Our landlords were 65 and 75 and were first cousins who had just married. They were living in her home, and we soon learned they were incompatible.
To see Tom, a tall, trim, handsome American, and Annie, a four-foot-ten, rounded, plain woman, one would guess they were buddies, not romantics. But loneliness and money were in play, and here they were together for better or for worse, housed in the bottom floor of this home.
My roommate Erin was a brown- eyed beauty with raven hair and porcelain skin, a midwife from Ireland. I was a health worker newly launched as a psychometrician, struggling with my weight and supervisors. While opposites, we managed to share the upstairs apartment fully furnished and at the rate of $100 a month, most reasonable in 1970. While struggling with money and work and later boyfriends, we found ourselves immersed in the lives of our colourful landlords.
There was always a happening with Annie and Tom. Annie lived in the sunporch of her house, and Tom in a spare bedroom. Her vanity held scores of bottles, some empty, some full - most likely from a variety of doctors. What the diagnosis was became a mystery. But one morning, Tom hauled off a latched trunk and loaded it in the big black Mercury earlier struck by a “long-haired hippy” while Tom was crossing the street. We were told they were going to the Mayo Clinic in Boston. They waved goodbye as Erin and I left for work.
Coming home at 5:00 P.M., we were surprised to find the Mercury in the drive. Annie had changed her mind! To ease the unsuccessful trip, the couple were to go to the Dairy Queen across the street, but Tom could not find the keys. Searching began. Yes, Tom recalled they were in his sweater. And the sweater? In the closed trunk of the car! He tilted his fedora while Annie, in her flowered hat, fumed. We smothered a smile.
There was nothing dull about living with this couple. Sometimes they would invite us into the living room and converse, but Tom had a roving eye towards Erin, which annoyed Annie; however, he made us feel welcome.
A Christmas dinner was unexpected, but a lovely treat with turkey and all the trimmings was awaiting us. All four of us dressed up to mark the occasion. Annie looked nice in a red dress made especially for her by the dressmaker close by, and Tom had a light-yellow sweater that looked like cashmere.
The conversation was lively, and Annie even laughed, seemingly happy and lighthearted. Tom was charming and noted all the festive garb. As I recall, he even told a joke and teased Erin about the Irish drinking a lot. Red wine flowed into crystal glasses; all was well with the party.
Then, Tom leaned forward and put his elbow into the gravy boat, spilling the contents all over the white lace tablecloth. Annie erupted. Erin and I tried to clean it up, but Tom left the table and Annie as much as told us to go. But we had had a good time.
At times, it seemed that it might be unsafe to live with a volatile Annie and forgetful Tom, but it was I who faced a fire in the house. Smoke was billowing around the hall light upstairs while Tom was carrying out a bloodstained oriental rug; he had cut his foot on broken glass from the desktop. Annie had put a Kleenex box close to a heater, and Tom had put out the flames. Annie wanted to come upstairs with me, but I discouraged her. My boyfriend called during the episode; he was stunned to hear that there had been a fire.
My favourite story is about Tom on his hundredth birthday. I had not been in touch with my landlords. I saw Tom once, and he said of Annie, “She ain’t none too good.” Later, I heard Tom was in a nursing home; my husband and I were invited to his party.
In a three-piece navy suit, patent shoes, all below a shock of white hair, and blue eyes, Tom greeted his guests. I gave him honey. He said, “I ate that stuff once and it almost done me in.”
Tom kissed me on the lips, bowed to the Queen and PM; I whispered, “Farewell.”
