Open Writing

You wouldn’t normally expect a man of sixty-plus to be walking barefoot in the supermarket: even hippies wear sandals. There was a gentle tap on my shoulder, and I turned to see an old friend, someone I had known for about thirty years.

“Hello,” I said. And he stepped back so that I could see his bare feet.

“How are you?” came out next, with the emphasis on you; and then, because I couldn’t stop myself, “What’s happened to your shoes?”, with the emphasis on shoes.

He said he’d been swimming in the river, and when I asked which one, I still couldn’t believe the truth of it. I don’t suppose it mattered. I had played right into his hands, as of old, and he had my complete attention, tempered with disbelief.

One day some thirty years before, when the children were small, this young, attractive and well-shod man had come to my door one breakfast time, selling household cleaning products for a well-known firm. Even then, he had a knack of demanding attention. My problem is, I listen. He sometimes came with an egg in hand, and asked if he could join us for breakfast.

“Of course,” I would say. Once he had his feet under the table it was hard to unseat him and in the end, I had to be brusque. It wasn’t long before he disappeared, but months later he came back to tell us he had joined a circus and been employed as a clown! I wondered how the transformation had come about: Kleeneze man to clown in ten easy lessons !”

Then he became a small-tool salesman, and that lasted quite a while as he toured the countryside in his van, all fitted out with carefully stacked shelves. Nothing was permanent. From time to time our paths would cross and we would say a warm “hello”.

At some point I met his mother and sisters, but then one day he disappeared into the ‘Waste Land’ of a marriage. I couldn’t imagine how long he would stay in that far country.

Quite early on, I had a glimpse of what must have contributed to his unsettled way of life. As a toddler he had been badly scalded on the throat, and the terrible scarring had so affected his mother that from then on she had made him her virtual prisoner. His three sisters had joined the retinue of carers for the little boy, and the affluence of the family had meant that private tutoring was not a problem.

There was to be no exposure to the rough and tumble of school, and no-one must see his scars, or ask for an explanation. He had a wonderful assortment of cravats as camouflage: he wore them with panache but the real scars, of course, were deep within his psyche. He simple didn’t know what to do, or how to do it.

Many years passed and I heard of him from friends and acquaintances from time to time. There was always something sad or bizarre to hear, but the worst and yet most inevitable was the parting from his wife and three young sons. There is no contact now, and he is still riven by the experience.

A few months ago he appeared late at night on my doorstep, demanding attention, as is his wont, not by ringing my perfectly good doorbell, but by tapping on the door like a woodpecker, and then springing down the steps to stand in the middle of the road. Of course as I approached my door, there appeared to be nobody behind the glass, and only when I had opened up and stepped outside would he reveal himself, grinning with delight. “I’ve done it, I’ve done it again !” I could imagine him saying to himself. “I’ve got her attention.”

A spontaneous exclamation of welcome can be a bit forced. I know when I invite him in that his moment of departure will be up to me. Time has little meaning for a man who doesn’t know whether he is coming or going. He does have a home, a base, somewhere to sleep, but life is becoming very lonely now. The flicker of firelight in other people’s houses is such a poignant reminder of the past.

Last night, late and silent, I was writing this chronicle about my friend when once again, the woodpecker came tapping. As I walked towards the door. I laughed out loud at the impeccable timing. How could I be surprised? I was still smiling as I opened wide the door. What this time, I thought? It was cold, frosty, a true winter’s night; would he be shoeless? Surely not. No. This time it was a bottle of cheap brandy, held high above his head, and straight off, an offer to share it. (He knows I don’t drink the stuff.)

Within seconds, however, the kettle was on, tea was made and ginger biscuits were on the table. The bottle of brandy stood untouched until, at last, I said that it was time to go. I have to be firm: he stood at the open door to my sitting room, where lamps were still lit and the fire was glowing, and there was such desolation about him.

They say it’s going to be a cold winter this year. He may not come this way again, or he could be back tomorrow. Who knows?