Contents
Imprint 2
Tormented 3
Two Bowls of Soup and a Ride in a Police Car 8
If Only 16
An Old Photo Frame 20
A Misunderstanding 28
The Shed 34
I Closed the Door 36
That Ring! 40
A Recurring Dream 56
A Good Turn 72
My First Real Assignment 76
What I Miss 81
Imprint
All rights of distribution, also through movies, radio and television, photomechanical reproduction, sound carrier, electronic medium and reprinting in excerpts are reserved.
© 2020 novum publishing
ISBN print edition: 978-3-99064-795-0
ISBN e-book: 978-3-99064-796-7
Editor: Ashleigh Brassfield
Cover photo: Ihor Smishko | Dreamstime.com
Coverdesign, Layout & Type: novum publishing
www.novum-publishing.co.uk
Tormented
I watched them arguing. Not a pretty sight, him towering over her, and her stretching up to her full height, coming only to his shoulders despite the six-inch heels she was wearing. His eyes dark with anger, he stared at her as he mouthed his obscenities.
I watched her shoulders slump as her face registered disbelief that such foul language was on his otherwise gentle tongue. Her eyes seemed to ask ‘Who is this man?’ Obviously not the man she thought, by the look on her face as she pulled herself together, though her fists remained clenched. Her language remained clean, though you could easily see the anger that sparkled in her fiery blue eyes. She repeatedly tossed her sandy hair over her shoulder and brushed the full fringe out of her eyes.
Suddenly, without warning, she turned from him intending to walk away. He reached out with his long arms pulling her back tight into him, kissing her hard on the mouth. She struggled, pushing her hands against his chest without any real effect. When he released his hold she staggered backwards a step or two glaring at him, then wiped her lips with the sleeve of her navy blouse, turning again in fury to walk briskly to a red convertible parked some yards away. The driver of the car, wearing sunglasses and a white T-shirt, pushed the door open as she approached, having the car on the move as she buckled her seat belt. She did not look back at him.
He stood watching them drive away rubbing the back of his head in disbelief. His anger not abated, he slapped a nearby wall in frustration, bending this way and that like a tree in cross winds. The anger slowly began to weaken, leaving his now white face looking something akin to sorrowful mourning. He staggered to a bench watching the road, waiting, hoping, for an hour or more.
Finally, standing slowly, he walked to a pub ordering a pint, taking it to an outside table where he could observe the passing traffic. He sighed deeply, his drink mostly untouched. After a couple of hours, leaving half a glass of beer on the table, he left the pub, striding to the park close by, where he trudged round the paths, not seeing the beautiful roses nor enjoying their perfume. He proceeded without observing, past the shrubbery where small birds hid out of the hot sun, then past the hot houses with their canna lilies outside, unaware of their beautiful colours. Continuing down the path, he finally stopped near the bandstand, where an enthusiastic brass band was playing in the glorious sunshine, while birds, defeated in their songs, listened reluctantly in the trees, looking down at the people sheltering in the shade below.
He stood staring at the band, taking time to register where he was. Eventually slumping down on the grass, as many others had, put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes to the sun to let the brass band’s tunes wash over him. There he lay for the hour and a half that the band continued to play, rising only as a tin was rattled nearby him. Getting up, he took some coins out of his pocket, dropping them in the tin before slowly, with sunken shoulders and head bent towards the ground, he returned back to the garden entrance, towards home.
Arriving home to the flat they had shared, now empty not only of her things but of her spirit, her essence gone, he walked slowly from room to room. He touched doors that she had touched, lingered in her favourite chair, though he could not settle there. Later he found a scarf of hers left lying under a stool. He picked it up, stroking it in his large hands before lifting it to his face to smell the scent of her. He picked up a book she had left on the bed. A book, she had read, a self-help book she had suggested he should read too.
Taking a seat by the window, he opened the book. He read a paragraph, stood up to wander round the flat, before sitting to read some more. This was how he spent the rest of the day and most of the night. He finally lay on their bed in the early hours in a cold deep sleep. He shuddered a number of times as his dreams tormented him. Waking the following morning he showered, dressed, ate a slice of toast before going to work, as normal. As he worked, he thought about the book she had left. Perhaps there was some truth in it all.
On his way home he passed a church, going in for a few minutes to its comforting smell of incense, the dim eternal light offering a glimmer of hope. The church was mostly lit through the stained glass windows. Taking a seat in the shadows at the back of the church, he watched, finding some solace at the quiet movement of the priests and parishioners as they went about their business. The calm settled him, returning him to a semblance of the man he thought he should be, though regretting the man of yesterday. Slowly, he stood, bowed his head and with a lighter step returned to his home with a quieter mind.
I noticed over the next few weeks his routine was to go there after work, sitting in the quiet of the church where occasionally a priest came to sit by him, sometimes in companionable silence, occasionally speaking gently to him and his tormented soul. Always he went home alone to cook a light supper before going to bed, sleeping uneasily till morning. After several months, as an elderly priest sat beside him, as he came to the conclusion he really did not belong in the outside world.
Finally, he spoke of his anguish in hushed tones. He told of the girl who had tormented him and finally took him with her. Speaking with mixed emotions, he told of his journey into factory work and the trials of the work place, while she started to torment him, wanting more than he could give. He spoke of the evening classes he undertook to improve his chances of a more rewarding life, of giving her a better future; of her previously unknown arrangement with a wealthy man who could give her everything she desired.
Eventually, with tears, he told of all he had left behind. The love. The comradeship. The quiet laughter and the learning. His desertion for a girl whose empty wishes he could not fulfil. What a fool he had been. Then the tears finally fell while raking sobs shook his now slightly undernourished body.
When the tears subsided, along with the sobs, he looked into the priest’s face for the first time. ‘I do not belong here,’ he wrung his hands, his whole body seeming to move, agitating, bowed under a grief he could no longer contain, ‘but how can I go back now?’ The elderly priest took his hand taking him to the private dining room at the rear of the church. He quietly garnered more details of his previous life, while plying him with a light supper of cold cuts with mashed potatoes containing a medley of vegetables.
Two hours later, he was accompanied by two priests back to his flat, one to sleep in a chair while the other, looked round the flat, before returning to his office in the church to make some phone calls.
Waking the following morning to the smell of coffee, I watched as he mentally ran through the previous evening. He showered, dressed and entered the small kitchen where the priest, Richard, was busy making toast and boiled eggs to go with the coffee. He smiled weakly at him as he served him breakfast. Richard asked what his plans were. ‘I have a contract to work, people are relying on me. I must finish what I have started. I will also think about whether to go back to my old life. I cannot keep swapping one for another. If I go back, if they will have me, I need to be sure it is right for me and for them.’ They parted company, one to the priest’s house, the other to his place of work, where a quieter, more stable person emerged.
I watched as he contemplated all the hurdles he had yet to jump over. I saw his inner strength return; his back began to straighten, his face began to soften. He no longer barked at those below him, but took them to his office speaking softly while listening with understanding to their own problems.
After a couple of months, I stood silently at his shoulder as he handed in his month’s notice. He wrote a letter to his ex-girl friend apologising for his erratic behaviour, saying the flat would be empty within a fortnight, and he had paid the rest of the rent till the contract ran out in three months’ time. At the end of the month, packing his few belongings, he left a final note with her scarf before closing the door gently behind him.
I stood, watching, as he said farewell to the priests thanking them for their guidance. The old priest accompanied him to the station, speaking kindly before he climbed onto the train with trepidation, the train back to the monastery where he had been living five years ago, not knowing if he would still be accepted. He had finally come to realise that it was as a monk he served his god best. Arriving at the monastery in the twilight of a summer evening, he was surprised as he approached the door, it swung open. The abbot came down the steps to welcome back him with open arms, his face alight with obvious joy. With the abbot’s arm on his shoulder they entered the monastery, chatting like old friends.
