He wasn't a well man when he came down from the North. He wasn't welcome either. They had never got on, he and his sister, because they were both hard people and strong willed too. But now here he was. Old. Sick. Alone. So he sold the business and came South. Family meant something didn't it?
He was eighty seven, his sister seventy eight. She wouldn't have him in the house. She found him a room half a mile away so she could keep an eye on him without having him under foot.
He settled in quite well. He grew no better or worse. His routine was to rise at eight and make tea and toast then spend the morning walking to the tobacconist for the paper and lunching at a tea room. He'd nap in the afternoon then spend the evening at the Duke's Head where he was well known and appreciated by most of the regulars.
His North Country humor was lost on them though.
When the war came he took his turn doing fire watch on the roof of the Duke's Head and he blandly disregarded the bombs as did all the Duke's Head habitues.
One day as he rounded the corner onto Station Road he saw a hole in the ground where the Duke's Head used to be.
He went home and got in his bed and died.
Life wasn't worth the trouble any more.