Quite by accident

Sometimes I just hate myself. I can be so selfish. I mean, I could have stopped and offered to help Lester. I was pretty sure he'd recognised me as I drove past. When I'd checked by the rear-vision mirror, the look on his face could have stopped a clock. But it was raining. I'd had a busy day and by the time I turned back to stop and ask if I could help, he was putting the tools back in the car boot. It seemed he'd managed to change the wheel despite my doubts.

It would have been different if it had been his wife. I'd have stopped for Petrina. Any man would. Then I forgot about Lester and concentrated my thoughts on her. Yeah! Petrina! She has lovely dark skin. I expect that's from her gypsy background, and she has the kind of eyes that communicate little messages. Wonderful messages that have the ability to set me all a-quiver. When that happens, I allow my imagination off its leash. Then she becomes Pet, and I secretly change my name to Denky. It places us in all kinds of naughty but nice close encounters of a sensuous nature. Great, except that they fade rather quickly as we approach countdown. Thus, it deals with complications rather neatly but plays havoc with my testosterone production. Just as well Lester wasn't privy to what went on inside my head. I wasn't sure about Pet though: I'm keeping my options open for her...

I heard about the accident as I ate the warmed up remains of the bachelor meal I'd cooked for myself the day before. Poor sod, that Lester. How old was he? Early 40s? Too young anyway. Then the news of what caused the accident came out: maybe he'd still have been alive if I'd stopped to help earlier? You know, I really was miserable for the next few days. Felt as guilty as hell, but Lester was the kind of guy who knew everything and was obnoxious with it. Consequently, any attempt to explain anything to him was brushed aside, off-handedly, and was the main reason we didn't get on. A pity, as I could have told him that wheel nuts needed a double-check to ensure they were really tight. A four-wheeled car is most unsafe on three.
Still, it was nice that the sun was shining for his funeral. He'd have liked that. Petrina - Pet - handled it very well I thought. No worries about costs. Apparently he'd been well-insured, and things returned to normal after a few weeks. On the outside, that is. With Lester out of the way, Pet had taken up residency in my thoughts on a more permanent basis. Yes. Nice, and getting nicer.

Things are a bit hazy about how the imagined became the real. The thing was, though my job as a postman kept me reasonably fit, and Pet was keen on swimming. So we arranged to go together once a week to the local tepid pool. I did the crawl but she liked the breast-stroke. It was also a nice way to see more of each other. A few weeks later she asked if I'd help take some things round to her house, and while I was helping her unpack, I broke a porcelain jug. One of those old English ones in the form of a court jester. Instead of being angry or upset, she fell into peals of laughter. Brought out a bottle of the doings and two glasses, then explained how and why she'd bought the jug.

"Not many people knew that Lester and I didn't altogether get on. Nothing major, you know. Just silly little things he'd do that annoyed me. To cope, I bought that jug at a fair. Whenever I felt ready to burst, I'd pretend the jug was Lester the jester and give it what-ho! I told it all the things I wanted to tell Lester! I expect that was the gypsy in me. It did get things off my chest, and we managed well enough afterwards."
She paused while she refilled our glasses.

"Now Denky," she said, her dark eyes all glistening and suggestive as she placed her hand affectionately on my knee. "How about you and me...?"

By that time, nature was on the loose. One thing led to another and we were married six months' later.
Now, two things will insist on popping into my mind that concern me a little. Well, a lot really. How did Pet come to know that my secret bedroom name was Denky? And what is the significance of the new piece of porcelain on the sideboard? I mean, is it quite by accident that it's in the form of Postman Pat?

Dennis Crompton © 1998

Ben Nuttall was dead

Ben Nuttall was dead. The evidence was there on the headstone—born 7 April 1949, died 24 August 1997. That was all. No mention of kith or kin. No chiselled verse of Scripture and no display of even imitation flowers. Ben Nuttall, had apparently been born, lived the kind of existence that registered as nothing and then died. Can you believe that? I can’t. Everyone makes an imprint; leaves something of themselves behind. Don’t they?

It was the tune on the radio that got me thinking about him again. Tunes can do that, trigger something that’s happened in the past when you’re least expecting it. I reckon it’s because we humans live on several planes. I trip along the emotional, intellectual and physical, and several between, quite a bit; it makes life interesting, as when the tune somehow brought the name Ben Nuttall to the surface for me to ponder again. I especially like that when it does, as if the on the first time I’d not really experienced all that was possible back then.

Now there’s no way I’d consider myself an intellectual and I know I’m easily bowled over when it comes to the emotional. I can weep when an animal dies during a TV programme, even though often it’s not really dead, only acting a part. I’d told my daughters many times during their formative years that the ‘soppy stuff’ on TV was not real. I stopped doing that when they made faces and pretended to snore. Nor do I consider myself religious, though I’ve often sung in a church choir; played snooker with the vicar regularly on Friday nights, ending with pie and peas from his wife, who I believe enjoyed the time I spent at the snooker table with her hubby as it gave him a break from his normal churchy activity. Our relaxed and happy evenings ended when their daughter became ill for many weeks, the gap wearing off my churchiness as I began to rub shoulders on a broader field during my growing teenage years.

Yet some might say that I was at that evening service by divine prompting, an evening that arrived with a cold misty rain which almost changed my mind about going; but I made the effort and was pleasantly surprised to find the interior of the church warmer and more welcoming than I’d expected. I have an inbuilt aversion to welcomes from some religious folks, especially those whose smile is over-sweet or indicate their strong desire to hug. Maybe my aversion showed, as no one approached me thus as I entered and took my seat.

Before the student from a theological college gave the address I examined him closely, and a touch of prejudice made me dislike him before he even started. Amongst other things he looked too serious to my jaundiced eye, but he didn’t lack conviction. You can tell when someone’s convinced of what they are saying; you listen because they make you want to, and this student had conviction. He told us that after morning lectures some months back he and another friend had gone over to help a chap (yes, Ben Nuttall) who was struggling to get to his feet outside the college. He was drunk, his clothes were filthy and he smelt repulsive as they picked him up and took him to where he lived just around the corner. As they opened his door nothing could have prepared them for the nauseating stench that met them and forced them back in disgust…

After talking with his social worker, they learned that he’d joined a tramping club as a young man and things were going well until one member of the club became too friendly, despite his engagement to his sweetheart Susan. Ben was advised to ignore the other woman, but she persisted and placed him in compromising situations. Despite his explanations, it became more difficult for the woman to accept what was happening. The last time she’d seen Susan and Ben together she’d rushed off angry and very upset and Ben had followed her on his push-bike, and that’s when the accident happened. It was in the days before wearing bicycle helmets became compulsory. Someone opened a car door as he was passing, he fell heavily to the ground resulting in severe injuries to his head and back, which left him with amnesia robbing him of most of his memory for over two years.

He never did fully recover, the social worker explained, and on the advice of the medical people who cared for him, they got rid of the pullover he was wearing at the time, and his bicycle, which triggered the worst of his relapses. But he couldn’t forget Susan. He became a vagrant wandering from place to place…and at that point, the young preacher then launched into the religious part of his sermon, while my thoughts took off down a side track.

I’ll say this about the student’s address; I’ve never forgotten his description of Ben’s room, nor the sadness registered on his face as he said, ‘Ben belonged to a family; was somebody’s son, brother, friend and was engaged to his lover, Susan.’ And whenever I hear that tune that was on the radio it triggers my memory of the sad story of Ben Nuttall, and I imagine how I’d feel if Ben had belonged in my family.

Dennis Crompton © 1998
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)