Authors: Josephine Falla
Two doors down, a neighbour, Maisie Watson, looking out of her back bedroom window, saw what she thought was a dirty old drunk, covered in cobwebs and complete with two beer bottles, lying, presumably drunk and insensible, in the middle of Mrs. Brenner’s lawn. She didn’t see the lawnmower as it was shielded from her vision by the hedges in between. She knew Mrs. Brenner was in hospital. Naturally she did what every law-abiding citizen should do in such circumstances. She phoned the police.
It took the rest of the day to sort it all out. A Panda car with two constables, rather young and very keen, arrived outside Mrs. Brenner’s and they had almost taken the decision to break down the door, fearing for her safety, before the neighbour who had phoned spotted them (she was a keen member of Neighbourhood Watch) and guided them to the alleyway at the back. Here they had a prolonged interview with William, whom they initially suspected of stealing the lawnmower and other articles from Mrs. Brenner. They took him down to the police station, in the Panda car, where the station sergeant was unfortunately out, attending a course on Good Police Relations with the General Public, and a great argument broke out.
William said it was his lawnmower but the police thought this was unlikely, as he didn’t have a lawn. They accused him of breaking and entering into his neighbour’s property, but he explained he was driven by altruistic motives of wanting to do some garden maintenance next door. This struck them as also very unlikely. They then accused him of being drunk in charge of a vehicle. He said it wasn’t petrol driven so it wasn’t a vehicle and he wasn’t drunk anyway. They then breathalysed him, which proved he had been drinking but not that he was especially drunk.
One of the men recognised him as having caused some disturbance in the big supermarket a few months ago. William, who was by now consumed with rage, made matters worse by shouting and swearing, somewhat incomprehensibly, about God, emails, artichokes, mobility scooters, white van drivers and especially the police. Things began to look bad and William demanded to see his solicitor. They asked who his solicitor was and of course he did not have the least idea. They sent for the duty solicitor, who happened to be in the station at the time, who attended, rather less than enthusiastic at being involved with the misbehaviour of an elderly drunk.
By this time the station had had enough of William. The older, more experienced station sergeant had come back from his course, the younger, very keen policemen who had brought William in had been cut down to size and Mrs. Watson, the neighbour who had reported him, had turned up and now recognised him as the man who lived next door to Mrs. Brenner. She had phoned the Social Services, knowing that William had regular visits from them, and now Denis and Robert had also arrived. All William’s anger was still going strong. He was blazing away at everybody, especially at the neighbour who had called the police, and announced his intention of suing everybody who was intent on making his life a misery, including the Social Services, who had not provided him with a bus pass.
Eventually he was released and Denis and Robert took him home in Denis’ car. They told the police they would see to the mess in Mrs. Brenner’s garden and look after William. They sympathised with him, expressed their astonishment at his efforts with Mrs. Brenner’s garden and his foray into the old shed. They made him a cup of tea and fixed up a light meal and were altogether of much more use than they usually were. They fed Ginger. Mrs. Watson came round to apologise to William, with a friend from No. 63, Mrs. Jenkins, who was very curious about the whole incident, and they also had a cup of tea. William began to feel that he was supported by a small circle of friends, a very unusual feeling for him. There is of course nothing like being unfairly treated by the police to ensure that one has a respected standing in the community.
Denis and Robert retrieved the lawnmower and gardening objects from Mrs. Brenner’s and put them back in William’s shed, which they tried to make waterproof. There only remained the problem of how to fasten the back door to the alleyway from Mrs Brenner’s garden. Eventually, Robert was prevailed upon to enter by the same means that William had, although returning by that route was very much more difficult. As he was scruffy to start with the damage to his appearance was less bothersome than it would have been had Denis undertaken the task. Mrs. Brenner’s lawn had undoubtedly taken a beating and was left in a troubled and trampled state. Her hedge had also been somewhat damaged. The Social Service men were comforting. “It will repair itself, you’ll see,” they said.
William raised the issue of the bus pass. Apparently they had actually provided him with one, some time ago. It was likely that William had torn it up in a temper or otherwise lost it, unfortunately. They agreed to get him a new one.
When William arrived at the pub that evening he was amazed to discover that the events of the day were now common knowledge and had become somewhat embroidered and glorified in the telling. He had changed from being Community Nuisance to Local Hero, with a tendency to take a little drink now and then but with a Heart of Gold, a man who looked after his neighbour’s cat while its owner was in hospital and even tried to look after her garden, a man who had been persecuted and fitted up by the Old Bill and nearly put in prison for being a decent neighbour. Numerous people offered to buy him a drink and a lady with a large shopping bag gave him a tin of cat food for Ginger. It was all very gratifying and he thoroughly enjoyed himself.
That night he slept well.
Next day dawned bright and sunny again. He had a little bit of a hangover and it took him some time to work out why, as he had usually had a few drinks the night before and rarely felt any ill effects. Ah yes – the pub! The atmosphere, the congratulations, the handshakes! He remembered it all distinctly, though he couldn’t quite fix on why that was. Something to do with the police, he thought. Gradually it all came back. The gardening episode at Mrs. Brenner’s, the police and their absurd accusations, the uproar in the police station, the lawyer, the neighbour, the Social Services chaps, the ride home, the vindication of his total innocence, the resultant congratulations – he savoured the memories at the same time as he decided, despite the hangover, to cook a proper breakfast. “Come on, Ginger,” he said to a still sleeping cat, “up you get. We’ve got a lot to do.”
He looked round the room. “Why haven’t I got a dressing gown?” he inquired of nobody in particular. “I shall buy one today,” he announced. He and Ginger descended the stairs carefully and he then began to search the kitchen for anything that might make up a decent breakfast. He found some bacon, eggs, sausages, bread, cornflakes, tea and some pork pie which looked as though it needed eating up. He fed Ginger first with a tin of cat food he found lying on the table (he had no idea where it had come from) and followed it up with some milk. Then, with some gusto, he began to cook himself the best breakfast he had had in months.
Afterwards, he had a good shower and took care with his shaving and dressing. At that point he suddenly thought of his computer. Surely he should fill God in with all that had happened? Well, of course, He would already know, being God and a super know-all, but all the same he felt he should at least tell Him what had happened when he had tried to Do More, as He had advised him. It hadn’t gone how he’d planned, but nevertheless it had all turned out alright, as it happened. So he sat down at his computer and called up his emails.
Dear God
I did try to Do More, like you suggested, but Mrs. Brenner’s garden proved to be a bit difficult, due to that Mrs. Watson making a big mistake and the police being quite disgraceful. I would report them, only I don’t know who to report them to. Do you think the Home Secretary is the right person to deal with it?
I am beginning to feel much more myself now, thank you very much for your help, although I can’t remember anything about why I’m living here, or where I used to live before. Do you think it matters? I would go and visit Mrs. Brenner again only I haven’t got the scooter thing and I haven’t got a bus pass yet so don’t go on about her needing TLC because the journey is impossible with Ginger. I think the garden is probably a bit beyond me.
Have you got any more good suggestions?
I am paying all my debts to the Credit Card Company.
Yours sincerely
William Penfold
Administrative Manager
He studied this for some time before deciding it was suitable. Eventually he pressed Send and set off for the shops, taking the large envelope addressed to the credit card company with him, which he had found inexplicably lying behind the toaster, with the Social people’s instructions, when he was looking for his pills.
His visit to the post office provoked a bit of a scene as he was unaware that large envelopes now cost more, according to size, than small ones, and his protests at the injustice of it met with no response. But as he was unlikely to be sending any more large envelopes he eventually ceased shouting about it. He paid up and continued on his way to the mini-market. There he stocked up with various basics, some impulse buys and as much beer and lager as he could carry. Fortunately there were no artichokes. He tried to remember where the dressing gown shop was but his mental map of the streets became fuzzy so he gave up and went home. He bought himself a newspaper to bone up on the Prime Minister, as he put it to himself.
Once home, he poured himself a lager, fed the cat and they both settled down on the sofa to consider matters. He felt a little different, he thought. More in control – that was it. More solid. Less – what was the word? Less excitable. Less likely to launch into one of his furious tirades. Certainly the world was quite mad, these days, not like the days when, but there was nothing he could do about it. You couldn’t put it all right, could you? Perhaps it was actually something to do with the days when. Perhaps the Social people were right. Perhaps it would be better for him to remember things as they were in the days when, then he would know, somehow, when it was alright for him to lose his temper in these new days that he didn’t understand and when it was not a good thing to do. Thinking about this was complicated and he began to feel a bit tired. At the back of it all was another question. Where did God come into it? What about the emails?
His train of thought was interrupted by a ring on the doorbell. It was Mrs. Watson! The one who had reported him to the police but who had then come round to apologise yesterday. Still feeling guilty and thinking that she had lost some standing in the eyes of her neighbours, she obviously wanted to make amends. Her method of making amends consisted of bringing round an apple pie and a small pot of cream. William was enormously impressed. No-one, as far as he knew, had ever given him an apple pie before. Life was certainly looking up. He didn’t quite know what to do, what the etiquette was when receiving an apple pie from a hitherto largely unknown neighbour, but in the end he invited her in for a cup of coffee.
Mrs. Watson settled down on William’s sofa, stroked Ginger and started to chat. “Your name’s William, isn’t it? Mine’s Maisie. You live on your own, William?”
“Yes.”
“You ever been married?”
No question she might have asked could be more awkward than that one. Had he been married? He had no idea. What on earth could he say? It was embarrassing. Desperately he looked at the ceiling but the answer was not written up there. In the end he said, in a rather strangled voice, “I don’t like to talk about it.”
But in Maisie Watson’s ears no answer could have been more satisfying. It was now obvious that William was a Mystery Man, with a Romantic Past. That was why he was drinking and being miserable. He had been Hurt Badly by some unspecified woman. As William had said he didn’t like to talk about it Maisie Watson was left with the enjoyable business of filling in the unknown parts of his life and her imagination was richly satisfying. She couldn’t wait to call on Freda Jenkins to impart her ‘ideas’ which, in her eyes, had become ‘news’.
Before she left, she invited William to attend the line dancing class at the Community Institute, next door to the library, which she said would bring him out of himself and do him a world of good. William doubted this very much as he had no idea what line dancing was and as far as dancing was concerned, he knew very well somehow that he couldn’t do the foxtrot and it would be wise not to try. However, Maisie left him a booklet about the classes, which she ‘just happened to have in her handbag’, and went on her way, well pleased with the morning’s efforts. William obviously needed someone to look after him and tidy him up a little. TLC – that was all. Then he would be alright. End of, as her grandson would say. She had only got to work out which one of her circle of female friends would be the one to work the miracle.
After Maisie had gone William continued his searching thoughts, which required a drink to see him through. Why had Maisie’s question thrown him? He’d given the best answer he could, in the circumstances, nevertheless, the whole subject bothered him. Had he been married? What were his relationships with women like? Could he remember having sex? Did he find women irritating? Or interesting? Normally, when faced with puzzling thoughts, he would shrug it all off. If he couldn’t solve it, well, forget it. Not worth getting himself into a stew about it. But, just for a moment, he wondered. He supposed the Social people knew his history. They often asked him about the past, invited him to talk about it, He always brushed them off, refused the invitation. Yet they must know something of his history. How much did they know and would they tell him if he asked?
Eventually, after going round in circles for several minutes, he said, “Bloody great mystery, Ginger. I think I’m best off without all that ‘once upon a time’ stuff, don’t you? What’s it matter what happened in the days when? Who cares? I’m doing alright at the moment. Got money in my pocket, got money in the bank. Got somewhere to live and people who bring me apple pies. Even got God on my side. Can’t be bad.”