscuits as he worked. All those years ago.

One hot and sticky afternoon in particular, when she’d crept up on him, deep in thought, figuring out some tricky part of the cornice work and slipped her arms around him from the back. How he’d blended into those arms as she nuzzled his neck. How those arms made their way under his working clothes and worked their way through layers to his rippled chest. And his heart fluttered just a little at the thought of what happened next.

The traffic began to build as they got nearer to the city, and his thoughts drifted. He caught himself wondering how it was he could remember the minute details of her that afternoon, even though he couldn’t remember what day it was some of these days. It was a long, long time ago.

How she smelled after her shower, coming in from another day at the hospital, finding him hard at work and nuzzling him in that moment. 

“We’re here.”

Julia’s excitement went into overdrive as she began to recognise friends from the dance school. She waved and hammered on the car window as she tried to catch the attention of one after another as they made their way through the carpark to find a space.

“It’s so late, we’ll have to park over here,” her mother accepted, remonstrating herself at their tardiness. They each got out of the car, taking time to allow Grandpa to ease his way from the high seat of the SUV, until he was ready to make his way in.

The auditorium was filling up, and many of those already in their seats were fanning themselves with their programs in an effort to add a little air to their immediate surroundings. The heat was stifling. The booking for the hall was clearly on a budget that didn’t include air conditioning.

They had no bed in that bedroom while he was fixing up those wardrobes. The floor was strewn with nails and tools and rolled-up carpets. He was not a tidy workman; she frequently told him. But that afternoon, they found a way to get as comfortable as they needed. He cleared the little workbench that was hard against the wall, and she shuffled up on there as their emotions bloomed fully, despite the heat. They both knew the implications. They did not make love that often, so they knew what they were doing this time. What the consequences could be. After all, they had discussed the right time for months and then suddenly, it seemed right. What they did that steamy afternoon, oh yes, might have consequences.

There were 48 different dances that dark, hot and claustrophobic afternoon. He sat through them all, drowsiness setting in every so often, such that his daughter had to nudge him a little if he started to snore. Julia performed every so often, and he tried to pick her out when the troupes came on. At the interval, as they went to the foyer to stretch their legs and get some cooling beverages, a light breeze made a sporadic appearance, but it was better than nothing at all.

Refreshed now after his little dozes having eased his fatigue, he watched more carefully in the second half. He focused on Julia and particularly the very small children who were cute, a little afraid sometimes, and loved every second of their experience.

He remembered back to when Julia’s mother was that age, and they had ‘enjoyed’ the same experiences. They would not have missed watching her in all the world. The fruits of classes on dark winter nights easing to light spring and summer evenings, all culminating in exams and certificates as well as shows just like this.

Then he thought of Julia and her mother.

The serendipitous manner by which they were all present that afternoon. He considered the way her mother had been conceived and the magic of how their world changed on that other hot afternoon all those years ago. Of the experiences they had loved because of that afternoon. Of the fact that but for that afternoon and the fortuitous presence of that workbench at that very moment in time, none of today’s experiences would be happening, not for him—or any of them—for not a single one of them would be present.

There are consequences that form the future, he reminded himself. None of us, nor the world we live in would be the same but for the random chances that brought everyone here on this dance-show afternoon. Everyone present was there because of some serendipitous happening in the recent or distant past, just like they were.

He thought back to their journey there earlier on. He reflected on the comings and goings outside their old place and the contents of their old home, now strewn over that tough green ryegrass he had tended so carefully for many years. He now realised that there had been something he didn’t recognise that had caught his eye. And he pondered whether that had set forth the train of thought in his mind that had occupied him through much of the second half of the show.

He’d made it himself, all those years ago, handy as he was with a saw, a tape measure, with an eye for detail. His definition of quality was the amount of time and nurturing that only a craftsman could gift to his work. He thought back to the thick mahogany worktop he’d bought in Jenkin’s woodyard on the other side of town, to make a durable unit that would last a lifetime. Of the solid square sections of Dexion metalwork he’d bought next door to the wood yard that he’d cut to fit. Then to finish, the coats of metal primer and undercoat, two coats of bright blue gloss and finally top-coats of protective varnish on everything. Something that would last a lifetime and beyond.

He recalled now a flash of that blue when they had passed the old place that afternoon. It must have triggered his thinking for the afternoon.

Their old workbench was for sale in the yard of the new owners. They were selling it in the yard sale. How did he feel about it? Did he care about it? Or was he as ambivalent about it as he knew he should be. The whole life he had lived; the afternoon at the show; the lives he had around him; had all been dependent on that workbench; that steamy afternoon. You couldn’t hang onto such thoughts forever. Life had to move on. He had to move on.

Leave it be. Who knows, the workbench might even be the start of a new generation when it finally landed up somewhere. And the show would roll on once more.

He hoped so, at least.