The Reversed Hermit E-Book

John Broughton

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The Reversed Hermit tells the tale of Noam Lewin, a successful London insurance broker. His life seems to be complete, but after tragedy strikes, he abandons his highly paid job to live as a hermit and seek enlightenment in the woodlands above a northern spa town.

The townsfolk are curious, and a close-knit group of drinking companions in The White Harte pub decide to find out what makes the man tick. Talking with Noam, they find their lives are changed, and when sales assistant Alice is admitted into their clique, events accelerate. A devout Catholic, her priest learns about her existential malaise and decides to visit the catalyst: the hermit.

Father O’Malley is no more immune to the hermit’s words than the laymen, and soon a whole series of life-changing events occur in the spa. But are they for better or for worse?

Leseprobe

THE REVERSED HERMIT

A NONCONFORMIST'S SEARCH FOR INNER TRUTH

JOHN BROUGHTON

CONTENTS

1. Drinking Companions

2. The Car Salesman

3. Drinking Companions

4. The Shop Assistant

5. Drinking Companions

6. The Shoemaker

7. Drinking Companions

8. The Priest

9. Drinking Companions

10. The Priest

11. The Priest

12. Drinking Companions

13. The Butcher

14. Drinking Companions

15. The Plasterer

16. Drinking Companions

17. The Priest and Alice

18. Drinking Companions

19. The Priest

20. The Social Worker

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 John Broughton

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Terry Hughes

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ONE

DRINKING COMPANIONS

The hermit became a celebrity although that was the last thing he sought. It is an inescapable fact that celebrities engender speculation. In the town below his hillside, scarcely a day went by without somebody debating whether he was a madman or a wise man. The townspeople had a problem with his sitting there overlooking them. He was not encroaching on private property, scarring the landscape or polluting it. The matter was not so tangible but more a question about his thinking for himself. They feared that his conclusions were neither the same as theirs nor compatible with their beliefs. This tended to concern everyone in an unthought-out kind of way. It posed the issue of normality.

Of all introspective questions, the spikiest is what is normality? The hermit was convinced he knew the answer, and didn’t like what he observed. Most townsfolk had shelved their ability to contemplate but, if pressed, they might have answered routine or regularity, but those concepts for some of the teenagers, fruit of their loins, were second only to death. On closer examination, worse than those two much-lauded virtues, the 21st-century world around them offered confusion, pandemics, wars, greed, deception and downright evil, mixed with a sprinkling of charity, bonhomie and religion, and not everyone bought into this normality. Many wished to escape from the world but didn’t find it easy. Some found suicide more accessible than summoning the courage to become a self-sustaining hermit.

But returning to speculation, in one corner of The White Harte public house in the town centre sat four friends, hearty ale drinkers. Their conversation centred on the recluse.

“I say he’s stark, staring bonkers,” said a muscular fellow. His knotted tattooed forearm, vaunting a red and blue writhing dragon, rested on the table, terminating in a large hand grasping a pint glass. A respected plasterer by trade, Jason Andrews was a man whose point of view was usually esteemed in this company. His companions were a cobbler, a car salesman and a butcher, none of whom felt like challenging the shaky foundations of his opinions. “Well, it stands to reason. Only a nutter would go and live up in the woods, away from civilisation. What happens when it snows? I mean, it’s all right up there on a hot day like today. It’s cool by the stream up there. But what about January and February? What if he catches a cold?”

“He’ll come running down here, that’s what. He’ll probably spread his germs somewhere warm, like in the shopping centre or the public library,” growled Evans the butcher, looking decidedly cross. “I’ll bet he’ll be sticking his hand out for money so that he can buy medicine for his ailments.”

“Or to get himself a square meal. I mean, what does he live on up there? If he’s clever enough, berries and roots and fish,” said Matt, the taciturn maker and repairer of shoes.

Gilbert Brown, the car salesman, stared into his beer. He felt that his companions might be misjudging the hermit. Not that he knew much about him, except hearsay. So he murmured: “He’s probably fitter than us with our beer bellies, and it’s likely he doesn’t catch colds because he’s not softened like us by central heating. And I’ve never seen him begging like those wastrels on the dole.”

“Speak for yourself, Bert,” beamed Walter Evans, slapping his beer belly. This is all muscle!” This provoked a gale of laughter. “Well, at any rate, there’s good money gone into it!” His pleasant rubicund face glowed with mirth.

“Let’s be serious for a minute, chaps,” Gilbert said primly, reflecting his somewhat formal nature as he peered over his silver-rimmed spectacles. “We don’t know anything about him, do we? I, for one, would like to know where he’s from? But most of all, what makes him tick. Why has he chosen his lifestyle? How does he get by from day to day?”

“What makes the silly sod tick? You’ve got to be joking, Bert. You can’t reason with a nutcase. Maybe we should get the social services on to him for his own good. They could put him in a psychiatric ward. At least he’d get a few square meals on the National Health,” Jason said.

“Bloody hell, mate.” Matt stared at the plasterer, his wrinkled face suddenly acquiring more worry lines. “We don’t live in a police state. This is a free country, so if a bloke wants to go and experience the wild, I say good luck to him. He’s not doing you any harm, is he?” And that was a long speech from a man of few words.

“Naw, I suppose not, but what if he gathers followers? There could be a tribe of them up there. Then what? We wouldn’t be able to go for a Sunday picnic.”

“Hang on! Just how many Sunday picnics did you go for up there this last year?” Walter asked, the scorn in his voice contrasting strongly with his general good nature.

Jason looked confused and swigged at his ale. “Well, none, to be honest, but I might have wanted to.”

“Just listen to yourself; you make more sense when you’re plastered.”

“Here, watch it, Walt!” Jason’s eyes flashed. “You think you’re bloody clever, but you needn’t worry. In case you haven’t noticed, I buy my frigging meat from you for my barbecue. It’s just that I cook it on our patio, not up in the woods. But I might want to take it up there one day without being bothered by a tribe of bloody hermits.”

“I think this conversation has gone off the rails, chaps,” spoke the voice of reason, in the shape of the car salesman. “We’re talking about one poor soul who’s chosen an alternative lifestyle, not a tribe of madmen. I repeat that we should find out what makes him tick.”

“Go up there and ask him,” the plasterer said resentfully.

“We could draw lots,” Gilbert said, “or toss a coin.”

“Coins have a head and a tail, not four options. You can’t do it fairly because of percentages,” Walter pointed out.

“Yes, I can. What would you call, Walt?”

“Heads, I always do.”

“Me, tails,” Jason said, just to be contrary.

“You, Matt?”

“Heads.”

“Fine, so I’ll be tails and straight away we eliminate two.” He took a coin out of his pocket, and flicked it. It came down, and he caught it and slapped it on to the back of his hand. “Heads,” he declared. “That means Matt and Walt don’t go up there. So, it’s between you and me, Jason. What’s your call this time?”

“I’ll stick with tails, and it had better bloody well come down tails!”

It did, somewhat to Gilbert’s relief, even if it meant his having to climb the hillside the following day, which happily chanced to be Sunday so that he wasn’t at work. The weather forecast was fine, so he’d enjoy a ramble up the fells. He was relieved that the hermit wouldn’t be challenged by Jason’s pig-headed prejudices. For his part, Gilbert had spoken honestly. He wanted to know what makes a sane man – assuming the hermit was sane – abandon the comforts of civilisation. That was something he, Gilbert Brown, with his C-Class Mercedes and four-bedroomed detached house with a Jacuzzi could not contemplate or begin to understand.

When he stood to leave for home – he made a point of being punctual for dinner with his wife and two children – he said: “Right then, lads, see you tomorrow evening. I’ll report back on our local personage.”

After he had left, Jason said spitefully: “It’s all right for some. He thinks he’s so bloody superior because he sells Jaguars and Range Rovers and lives in a house with a garden big enough to be a friggin’ public park.”

“Bert’s decent enough,” Walter said. “And he’s good at his job. People come from miles around to buy their cars from him. There must be a reason. He’s always been straight up with us, you’ve got to admit.”

“Yeah, I suppose. Rather him than me trudging up there to talk to the headcase.” That was how the smirking Jason ended their conversation before they drank up and set off home. He enjoyed having the last word, but he continued to think about the fool on the hill. He hummed the Beatles’ song of that name to himself, but it had never occurred to Jason to check out the meaning of the lyrics.

TWO

THE CAR SALESMAN

Gilbert drove his Mercedes uphill along an unmade road, cursing the dust making the shining grey bodywork opaque because he would have to take the vehicle to the car wash after encountering the hermit. By driving as far as a five-barred gate that prevented his going any farther, he had halved the uphill slog on foot. The barrier marked the confines of a hill farm owned by David Marshall, a ruddy-faced outdoor type to whom Gilbert had recently sold a Range Rover.

David might not have recognised the dapper salesman parking his car without his habitual three-piece pinstriped suit, given that today he wore a short-sleeved rugby shirt, jeans and stout walking boots that he was now lacing up, replacing the trainers that were more sensible for driving.

Gilbert passed through the wicket gate in the drystone wall and strode across the rough grass, interspersed with clumps of gorse and low-lying bilberry plants. Gilbert bent to pick two or three berries, sucking at the juicy fruit with relish. What a pity the kids hadn’t wanted to come with him. Together, they could have picked enough for a pie or some to offer the hermit as an introductory gift. Gilbert decided not to do that because an insistent horsefly kept buzzing in his face, forcing him to swat at it continually. The insects bothered him. Whereas the horsefly fortunately did not bite him, the midges, attracted by the bilberries, did not spare him. So, he hurried forward towards the treeline and the welcome shade of its foliage, where he was sure the lively brook, which flowed down the hillside to where it had been channelled into a culvert by the corporation in the Victorian period, would provide lighter, refreshing air.

He was right about that and wrong about expecting the hermit to be a filthy, unkempt individual. The recluse shone with cleanliness, his flesh bright and toned by the cold stream water to which it was accustomed. The long dark hair and full beard still glistened with droplets in the sunlight, its beams dappling the woodland as it penetrated the foliage. The skin of the soles of his feet had hardened to resist stones and twigs. He wore a cotton cloth around his waist but disdained other apparel. Gilbert stared at him in wonder with a hundred questions in his head but barely dared approach the stranger.

The hermit spoke first, drawing nearer to the salesman: “It is hard to say who fears the other’s company more.”

“I’m not afraid,” Gilbert replied. “I have come to seek wisdom.”

“Then sit down and stop speaking.”

“If I don’t speak, how can I ask questions?”

The hermit shook his head sadly and said: “Wisdom abides in stillness, when the soul is free to speak. That is the dialogue you seek.”

Bert looked puzzled and, having obeyed by sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, stared at the ground a yard in front of his feet, trying to understand the man’s words. Instead of dwelling on their meaning, he found himself attempting to place the slight accent to identify what part of the country the recluse came from. He considered his own heavy boots and their thick rubber soles. How did the hermit manage to resist the pain of stepping on thorns, nettles and jagged stones? When he looked up, the subject of his considerations had vanished.

“Hey, mister! Where are you? Come out! I need to talk to you.”

“I’m here,” came a quiet voice behind him. “Please stop shouting; you’ll disturb the birds and beasts. You say you need to speak with me. I wonder why, but I am here and listening.”

“Why do you live up here alone? Where are you from? How do you survive?”

“Halt! Why so many questions? Is the first not sufficiently worthy of discussion? Your thoughts are as tumultuous as yonder brook, but the stream deceives, for when you observe carefully, it is perfectly still.”

“I don’t understand. The water is flowing.”

“Later I’ll explain, but now to your first question. I am not alone. Solitude, my friend, is where you discover you are not alone. It is where I am at one with the universe and where I perceive that within me there is a spirit.”

“I understand that. So, you have turned your back on the world to seek enlightenment.”

“Those are your words.” The blue-grey eyes gazed at the salesman with compassion. “I have not turned my back on anyone. Am I not speaking with you, and has not my solitude enabled me to respond more clearly to your question? I chose, in your words, to turn away from the world to understand it better.”

“But don’t you miss the comfort of a bed and hot running water? The companionship of others?”

“The first comforts are not necessary to live well and, as to the other, I can honestly say that, whereas I have never been alone and wished I was not, often I have been in company and wished I was alone.” He raised an eyebrow to check how his words had been received. Seeing that Gilbert was pondering on them, he answered the original second question. “You asked me where I was from. Like everyone else, I emerged from my mother’s womb. The accident of place is irrelevant, friend. In any case, I have vowed to keep my privacy intact. My existence is of no importance or interest to others.”

“Do you have a name?”

“I have a thousand names. You may choose one for me and it will be one of my correct names.”

“Gabriel?”

“Correct! If it pleases you.”

“My name is Gilbert. Gabriel, do you hate people? Have you deliberately cut yourself off from them?”

“I do not hate people. Down there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the town, “are the noble-spirited and the lovely as well as the evil and the ugly. Most people have no time to think. They are desperately looking for something to do. I need to sit in peaceful contemplation. I suspect that most people are afraid of quietude because it gives them a glimpse into nothingness, which terrifies them. You must not fear silence, Gilbert. Embrace it and listen to your soul. Your third question is how do I survive up here? Very nicely. I find my food among the surprises of the pathless woods, where none intrudes. Exploring them, I love not mankind the less, but nature more. She is bountiful, but a person must respect her moods and make provision for her changes. See the unchanging stream; it provides my fish.”

“You speak in riddles, Gabriel. How can the stream be unchanging?”

“How many centuries do you think it has flowed past here, Gilbert? The underlying rock of its bed never changes. The water comes and goes but speaks with a never-changing voice, if you listen.”

“As to embracing silence, Gabriel. I don’t have time. I have a job and a family, so my time is not my own. I have to earn money to feed my family and pay the bills.”

The hermit looked pityingly at him. “You are a good man, Gilbert, but cruel to your soul. For the moment, there is nothing more that I can tell you.”

“May I come and find you another time, Gabriel?”

“I cannot prevent you, Gilbert. Men will always ferret me out in my solitude. If I wish not to be found, you will not find me.”

“Is there anything you need? Anything I can bring you? Bread, meat, carrots?”

“You are kind, but the only thing I miss is a book.”

Gilbert seized on this. “A book? I can bring you one next weekend. But which book would you like?”

“The one that you choose, friend Gilbert, that is the book I would like.”

“Leave it with me. Goodbye for now, Gabriel.”

As he strode down the rough grassland back to his car, Gilbert’s thoughts were not occupied with the hermit’s profound observations but with his own fanciful curiosity. What have I found out about him? His name? No, I chose that. His age? He looks about 45, but I’d guess he’s 10 years younger. Where’s he from? His mother’s womb! But that accent tells me he’s from Somerset or thereabouts. I know that he’s not crazy, even if he speaks in riddles! What can I tell the lads in the pub tonight?

THREE

DRINKING COMPANIONS

Gilbert joined his mates in the White Harte, ready to report on his meeting with the hermit.

“I didn’t think you’d come this evening,” Jason sneered.

“Why not?”

“I was sure you wouldn’t meet up with the freak because you couldn’t be bothered to climb up to the woods.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, mate. We had a long and interesting chat.”

Jason threw back the rest of his beer in one gulp and stood. “Back in a minute, I’ll get a round in. You didn’t join his tribe, Bert, lad?” He sniggered as he walked over to the bar.

“Pay him no mind; he’s a twerp!” Walter said, impressed that Gilbert had kept his promise.

As soon as the drinks arrived, Jason said: “What did you find out about the weirdo?”

“That he’s not weird at all. He’s as sane a fellow as you or me.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s why he lives alone eating berries and talking to the bugs, ain’t it?”

Gilbert stared over his silver-rimmed glasses with the look that Jason remembered receiving from his headmaster when he was in trouble for some misdemeanour. “What’s your opinion based on?” Gilbert’s tone was cutting. “I’ve actually met him and drawn my conclusions, whereas you…”

“Are just an ignorant twallop,” Matt finished for him.

“Here, no need to get personal,” Jason growled.

“Try listening, not talking, lad,” Walter’s pleasant, ruddy face broke into a grin.

Gilbert looked at Walter as if he had said something of extreme importance.

“Funny, that’s what the hermit said was the golden rule. Silence, not speaking, is the key to hearing your soul, and that’s where wisdom comes from.”

“And did you believe that codswallop, mate?” Jason waved a finger under Gilbert’s nose in a denial gesture.

“Well, I told him, I’m too busy with work and family to…”

“Excuse me butting in,” a female voice came from the next table, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. I wonder if I could join you guys. Only I’m dead interested in that hermit fellow, and you’ve actually seen him, right?”

Jason was the first to react. He was single and couldn’t resist a pretty face, and this one was glamorous, if a little heavily made-up. “Yeah, don’t see why not, lads?” The plasterer looked around the others for consent. They all smiled at the young woman and waved her over.

“I’m Alice,” she said, sending forth a wave of perfume as she pulled a stool to sit next to Jason. She gazed at Gilbert, “You went up to the woods to talk to him. What’s he like?”

Gilbert weighed up the woman, who looked to be in her twenties; there was no trace of mockery or spite in the large green eyes. Encouraged, he said: “Well, he’s not your regular guy. He wouldn’t be, would he? I’d say he’s in his late thirties, and has long, dark hair and a beard, but don’t get me wrong, he’s not an unwashed tramp. I got the impression that he cares about cleanliness. He doesn’t wear anything except a kind of cotton wrap-around for decency.”

“There you are. I told you he was barmy,” Jason commented with a smirk.

“So, according to you, Jase, all naturists are insane,” Matt said.

“Stands to reason, doesn’t it? I mean, what normal person would run around in their birthday suit when you can wear clothes. Even at the seaside, there’s no sense in casting off your trunks or bikini,” he added, leering at Alice.

“I think that’s the one lesson you can learn from the hermit, Jason,” Gilbert said quietly. “He’s an individual who doesn’t care what others think but just does what pleases him. You can call that egocentric if you like, but I get the impression that he cares about other people, and doesn’t harm anyone.”

“Did you find out where he’s from?” Walter asked.

“That’s the thing, you see, an egocentric person would have talked about nothing but himself. This fellow is so intensely private that I couldn’t even get his name out of him.”

“Of course you couldn’t. He’s probably on the run from the law, incognito and lying low.”

“He didn’t strike me as the criminal type, Jason,” Gilbert said.

“Nobody thinks he’s from around these parts,” Alice suddenly said. Her voice came across as thoughtful and curious.

Gilbert smiled at her. “He certainly isn’t. There’s a trace of an accent. It sounded West Country to me, maybe Somerset.”

“There you are,” snorted Jason. “I told you. He’s on the run from the cops.”

“Are you saying everyone from Somerset is a delinquent, Jason? I sometimes wonder what’s in that cropped head of yours,” Matt said, and Alice giggled, causing the plasterer to flush and stare into his beer.

“So, what do you do for a living, Alice?” Matt asked, a little uneasy at speaking more than usual.

“Me? Oh, nothing. I wanted to go to the university and study history or philosophy. That’s always fascinated me, but I had to help Dad with my mam. She had a terminal illness, and I messed up my A levels. I just didn’t have the time to write essays and do the reading. You can’t when you’ve got the washing, ironing, cooking, shopping and cleaning to do.”

Jason suddenly looked up, interested. “You might not have a degree, luv, but you’ll know how to run a household. There aren’t many lasses nowadays who can do that.”