by Mark Winson
a cup of unstirred tea that only presents the sugar to the tongue with the last mouthful
It was
a strange day. There was a grating silence hanging in the air. There were few
birds singing, few conversations of passers-by that I could gate crash and less
than the usual stampede of traffic rumbling down the high street. Most notable
was the stillness that settled over the school playground, a clamour I
ordinarily enjoyed, the chatter and giggling of children are to me, so
representative of the continuation of life. The sunshine, the glorious sunshine
that had dominated so much of that summer, was also absent, as if God had
flicked a simple switch. My face felt abandoned, condemned to defending itself
from the sharp wind that brought about the change in the weather. Perhaps there
had been something more, on that noteworthy day, that I should have been aware
of.
Needs must,
however. I had drained the
house of milk, blitzed out the bread bin and was suffering an oral with-drawl
after eating too many dry crackers. Dry, I say dry, but they had turned, were
slightly damp, so I had to venture out. It would at least break the silence,
not that my silence inconvenienced anyone, living alone on my meagre income was
hardly going to open sunflowers. I had learned to cope however, made mistakes
along the way, as we all do, but there was a subtle difference between wanting
to and having to. The doctor had told me that!
So, I donned my
overcoat. I feel the cold much more these days and wear it more than often.
I’ve taken to sitting in it, to listen to “The Archers”, rather than putting
the heating on. Then, I took up my not so macho shopping bag, which was the
wife’s, bless her, and fully equipped I left. I tried to walk with a defiant
step, something I’d learned that relieved my trepidation and hesitation.
Shoppers with swinging bags and drag along children are normally the only waves
that fail to part in front of me, but I was far more confused when there were
none. An ever-doubting mind you see, a propensity for reflecting on the downside
of my existence, and a tendency to ask myself taxing questions all the time. I
did on that day. Was it that people were avoiding me? Maybe the case had I not
washed for a week, but I’m always fastidious with my personal hygiene and
always indulge in a drift of aftershave.
I did well to dodge the abrupt parking
bollards and spewing litter bins, which were more than testing, but getting
across the road was like negotiating my life away. Screaming cars, articulated
lorries, silent but deadly push bikes are bad enough, but I also had to contend
with the state of the road surface. What do they do all day long, in those
bleeding council offices? Most likely they are engrossed in that Facebook thing,
playing games and talking to fellow anoraks. They even twitter, according to my
nephew, as if they’re all birding freaks or something. I ride over the ruts in smooth
roads when out of town, but I’m at far more risk of falling down those cut into
an urban street. It’s then I wobble like jelly, scrabbling to right myself just
in time to avoid yet another skidding car with all the tread of a fried egg in
a well-greased pan.
I
walked past the arcade, listening to the pinging
pinball machines and jingling of coins falling over the waterfalls, past the
last remaining record shop, one that persists in playing music that you’re
supposed to listen to in your garage! I stopped just outside Mothercare,
somewhere I think all babies dislike judging by the bawling coming from inside
and turned to stand at the curbs edge. Hesitating, assessing the odds in
crossing the street, I suddenly felt a splash from God’s watering can. I cursed
him under my breath. I have my doubts about religion and would like to know
just how God can be held so reverently, what with all the bad in the world. There
was twice the urgency if I wanted to stay dry. So, prompted by my chiding mind
if nothing else, I quickly stepped out into the oceanic expanse of tarmac,
leaving behind the security of its coastline, with no more focus than getting
across the channel.
It was then that it happened. I’d been so preoccupied; I’d paid little heed to the rumbling
overhead and failed to realise or recognise what was coming. I always listen to
the news of a morning but have an unerring habit to switch the radio off before
the weather report.
You don’t hear lightening, you have little
warning that it’s coming, only a heavenly notification that it’s been and gone
as the furniture overhead is dragged across the sky. Then wallop! This bolt
from what must have been a power-station in the clouds hit me, pummelling me
into what became scorched tarmac! It rifled up through my body, from the ground
beneath my feet until the hair on the back of my neck stood like that of a
cat’s angry back. I felt myself go rigid, statuesque and hard; any chill of the
day being blown away in a millisecond. There was a distinct smell of dry
burning and a crackling closing over the vacuum left in the air as all the
oxygen was consumed. Probably being the only reason why I hadn’t burst into
flames. I could feel the blood in my veins beginning to boil, taste a hit of
what seemed to be barbecue sauce, infused into my tongue. I yelled, believe me
you would! I don’t think I swore, least not as this generation seem to, but
something leapt from my screaming mouth all the same. Then all was dark, all
was silent.
I don’t remember much more at that point, I had
no inkling of how long I been away with the fairies, it was just, well, black.
They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes, not that it did in my
case, but neither did it occur to me that I’d been deprived of a promised
liaison with St Peter, and had never stood before the gold wrought iron of
heaven’s gates. I could have lost days, I could have lost weeks, things might
well have accelerated to the point of me missing several episodes of the “Archers”.
Finally, after
what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The shock was more than
palpable, as stood in front of me was Jesus Christ, nestling on a fluffy white
cloud formation, in a long blue robe that rolled comfortably over his relaxed
arms, folded to allow his hands to come together in prayer. A legion of angels
had glided over him, with the faces of innocent babies and the wings of mighty
eagles outstretched illustriously. Dainty birds with gloriously coloured coats,
either heaven bound or in ghostly flight, swooped and played across the orange
of the sky as they were welcomed by him. His smile was gentle, a forgiving
smile to those that needed forgiving, and that could well have included me.
The vista in front of me was inspiring, inspiriting and yet in
its own way, reassuring. It certainly wasn’t what I expected, believe you me. At first, I was shocked, so
shocked in witnessing what I was seeing that I felt sure it had to be a
miracle. Had God put aside my perfidiousness, my dishonesty, that time I
pinched a new band saw from work, that time I jabbed Richard Smith in the eye,
I could go on. If asked I would never have admitted that I was unworthy, but
then he is supposed to forgive you, isn’t he?
“I don’t believe
it,” I said, “after all these years, after all this time,” I said. “I’m so
sorry!” Frankly, it was surprising that this last-ditch confession was accepted
and that the trapdoor to oblivion remained shut.
I was just about
to kneel in front of Jesus and ask him for further directions, when suddenly, a
panicked voice broke the serenity of the moment.
“He’s awake
Vicar! He’s alive Vicar! but I think he thinks he’s dead, that he’s gone to
heaven, he’s in a daze. You have to do something!” I could hear this lady’s
stampeding voice rattling round my head as I felt my stupor lighten and my feet
finally touch down again. She sounded in some respects like the wife, always
having her say, forcing her opinion, bless her, and then handing responsibility
over to someone else. We survived as long as we did because I had the foresight
to listen and then disregard much of what she said.
“Oh my, oh my
Lord, how did he survive a strike like that? Just look at the state of him!”
said a man more from somewhere behind my head, whose hands were holding it
steady. “It knocked the power out to the church and half of the town’s shops!”
I was lying on my back you see, but then I’d hardly be standing upright if what
he was saying was true. In actual fact, I was lying exactly where a
compassionate band of church goers had laid me, after rescuing my burnt corpse
from the middle of the charred road. How lucky that they were meeting on such a
day, how lucky was I? They stood hopeful, crossing themselves over and over
repeatedly, beseeching God not to take me before time, until eventually,
thankfully, I opened my eyes and managed to focus. I felt at first, as if I was
in a hospital bed, with seven shades of junior Doctors angling over me, putting
forward observations and coming to a bizarre diagnosis.
“We should never
have brought him into the church, never have put him just here!” the Vicar said,
chastising himself and looking up at the beautifully painted church ceiling.
“He thinks he’s looking into heaven, thinks he’s meeting Jesus, you’re right,
he thinks he must have passed away!” I don’t know whether it was the shock of
the ceiling that I was looking at, or the crucifix hanging from the vicar’s
neck!
It was
then that I felt my mouth crack with an allowance for a broadening smile, or
more likely a look of wonderment that had spread across my face, those looking
down at me exhibiting much the same reaction. I was alive, I was more than
alive, I was, well, repaired. I was no longer looking at Jesus and his cloud
hopping minions, I’d
focused on the vicar.
“No, you don’t
understand,” I said. He wasn’t listening of course, not many people do when
looking at someone of my age, they think that just because my bodies failing,
my mind is too. His intentions were commendable all the same, Godly, saintly or
whatever a man of the cloth strives to be.
“Lie still my
son,” he said, “you’ve had a great shock!” Well, state the bleeding obvious he
did, which didn’t help. “The ambulance is on its way, don’t worry!” I looked
directly into his eyes, the miraculous fresco above me didn’t matter anymore. I
took hold of his arm, quickly, before he began preparing himself to give me the
last rights.
“A shock it is Vicar,” I said, “but not the
shock you thought I’d had. You see, before I tried to cross the road and before
I felt the heat burning up through my body… truth is…” I remember rubbing my
eyes with the back of my hands at this point, as tears began to spill into
tributaries running over my cheekbones. I smiled again, ready to make my
announcement to the whole world and in the sight of God. “Truth is… I was
totally blind!”
No comments:
Post a Comment