In his apartment in Greenwich, in the suburbs of London, Wilfred Dowman rose from his bed – not without difficulty. His rest had been fitful. What time was it? He looked out the window, and saw that the dawn was not yet with them. A thick fog was rolling over the Thames as his only friend awoke in turn. Wilfred’s dog, Lexy, was not as old as he, but at the ripe age of four Lexy would soon catch up. They said dogs aged quicker than humans. When Lexy turned eleven, Wilfred Dowman would be eighty-six. Who would live longer? None could say. Wilfred Dowman cast an eye at his clock. It was half past four in the morning. At his age, nights were short and Wilfred did not sleep much. “Come here, Lexy!” said Wilfred. The dog obeyed. His owner petted him, fussing over the dog and feeling revived. Lexy was a good dog, and was always there for him. It was time for a cup of tea. Wilfred had stopped drinking coffee fifteen years ago. Tea was better for his health; coffee made his heart flutter. He poured water into a little saucepan, and brought it to a cheerful boil before adding the teabags. The only indulgence he allowed himself in spite of his heart was the one Rothmans cigarette he enjoyed each morning. He was an Englishman, after all. Rothmans were a prestigious and regal brand; King Edward VII had given them a royal mandate in 1900. Wilfred Dowman lit a match and savoured every moment of his cigarette – his first and last of the day – as he drank his tea. But the day was not yet done.
The sun had come up, and the sky was brightening. As he walked Lexy along the banks of the Thames, Wilfred Goodman admired the great boat moored there, the Cutty Sark. He sat down on the bench. Built in Scotland in 1869, the Cutty Sark was one of the last British clippers ever made. It was a lean, fast ship, and could carry tea back from China in 122 days. “Ships have come a long way since then!” the old man whispered to his dog. This boat was one of England’s last great prides, and was exhibited on the Thames quayside in Greenwich. Wilfred Goodman listened to the boat’s sails flapping in the wind, as his heart beat to the same rhythm. As he did every day, the old man admired the peaceful ship as he took stock of the life left behind him.
Wilfred had spent fifty years working for the Royal Mail, delivering post to the Western suburbs of London. He was proud of his work. He’d been only sixteen when he entered that regal institution; that was at the end of the last century, in 1890. Back then, he woke at six every morning to get to the sorting office on time. His manager would hand him a hundred or so letters to put through the letterboxes before midday. Then he’d hop on his bicycle. Delivering them all on time was not easy, for he was often asked to stop and chat by the locals he knew. “Wilfred, come in for a cuppa,” called one mother when she saw him setting down the Herald Tribune on her mat. “Wilfred, take a biccy for the road!” a young girl told him. But Wilfred Goodman had to keep moving, as he had other letters to put in other letterboxes. That was his duty, and he always did his work well. Time had gone by in a hurry. A whole life, a whole career, a whole institution. The wind blew over the Thames and the sails of the boat billowed. Wilfred Goodman petted his dog, his heart beating like a metronome. He looked at his watch; noon, and not a ray of sunlight yet. Noon was when his post shift ended. A few minutes earlier, he’d have put his last card through someone’s letterbox.
At that age, he’d have stayed outside for a few hours to take the day in. But the day was coming to an end for Wilfred Dowman. It was time to head back to his flat in Greenwich. He wanted to sleep a little before reading the Herald Tribune. He didn’t pay much attention to politics, but liked to see how England were doing in cricket, rugby and football. One day, the English football team would win the World Cup. He knew it in his bones. He hoped to still be around on that victorious day. He’d never played any team sports, but the cycling had kept him healthy. Wilfred Dowman lay down on his bed. His heartbeat slowed. He still had a few years left to live. Lexy lay down at his side, and Wilfred Dowman dozed off.
The breeze picked up, and the sails of the Cutty Sark beat loudly in the late afternoon.
Alan Alfredo Geday