Quiet love flowers where the road is bad

Halfway through the second act of a new stage production of Cider with Rosie, my Nana stands abruptly and declares at the top of her voice the script is banal, the actors as wooden as the set, and the direction a farce. Then, despite her great age, she clambers over several members of the audience and an usher to get to the emergency exit.

I ‘sorry-sorry-sorry’ my way past a bejewelled and loved-up couple, now drenched in the bubbly included in their luxury champagne theatre package. I try to do the same to the puce-faced usher, who mouths the unutterable at me against a rising tide of shushes from the darkened auditorium. I explain in barely audible hisses that my Nana is extremely old and often suffers from confusion. I add that she used to be an actor herself, which causes her to become very emotional in certain situations. I promise it will never happen again and try to squeeze past his portly frame to head for the exit through which my Nana has just disappeared, but to no avail. He won’t let me pass. Instead, he grips my arm firmly and marches me to the back of the theatre and out the main door. I scoot around to the side of the building where the off-Broadway emergency exit opens into the pitch dark. The rain is coming down in stair rods and I can barely see through my glasses. I wipe them with the back of my hand and squint into the dark. There’s no sign of her. I yell into the cold November night.

‘Nana! Just where the hell are you!’

A Yellow Cab screams past the entrance to the alleyway. I hear the screech of brakes, followed by a baritone tirade in a language I don’t understand. My mind’s eye pictures the cab driver leaning out of the window, waving furious arms at a bedraggled woman in her eighties, hair piled on top of her head like a bird’s nest, wearing a faux-fur collared coat and scuffed flats. Or, worse, a body laying prostrate in a pool of blood. But when I round the corner I see it’s not her he’s cursing. Instead, it’s a vagrant who has staggered out into the road, his trolley full of worldly belongings spilling into the street-lit puddles. Broadway pavements are filling up fast, so the homeless are taking their dramas elsewhere.

I shout above the cabbie’s torrent of likely abuse.

‘Have you seen an elderly lady? My height. Plum-coloured coat. Fur collar.’

He ignores me, and with a last mouthful of verbiage slung in the direction of the street dweller, wheelspins away. I look from left to right in desperation, but there’s no sign of Nana.

‘She went that way.’

I look at the homeless man, now pointing a filthy, trembling finger toward Central Park.

‘I can show you.’

He starts shuffling toward me. His gait is uneven. His eyes watery and bloodshot. His skin is pale and dry, with grimed lines so deep it looks as if they have been inscribed with a knife.

‘That’s okay, there’s no need. I’ll find her.’

He moves closer to me.

‘I knew her.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Marilyn. I knew her. A long time ago. I’ve been waiting for her.’

Okay, crazy man, I mutter under my breath, if you say so. I shrug and turn sharply on my heel, but before I can move away he grasps my sleeve. I pull back, but his grip tightens. I fish in my pocket to find the bill I had ready for the interval glass of wine. I dangle it in front of him, trying to keep distance between us. When he shakes his head, I drop the note and it joins the discarded fast-food cartons and coffee cups surrounding his feet, distracting him enough for me to jerk my arm free. Before he can grab me again, I turn and run toward Central Park as fast as my kitten heels will allow. My mind has now moved on to a nightmare scenario of Nana, with her large, glittery rings and paste jewel bracelets, being robbed at knifepoint.

I make the three blocks to the park entrance, but there’s no sign of her. My throat is burning with the effort of getting enough breath. I’m bent double and sucking in the freezing air when I spot a frail figure sitting on a bench a few yards past the entrance.

‘Nana.’

Relief floods through me, swiftly followed by the anger that is triggered by fear.

‘Right, what were the histrionics about this time?’

‘It brought it all back.’

‘Brought what all back?’

I’m still irritable, and my chest hurts from breathing so hard.

‘Those young lovers, on the stage, holding each other like that. It brought everything back.’

A sob breaks loose from her.

‘It was so innocent. We were fifteen, that’s all. We used to go up to the back field and lie under the old pear tree. It was our favourite place. For the whole summer we watched as blossom followed first leaves. And when the fruit came, he would climb into its branches to find the sweetest pear. Dear, dear Anthony. He never did any harm. We hadn’t even held hands until that day. He was always so respectful. It was how he was raised. To be respectful. We were just lying there, in the grass. He was telling me of a stray dog he’d found and was hiding in the farmer’s outbuilding. He was feeding her with any scraps he could lay his hands on. I asked if he would show me, but he said no, he thought she was going to have puppies and he didn’t want to risk her being found by the farmer who would probably drown them. I asked what he would do with the puppies when they were born. He said he wouldn’t let anyone hurt them, but I could have one if my parents let me. And that was when it happened. I felt so full of love for him I rolled over and kissed him on the mouth. Then I took his hand and I put it under my blouse, here, on my breast. Just like this. And his hand was so cool against my skin. I’d never felt like that before, and I didn’t want it to stop. We were so innocent.’

I had never heard my Nana talk in such an intimate way. I can't even imagine her as a young girl, let alone one who has a sexual encounter in a field. As long as I've known her she has been an old lady smelling of lavender, face powder and moth balls. In my embarrassment, I struggle to know what to say.

‘Like in the play?’ I blurt, half hoping her confession is a result of confusion.

‘No. It was different in the play. No-one caught them.’

‘Well, times have changed, Nana. You wouldn’t get away with calling it innocent these days.’

The light went out of her face.

‘We didn’t get away with it then.’

‘Marilyn? Marilyn?’

I turn in disbelief.

‘Marilyn, it’s me. Remember me? Please remember me.’

I step between the homeless man and my Nana.

‘Back off, or I’ll call 911.’

The man ignores me and moves closer to where my Nana is sitting. I pull out my phone and speed dial the emergency number, but before I’ve finished, Nana stands and takes a step toward the homeless man.

‘Marilyn?’ He sounds less certain now.

Nana steps into the glow from the streetlight, so he can see her more clearly. She doesn't show any signs of the revulsion I feel, just concern at the man's state.

‘Hello dear. It’s a dreadful night, isn’t it?’

He moves toward her, and his steps falter. He stumbles, and Nana puts out a hand to steady him. As she leans over him he looks up into her face.

‘You’re not Marilyn.’

‘No dear,’ she says. ‘I’m not Marilyn. I’m Sylvia.’

The man begins to weep.

‘She said she’d meet me outside the theatre. I’ve been waiting for her, but she never comes.’

‘You’ve been waiting a very long time.’

The man nods, his tear-streaked face now lit by the lights from the squad car outside the entrance to the park. Two officers leave the vehicle. Already one is reaching for his handcuffs.

‘I know what that’s like,’ says my Nana. ‘I’ve been looking for someone for a long time, too.’

'I hope you find him.'

'And I hope you find Marilyn.'

As the vagrant is led away, Nana sits back on the seat. I join her, trying to make sense of the scene I’ve just witnessed.

‘Do you know that man?’ I ask.

‘I often pass him, outside the theatre. They say he was once a Marine. That may be true. I think he has the look of a man who once walked strong and upright.’

‘So who was Marilyn?’

‘No-one knows for sure. A sweetheart, perhaps? But he’s been waiting there for years. Sometimes he will call after a passing woman. It makes them nervous. He quite often gets arrested, but I don’t think he means any harm. People just don’t understand.’

I laugh, partly with relief.

‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me. I’m not sure I do!

'That's because you've never lost someone you love.'

I feel admonished, as if I’ve fallen short in some way. I put my arm around her shoulders and try to make up the lost ground.

'I’ll be honest, Nana, when he said he knew you, and you said you’d been looking for someone too, I thought it would turn out he was Anthony.’

My Nana gives me a quiet smile.

‘Oh, no dear. I knew it wasn’t Anthony. The homeless man was white.’