Agra-voided

A couple came to see me today. They are well into their 80s and want to spend their last few years enjoying themselves, seeing their family right and not having to worry about mounting expenses and the cost of living.

I normally counsel against such instant cures as Equity Release and weight my advice with words of compound interest doom, urging them to seek other sources of relief which give slightly reduced instant benefits but infinitely better interest rates. Today I didn't.

I'd spoken to the chap on the phone( including all such serious concerns). He had everything about him, which had probably induced terse, borderline-haughty responses from me when he'd caught me mid-way through the ever-urgent property business that consumes my day. He'd been quite persistent, phoning almost every other day since he'd decided upon this course. I'd built up a picture of an awkward bloody-minded old sod who wouldn't listen to reason even when confronted with hard figures.

I met, instead, a diminutive, smart moustachioued dashing gent with a blushing, albeit 80-odd year old bride on his arm. He'd been worried about her ability to get into the office because of her heart condition. I'd explained that I could make a home visit but it would cost them extra so had instead agreed to be available at short notice should his wife feel fit enough to take a taxi for an office appointment. We met less than 12 hours after I received their papers.

I detected an accent from her immediately and was itching to look at her Passport to place it. We went throught the rudiments and my already softened persona breathed softly and gently as he took an age to give me the two envelopes containing their ID, willing him not to have to read through every single word on each document when I could already see it was exactly what I required.

I was expecting Germany or some other Eastern European outpost. Not India. I mentioned this as I arrived back from having copied their ID, necessary to ensure they'd be banged to rights should they be hardened money launderists.

The lady foiled me by taking out a small, crumpled envelope from her handbag. She passed me the contents. It was a small black and white photograph of a beautiful brunette on her Wedding Day to a dashing wavy-haired RAF Officer 60 years ago in Lucknow, India. She told me all about how they had met in the Himalayas when they were both on R&R during the Second World War. He interjected how the hairs on the back of his neck had bristled as this beautiful erect woman had entered the Mess and stolen all thoughts from him other than to dance with her and make her his bride before the night was over. The rest was history but that same passionate love filled the little interview room that I had booked to save them walking up the stairs to my office.

My usual professional cool completely eluded me. I cried. Embarrassed, I mumbled an excuse about being in the middle of reading a book about Monte Cassino and recently having lost a grandfather. He actually died almost 10 years ago but the Cassino bit was true. I think I got away with it, recovering myself almost instantly and chatting for a further 5 minutes before showing them to the Reception to await a taxi.

I'm not sure if I was crying at the beauty of their story, magnified by their still apparent love for one another so many years hence, the positive result from such a terrible war which saw countless futile losses, or the dawning realisation that I'll never have such tales to tell to my grandchildren or even eager-listening office clerks that many years from now.

They were warm tears. I'm glad I shed them.