A contribution for Sunday Scribblings

Everyone knew Mrs Bennett .. and yet no-one seemed to know her at all.

The children knew her as the bent old lady who looked like a witch, with her long nose, her wrinkles and her damp, pink eyes. Those straight-backed, smooth skinned, bright-eyed youngsters never gave a thought to how people got like that, they merely assumed that old people were just … there. That God had randomly populated each community with its share of Very Old People.

The older kids, the ones just beginning to slouch into adolescence, figured that old people existed only to be someone’s granny or grand-dad, while the teens themselves just … well, most of them didn’t think about the old folk at all. Thoughts of old age led to thoughts of death, and death was something that happened to other people, because they themselves were quite clearly immortal. To them, Mrs Bennett was just a mad old bint who got in their way as they poured out of the school gates after school.

The kids who were introverted, or depressed and suicidal, they thought about death alright, but not about the process of ageing. They saw themselves dead now. Romantically dead. Tender young corpses, dead with their hair still dark and their lips still plump and rosy. Dead but uncorrupted.

Sarah had first met Mrs Bennett in a supermarket car park. She had just released a trolley from the line near her car and was hurrying to the store with it when she’d felt a frail hand on her arm and had turned to see an anxious, wrinkled face with faded grey eyes and wispy hair blowing loose from a bun.

‘Can I take your trolley, dear? It’ll save you takin’ it back, and I can use it to lean on,’ the old woman had said, and before Sarah could protest, she’d grasped the handle with her veined and bony hands, and made off with it, swinging one leg wide as she dot-and-carried her way toward the shop.

Sarah had had no time to react. She’d been annoyed at first, and then resigned, as she’d watched the trolley, the old lady, and her pound coin disappear between the automatic doors.

Since then, Sarah had learned a few things. Mrs Bennett had lost her husband to pneumonia ten years ago, and since then had lived alone in the end bungalow, right at the far end of Gorse Lane, where the bright, neat gardens softened into the broad fields of wheat and oilseed rape.

Mrs Bennett was seen in the little village shop from time to time collecting a pint of milk or a local newspaper, and people would always let her in at the front of the queue because they hated to see the old woman shuffling from foot to foot as she waited in the line as if her bunions were playing up.

But no-one walked with her, and as far as Sarah knew, no-one called on her, and as the weeks passed, she grew uneasy at the thought of the poor lonely soul passing her days alone and unloved, so today she was going to take Mrs Bennett a little posy of flowers and try to befriend her.

She knocked on the peeling front door, and she was soon sitting in a tiny kitchen with a cup of tea in front of her and old Mrs Bennett chattering nineteen to the dozen. She heard how lovely it was to have a visitor, and how Mrs Bennett’s children were too far away and too busy to come and see her anymore. She heard how many pills Mrs Bennett had for her arthritis and what the doctor had said last week. She heard what Mrs Bennett had had for dinner yesterday, and what she was going to have tonight, and how hard it was to get help from the council, and how she’d nearly been burgled two months ago, and as far as Sarah could tell, she had now heard Mrs Bennett’s whole life story together with a comprehensive list of the faults and shortcomings of all the local service providers.

Sarah left two hours later with her head reeling, having somehow promised to come again on Friday and bring her gardening tools to get the weeds out of the front flower beds and maybe run the hoover round. She had no idea how it had happened, but she’d also given Mrs Bennett her phone number in case she needed help at any time.

When she had gone, Mrs Bennett smiled a happy smile of great satisfaction.

Goodness, young folk were gullible these days, she thought to herself. How easy it was to get them to do exactly what she wanted, without ever having to ask outright - why, she had Lynn Scott coming tomorrow to clean the bathroom, and Gerald Rollins on Saturday to paint the front door! All she had to do was act feeble and lonely or pretend her feet hurt, and people fell over themselves to help her.

The young ‘uns thought they knew it all, and yet they ran themselves ragged looking after homes and children, and worked all hours in some dingy office, and forgot to enjoy themselves. She was practically doing them a favour letting them come here for an hour or two away from all that.

Although, heaven knew, if she were a pretty young girl like Sarah Woods with her husband away from home for weeks on end, she wouldn’t be wasting time on old ladies and gardening - she’d be kicking up her heels, stirring up all the local lads and picking up a few grass stains … but there. She wasn’t young and pretty anymore.

What she was, however, was old and crafty. She glanced fondly at the posy of spring flowers which Sarah had brought.

See? With the cultivation of a suitably guileless expression, you could steal shopping trolleys and jump queues with impunity!

And you only had to be sufficiently aged.

A contribution for Sunday Scribblings.

I surreptitiously looked at my watch and sighed. My date was boring me, and I wondered how long it would be before I could decently leave without seeming rude.

I would see him again at the next meeting of the Genealogy Society so it would be awkward if we parted on bad terms, and really, I’d always liked him. George was extremely attractive, and a very charming man … but it seemed that when he he’d got a few drinks inside him he became talkative. We were on our third round, and George was very, very talkative. In fact, I hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise for about twenty minutes.

And it was only half past nine.

I shifted in my seat, and took a sip of my coke. Perhaps that was the trouble? Perhaps I’d be having a marvellous time too, chatting away right along with George and laughing merrily, if only I wasn’t on antibiotics for a tooth abscess and off alcohol for the duration?

I tried to focus my attention.

‘ … so I went back to the LDS library, as you do, and I sat there for two hours, going through the microfiche. I looked at the 1841 Census records, and then I tried the Trade Directories. I even went through all the Land Returns, right back as far as the records went .. and nothing. Nothing! So I thought perhaps I should try the Passenger Lists for the ships coming into Liverpool … ‘

I watched his lips moving as he continued on with his tale of tracing Great-great-great Grandfather Whitbread, whose origins appeared to be truly lost. He had beautiful lips. They curved into the kind of cupid’s bow which looked really good on a man: firm, shapely, yet soft. I think it was his mouth which had made me agree to come out with him - I’d wanted to kiss him and find out if it felt as good as it looked. Watching him take his turn to speak at the meetings, I had thought that I could be mesmerised by those lips for hours. However, now that I had the chance, I realised that the pleasure of seeing those lips in motion simply wasn’t enough to make up for the sheer tedium of his conversation.

‘ … even the name is a clue,’ he was saying. ‘You know, the name Whitbread was only given to men of the upper classes because they were the only ones who could afford to eat white bread. Everyone else ate dark, roughly-milled stuff. It must have been horrible, but I suppose the peasants didn’t know any better … Anyway, my Great-great-great Grandfather wasn’t … ‘

I swallowed some more coke, wishing it had a slug or two of rum in it.

‘Do you think … ‘ I began. But George took no notice. The tide of his words carried him along and rolled over me. I felt a bit like a surfer caught in an undertow.

‘ … and do you know what? Eventually, I got hold of the key to the parish chest in Little Bardock - the vicar was with me, of course - they don’t let you go through those things alone - and I found some papers … ‘

‘That’s quite an achieve - … ‘

‘ … so apparently, my ancestors were quite well-born, and I thought I’d just check out the listings in the … ‘

I gazed at him over my glass, gritting my teeth, which was a mistake, so I made a conscious effort to unclench my jaw and relax. A lock of George’s dark hair had fallen loose as he talked, and a tiny crease of concentration marred the perfection of his brow. With detached interest I studied the lovely straight nose, and the classically beautiful bone structure of his jawline. His eyes … I remembered that I’d thought his eyes were very sexy. Full of sparkle and the promise of certain, very private, pleasures. But now I saw that they would never be totally lost in admiration of anyone but his own self in the mirror. And there was nothing attractive about that.

‘ … and at last, I managed to confirm what I suspected! I am descended from a line of noblemen! There may even be a connection to royalty if I go back far enough, so what I’m going to do next is .. ‘

Oh, to hell with the genealogy society. I got to my feet. It’s funny what a few days of constant niggling pain will do to a normally tolerant person.

Going around to his side of the table, I picked up his pint - which he’d hardly had time to touch, what with all the talking he’d been doing - and with one rather elegant movement, I emptied it gently over his head. I took my time, making sure that I covered the beautiful dark hair completely, and I made a particular effort to see if I couldn’t trickle a little into his ear. It proved impossible, so I contented myself with aiming it right down his neck, noting that the froth made an interesting pattern on his dark shirt, bubbling randomly over the geometric pattern in a very satisfying way. I swear he didn’t actually stop talking until it was completely empty, and I had placed the empty tankard quietly on the table in front of him.

I looked him straight in the eye, and spoke in my most dulcet tones. ‘Really, George, that’s all very interesting. Now, me, I come from a long line of peasant farmers and shopkeepers, with the odd publican thrown in for good measure, and you know what riff-raff they are.’

I turned and picked up my coat. When I looked around, he was staring at me, wide eyed, and speechless at last.

‘I’m so sorry about that’, I said. ‘Old habits die hard.’

And peering over the edge of the table to where the dark, wet, yeasty stain was spreading over the crotch of his denims, I whispered -

‘It’s in the genes.’

A contribution for Three Word Wednesday.

Burdens come in many different forms
Sometimes they seem ubiquitous
It’s natural to want to avoid them - but do we really want to?

The kitchen sink was clogged again. Helen pulled on a pair of Marigolds and pushed up her sleeves. It was nice to have some help with clearing the table after breakfast, but when would John learn that he couldn’t just toss the plates into the water complete with bits of cornflakes and raisins from the muesli? Didn’t he know that Henry always hid a few under his spoon? Oh, great … today there were tea leaves in here as well. A great swirl of them rose up as she began to work the blockage loose under the soapsuds. She was going to have to get a bowl, though heaven knew, it was easier to wash up in the sink, and it was one more thing to clean and dry afterwards.

As she worked, Helen considered the burden of running a home. It was so different from living at home and helping out. It was even different from sharing a student flat and all pitching in. Now that she was a stay-at-home Mum and Henry had started nursery school, she really had time to consider how everything had suddenly landed squarely on her shoulders.

By the time the kitchen sink was cleared of both debris and dirty dishes, Helen had begun to feel quite sorry for herself. Next up was the washing, or none of them would have anything to wear by tomorrow, what with the rate Henry managed to spread dirt, and then she must clear out the fridge and run down to the shops for groceries or they would be eating baked beans for lunch, dinner and tea. Would there be time after that to do anything else before picking Henry up? Helen doubted it, but if she didn’t get to the vegetable plot soon and thin the seedlings, nothing would grow to full size. In fact, unless she watered it today, it would all die anyway. The vacuuming and dusting would just have to wait - again - or she’d run out of time.

If, but, or! Helen’s head was full of those three little words these days, if she didn’t do one thing, something else would go wrong. And if she didn’t, well often, if she didn’t, no-one did.

She opened the washing machine and threw the next load in, hastily tossed the wet laundry into the drier, then grabbed her car keys and the shopping bags and headed out.

Oh, blast it. The tax disc glared at her from the windscreen, it’s very blueness accusing her of one more task left undone. And wasn’t she supposed to be getting a passport renewal form for John, too? If he couldn’t fly because of her forgetfulness, he’d be in trouble at work, and her name would be mud! She supposed it was natural that he should rely on her to do these things, since she was ‘at home all day’, but right now it felt quite overwhelming.

She glanced at her watch. It was ten past twelve already! Man, she was going to have to fly round the supermarket to get Henry by one, and she’d have no time to bring the shopping home first. Was she supposed to be ubiquitous, she wondered, bitterly. Clearly, it was the only way she was going to fit everything in.

Coming back home with Henry safely strapped in his car seat, and munching happily on a large pear, Helen hoped the ice cream hadn’t melted. She’d got to the nursery school just in time, but she’d had to wait for Henry after all, because they couldn’t find his coat - apparently he’d put it on the wrong peg and someone had thrown it into the lost property box. It was a small thing, but these days it only took a small thing to send her over the edge. She thought she could actually feel her hair turning grey, strand by strand, draining the life out of her with it. At this rate, she’d be turning into an old hag, any day now. Old, uncertain, weak in body and frazzled of mind.

She unstrapped Henry, helped him down, and fished for her key. No sooner had she got the front door open than she could hear the phone ringing. There was no help for it, it would have to go to the answering machine and she’d get back to whoever it was once she’d got Henry and the shopping safely inside and settled.

‘Hello, love,’ the voice of her mother carried, boomy and cracked through the phone’s loudspeaker. ‘Are you still alright to take me to the hospital this afternoon? I can get a taxi, if you like, but I just thought I’d ring and check. I know how busy you are. Perhaps you could let me know … ?’

Helen slammed the front door shut behind Henry and sprinted for the phone, snatching it up just in time.

‘Hey, Mum!’

‘Oh, hello, dear, you sound a little out of breath - have you just come in?’

‘Yes, but it’s OK’. Helen tucked her hair back out of her eyes and sat on the arm of a chair. ‘Of course I’m taking you to the hospital. Don’t be silly. I can’t let you go by yourself, not when you’re so worried.’

‘But I don’t want to be a nuisance,’ her mother said, anxiously. ‘You have young Henry to look after. I’m sure he won’t want to be dragged all over the place, and you’ll need to be back in time to get John’s tea’.

‘Mum. You’re not a nuisance, and Henry is going over to play with his friend James. John knows I might be late, he’s fine with that. I’ll pick you up at half past two, okay?’

As she put the phone down, Helen gave a wry smile. ‘Well, there you have it’, she said to a wide-eyed Henry, gazing at her over his pear core with juice running down his chin. ‘Everything is relative, isn’t it? I get all worked up about tea leaves in the sink, and yet when it comes to the important things, I find I can make time.’

‘Some people,’ she said, as she wiped his chin, and picked up a tin of beans for their lunch, ‘Some people might call an elderly and disabled mother a burden. But Granny isn’t a burden, is she?’

‘No,’ said Henry, firmly. ‘What’s a burden?’

A contribution for Sunday Scribblings

Dear Past Me.

Now listen up, Past Me, because I have some valuable advice for you which will change your whole future. You really don’t want to end up homeless at fifty-six years old, and with a whole truckload of money stashed away that you can’t touch, do you? But that’s exactly what’s going to happen unless you take note.

I know you’re only sixteen, and girls of your age never do take much notice of anything they haven’t read in a magazine and checked out with one of their oh-so-worldy-wise friends, but I’m going to try.

Alright, are you ready? Listen carefully.

I’m you. I’m from the future - and yes, I know that sounds cheesy, but it’s true.

You probably think I’m the result of that bottle and a half of rough vodka you and Stella got through this evening, but I’m not. Just try to open that narrow little mind of yours, because I have this one opportunity to put something straight and save my sorry self from the gutter, and I’m going to make you listen if I have to keep you awake all night, and I know you don’t want that. You’ve arranged to meet Will Brodie tomorrow, haven’t you? And you won’t want to be doing that with dark circles under your eyes and a head full of soggy cotton wool.

But you’re still not convinced?

OK, remember that party you went to last year? You had no idea where it was, because you were taken there by some friends on the spur of the moment. Marilyn said she’d heard that Lou’s parents were away, and suddenly everyone piled into cars and off you all went. You had no idea where you were going, how you were going to get back, or even who was driving. You didn’t even know Lou. You just went.

Oh, yes, you remember it well.

When you got there, Pink Floyd were playing on an old Dansette and you arrived just in time to hear someone say ‘Careful with that axe, Eugene’ followed by a scream. That made quite an impression, didn’t it? And not altogether pleasant - oh, I know. Coming out of the dark like that, it made you quite uneasy. Later, you were all sitting in a big circle on the floor wreathed in pot fumes, which was another first for you. You refused to smoke it, but you didn’t realise until much later that there was so much in the air of that stuffy little room that you were inhaling it anyway. And when a knock came at the door and someone peeked out and hissed ‘It’s the police!!’ you all tried to get up and fell over each other and giggled.

Oh, how naive you were. See, I know you were scared inside, but you didn’t want to show it. It was quite touching how relieved you were when all they said was that they’d had some complaints from the neighbours and could you please turn the noise down. You’d had a glimpse into a possible future, and it frightened you. You could have ended up in court, got into that ‘bad crowd’ they were always warning you about, failed your ‘A’ levels. You see where I’m going with this?

Here’s the thing. At the end of this summer term, you must decide whether to go back to school in September, or leave and move on. You’ll have seven good ‘O’ levels, but you’ll want to go for those all-important ‘A’s. You don’t know it now, of course, but they’re about to change the whole exam system and in a decade or so, employers will start to mistrust the whole thing. It’s all just bits of paper anyway, and no-one will ever look at them once you’ve left school.

Do you see what I’m saying? There is no need to go back for your ‘A’ levels! You’re not planning to go to University, so why does it matter?

Marilyn has plans, but you’re a bit leery, aren’t you? You think she’s a ‘bad influence’, because that’s what Mum has been telling you, and after that party you have a sneaking suspicion she’s right. But she’s not. She’s not! Marilyn is vibrant and adventurous and she’s just what you need. She’s going to go to Europe and get a job teaching English as a second language and she’s going to use that as a springboard and do really, really well. And, my dear Past Me, she’s going to ask you to go with her. And if do, you can get in on the ground floor of a very lucrative project indeed, and you’ll be made for life.

But I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking that I’m doing OK anyway, right? I did get those ‘A’ levels and do it all properly, and surely there must be a way to get my hands on that money and get myself off the streets, but trust me, I’m not ‘doing OK’, and no, there’s nothing I can do about getting that money.

Yes, I stayed at school, and Marilyn went to France on her own, but she and I kept in touch and grew quite close over the years. I’m not going to tell you exactly what I did or didn’t do, but I can tell you this: I missed a hundred and one great opportunities through being over-cautious. Through behaving exactly as Mum and Dad taught me to behave, and being ‘good’. Through not taking risks as Marilyn did, and through never gambling on a venture. And in the end, all my qualifications helped me not at all, and I didn’t even find a good man, because Mum taught us not to settle for second best, didn’t she? And Mr Perfect just never seemed to turn up.

Sure, I got myself a good, steady job, but now, after the collapse of the insurance company that held my pension fund, I’m approaching retirement with absolutely nothing to look forward to but the pittance the state will hand out. All of my savings went into that pension - and the rest of my cash went on holidays and good living. I wasted a lot of it, to be honest. And now, I’m probably going to end my days in a crappy, down-at-heel retirement home which smells of urine and cabbage and I’ll be lucky if the staff remember to give me the right pills or change my sheets once a month.

So, what about that money, and why am I homeless? Well, I’m not actually homeless just yet, but it’s around the corner, trust me, because my half a million is tied up in probate and it’s likely to take years before it’s released. Marilyn left her entire estate to me, you see, but her family is contesting the will and they have a damn good case. So much money .. and Marilyn wanted me to have it … but I doubt I’ll see a penny of it.

However, if you go to Europe with Marilyn now, you’ll become her business partner and there’ll be joint cheque books and no problem. No problem at all.

Dear Future Me.

So. I went back to try to sort things out with that daft girl I used to be back in the sixties, and either she didn’t do what I asked her to do, or she did it all wrong. I thought that once I’d got her to leave school and put her on the right track, things would work out just as I wanted them to, but apparently it doesn’t work like that.

I didn’t expect all my family to be dead in this version of my present, or to find myself living with fifteen cats. I didn’t consider that I myself might be different, either, and it’s going to take quite some time to come to terms with being so thin! I always thought I’d love to be built like a supermodel, but the bones sticking out all over just remind me of my own mortality and I barely have the strength to lift a jug of milk. What’s more, my diamond earrings are gone and I can’t find that early Beryl Cook painting that I loved so much. I thought I was pretty badly off before, but now I have no possessions worth selling at all, and I don’t even live in a half-decent house - it’s falling to pieces and it stinks of cat’s pee.

So what I’d like to say to you is this: Please, whatever you do, don’t be tempted to come back into the past to sort things out. You might make things even worse than they are already, and they’re pretty darned bad. Well, you’ll know that, of course. Yeah, you’ll know that.

So, no meddling, Future Me. Just leave well alone. Really, it’s for the best.

Unless …

Unless, of course, you could perhaps go back to Friday 19th June, 1968 and tell sixteen-year-old Past Me not to listen to a single word that fifty-six-year-old Past Me says to her? Tell her it’s all a horrible hallucination brought on by acute alcohol poisoning from that cheap vodka. She’ll probably believe you. We were very gullible at that age.

We thought we could fix everything, then, too …

A contribution for Portrait of Words

He walked through the village one afternoon as the school was coming out, and I noticed him right away.  Oh, it wasn’t just the way he was dressed, although that was unconventional, to say the least.  It was raining hard, and only about fifteen degrees above freezing, and yet he had no jacket, just some kind of thin zip-up top and a pair of slim black cotton jeans. Oh, and a hat.  A fedora, no less.

He had a large black bag slung over one shoulder, and despite his jaunty stride, it seemed to weigh him down, but that was true for most of the young men now streaming along the pavement.  No, it wasn’t that, but there was something odd.

I could feel my brow wrinkle in thought, and immediately made the effort to relax it, though it was too late to worry about wrinkles now, and there was no-one to notice anyway.  Old habits.  I blinked, and focussed again on the young stranger.

Ah! That was it!  The crowds of schoolkids flowed around him as if he wasn’t there.  They moved for him, but didn’t seem to know – or care - exactly why  they did it..  It happens to me whenever I walk through them.  But I’m used to being invisible,  I’m well past sixty years old, and of absolutely no interest to them at all and  I find it quite amusing, actually.  But this young man was hardly older than the most senior sixth former, and people that age usually at least got a glance, if not a vaguely respectful nod.

He came on jauntily up the road, seemingly unaware of his invisibility, until he got to the junction opposite my house and then he stopped. He stood there looking up at the broken signpost with the rain dripping off the back of his hat, and suddenly he reminded me of David.

On impulse, I let the curtain drop and found an umbrella, then I went out into the dreadful weather and called to him from across the road.

‘Are you lost, young man?’

He swivelled around and gave me a huge grin.

‘Yeah, I think so.  I need to get to Norford – to the bus station.  What happened to the sign?’

‘Oh! Er … the traffic calming … it makes people take risks, you see.   A lorry hit it last week,’ I said, answering the last part first. ‘But … the bus station?  There is no bus station at Norford!’

His face fell, and as he stood there in the rain, the resemblance to my son increased.

‘You must mean Northfold,’ I said, pronouncing it phonetically. ‘Yes, Northfold.  It’s pronounced the same, but it’s spelled differently, and it’s a much bigger place.  There is definitely a bus station there.  Most of the locals call our Norford ‘Little Norford’ to avoid confusion, but you wouldn’t know that.’

I was rambling.  Oh dear.  I glanced at him, taking in the drowned rat appearance, the sudden despondency and the utter youthfulness of him.

‘Look, come in and have a cup of tea.  Or coffee.  You can dry out a bit and we’ll see what we can do about getting you to your bus.’

The grin reappeared and lit up his thin face with the kind of spontaneity that I hadn’t seen for a long time.

We shared my umbrella back across the road, and when we were inside, he unzipped the front of his top, rather awkwardly, without putting down his bag.  Underneath, he wore an old fashioned white vest and a whole bunch of cheap jewellery.   At least three necklaces hung around his neck with such a variety of trinkets hanging from them that it reminded me of something, or someone, but I couldn’t think who, or what.    There was a string of beads, a bobble chain with a key swinging from it, a couple of leather thongs with little clusters of charms … there was something in there that looked like some kind of club symbol, and a girl’s earring, and a dog tag … oh, such a very odd collection!  With that boldly striped cardigan-like top and the hat he looked a bit like a modern clown - or maybe a street performer - and I found myself staring.  I half expected him to break into a song and dance routine, but all he did was shift a little on his feet, hitching the bag more securely on his shoulder.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, apologetically.  ‘I’m being very rude.  Do come through into the kitchen, and I’ll put the kettle on.  Tea, or coffee?’

He gave me a funny little half bow, half nod.  ‘Coffee, please – black, three sugars.’

He followed me in and sat down, keeping the hat on, and placing his bag carefully between his feet, and I thought perhaps he hadn’t much to his name and had been on the road for a while.  Maybe he was younger than I thought.  Maybe he’d left home and no-one knew where he was?  But no, although he seemed very young he was surely over eighteen, and therefore could please himself, and he seemed harmless enough.  I found I was enjoying having him there at my kitchen table.  It had been a long time since David had left to stay with a friend, and he … well, he had never come back.

I found that I was staring into space, and got a little bit flustered.  I busied myself with the coffee, rattling the mugs in my haste and nearly dropping the lid of the sugar jar.  Memories!  I gave myself a mental shake.

‘So, what time does your bus go?’

He looked a little surprised for a moment, then said he was catching the National coach to London to try his luck there.  I thought he might not have anywhere to stay, so I asked him outright.

‘Look, I know it’s none of my business, but is anyone expecting you?  I mean .. you do have somewhere to go?’

‘Somewhere to go?  Oh .. Oh, yes.  I have to meet someone.  I’ll be OK, don’t worry about me. I’m a survivor.’  He winked, but somehow it wasn’t offensive.  He just looked like a cheeky schoolboy.

I put the hot, dark brew in front of him and sat down with my own.  ‘You know,’ I said thoughtfully, ‘I think I have a waterproof jacket upstairs that needs a home. It’ll be rather big on you, but it would keep you dry’

By the time we left the house, I’d fed him cheese sandwiches, made him a second coffee, found him the waterproof and slipped a tenner into his pocket.  It was more than I could afford really, but I couldn’t help thinking how grateful I’d have been if someone had only done that for David, soaking wet and lost and at the mercy of strangers.

He wouldn’t take the damp vest off, but I’d popped his cardi into the tumble drier, and at least that was dry before we set out.

He sat clutching his precious bag on his lap all the way to Northfold, and we chatted about this and that.  But then he told me he’d just finished a stint as a pianist in a bar, that it had been a good job, but there’d been a fire and he’d lost most of his stuff and the place had closed for renovations, and I felt so sorry for him.  I almost wished that he didn’t have someone to meet in London.  I’d have looked after him and put some meat on his bones, maybe found him a job, too.  He’d have been company for me.

But soon we were at the bus station in Northfold, and there was nowhere to park, so I dropped him off on the double yellows and he thanked me politely and then he was gone.

Later than evening I was watching the local news and was shocked and appalled to hear that the 6.30 pm bus to London had exploded.  Apparently, someone had planted a nail bomb in the luggage compartment, right underneath the passenger seats.  I sat with my hands over my mouth, watching the details unfold,  thinking of the oddly cheerful young man who had sat right there in my kitchen, and was now quite possibly dead.  Just like David.

I went to bed early and cried for him, and I slept so badly that the sky was still grey with the lingering dawn when I got up, and I was making an early breakfast when a heavy knock came at the door.  Two unsmiling police officers stood there, wanting to come in and ‘ask a few questions’ because they were ‘making enquiries’.

Turned out that my young friend had been noticed in Northfold asking about the London bus, and had bought a ticket but hadn’t boarded and it had left without him.  He’d put that heavy bag of his on board though, and then disappeared.

Several people in the village had phoned in to say they’d seen someone of his description here yesterday, and one person had seen me go out and talk to him, and take him into my house with me.   So, naturally, they wanted to know if I knew him.  And since I said I didn’t, they wanted to know what I remembered.  What had he said?  What did he look like?  How old was he?  How tall, how heavy, what was he wearing,  what colour were his hair and eyes?

And now that I thought about it, I couldn’t remember a damn thing about the boy himself.  He was thin, and he was young … and he carried a heavy bag,  yes.  He had no jacket, so he was soaking wet.  And he wore a boldly striped cardi and a vest, and wore a fedora, and he had lots of funny-looking jewellery.

The older of the policeman sighed.

‘All designed to catch your attention and stop you noticing what he really looked like,’ he said. ‘Clever little bugger.’

In the end, it was David’s jacket that trapped him.  I’d given the police a description of it, and what the ‘little bugger’ didn’t know, of course, was that I’d written our post-code across the back of it with an ultra-violet pen when David was working for the council and always having things pinched.

It turned out that Mr Stripey Cardi wasn’t a common or garden terrorist.  He was a young man with a grudge, his name was Adrian Collins, and his mother had died in the dentist’s chair during a tooth extraction.  She’d had a heart attack and just died.  Not the dentist’s fault, but that wasn’t the way Adrian had seen it, and he’d gone quite mad.  He’d made several attempts on the dentist’s life, and the police had their eye on him for months, frustrated because they couldn’t prove a thing.  The dentist had been on board that bus, of course, and so they’d been and checked young Adrian’s house and found traces of explosives along with a few rusty nails in the spare room.  It would be a long process, but they thought they would make the charge stick.

I told them I’d like to know when the trial would be, and I’d like to know where he was sent when he was convicted. I’d heard there was a prisoner befriending scheme and, well …

You have to love a young man who would do so much for his mother, don’t you?