5 - Mystery Words

For my birthday, yesterday, Anna had bought me (among other goodies) a beautiful writing book. I opened it and started writing. This is what my pen said:

We are the ones we have been waiting for. We have heard this many, many times and the words landed and slid right off our minds. Why? Because we did not want to know the Truth of us, the Truth of who we are, the Truth we denied for another truth, a little truth, that has lessened us.

We are now too weary to go on; tired, dusty and thirsty. Our little truth, our little journey, has lost all its appeal and, though we wish it over, we continue dragging our feet in the direction of our defeat.

"Enough! Enough!" we cry as we continue to walk from the light, seeing only shadows before us. Why does it never occur to us to stop, to sit a while, to ease the pain of trudging the waterless wastes? We know we feel more alone. We know we are in more pain. We know we are feeling more lost. Each step takes us further from where we want to be and yet it never occurs to us to stop, turn around and go the other way. Why?

Maybe we think we're bad people, that we deserve all this misery, all this uncertainty, all these tears. Maybe somebody told us that we were born bad and that we'll stay bad forever … and that the destiny of bad people is to live with the chains of grief, trapped between depression and rage with scorpions at our feet and vultures at our eyes. Maybe somebody told us this was our destiny, slaves to the badness given us by our bad mothers in the womb, by our bad fathers at conception. Maybe these people, whoever they were - good or bad - told us that that this badness is at the core of us and will never change.

Perhaps you see that your hair grows and then falls out. Perhaps you see your fingers grow strong and then wrinkly. Perhaps you experience your mind learning more, changing opinions and letting things go. You see and experience every part of you changing, improving and adapting … every part of you but the badness with which you're born. That one thing you're stuck with is bad, bad, bad and can never be any other way while the rest of you changes easily. Perhaps you paint your lips, dye your hair, exercise your muscles or learn new things. You change so many parts of your body and your mind, by your deliberate efforts, and yet this one part, this bad part, is the only part you think you cannot change.

Perhaps other people told you this. Perhaps you told you this.

It doesn't matter where your belief in the unchangeability of your badness comes - you believe it and so you now berate yourself for it, you whip yourself for it and drip acid into the wounds, perhaps feeling this is the way to feed, to assuage, that starving badness of which you're made.

The news of the day, ladies and gentlemen, is that you're not bad - you're mad.

I'm not sure what all this means - perhaps you do. Anyway, onto the fifth episode of Arthur Bayly's story …

“Uh, yes, I think so,” said Arthur, again. He put his glasses on and the wider world came into view again. He looked around a little giddily and saw that the previously-prone man had been handcuffed, rolled over and eased into a sitting position, like him.

“You weazley little bastard!” said the handcuffed man, less than an arm’s length away. Arthur’s panic returned and he tried to leap up, failing miserably as he wobbled and fell like a newborn foal.

“That’s enough of that!” yelled the previously-kind voice, now in authoritative tone. “Hold him right there, Constable, till we get these people safely away.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” answered the constable who pushed rather vigorously down on the wretched man’s shoulders, pinning him back to the ground while the other two police stood menacingly by.

“Now, Sir, let’s see if you’re OK to stand,” said the sergeant. “Take it easy, Sir. You’re a hero but a very shaky one!” he said, attempting to inject humour in the situation.

Arthur managed a weak smile but little else.

“Are you OK to stand, Sir?” asked the sergeant.

“Uh, yes, I think so,” said Arthur, sounding like a stuck record. The sergeant’s comforting arms were around his shoulders, easing him up. He stood, still in the security of those uniformed arms and realised the mother and girl were still on the park bench, both rigid.

“Come over and sit down here,” said the sergeant, easing him back to his former seat. As he plumped down, a little giddiness returned and he nearly fell forward and off. “Oops, just sit back a little, Sir,” said the sergeant.

“Uh, yes, I think so,” said Arthur, yet again.

The sergeant moved over to the mother and girl, where the female constable was tending them. “Now, how are you two, yea?”

“Alright, I think,” said the mother, cuddling her daughter while wiping ice cream from her face.

“Right, just stay here for a minute, please, while we take this man away to be processed.” He said, indicating the cuff linked man who was being bodily lifted up and marched off, with a definite limp.

“You’ve got quite a hero here, haven’t you?” said the sergeant, looking over at Arthur. “Saved you from a trampling and then tackles a thief – one of them, anyway.” It took Arthur a moment to realise he was the subject of this praise.

He looked over at the young woman and her child. They both looked like dolls – stunned dolls – with blonde hair, pale skin and pale blue eyes. A young police woman was crouched in front of them, getting details and reassuring them they were safe now.

The woman looked over at Arthur and smiled a grateful smile. Embarrassment caught at his throat and he had no words but nodded and smiled back. He felt he should offer support or something but his body was in no mood for action. He looked away and wondered what a normal man would do.

“Now, if you’re feeling better, we’d like you to come to the station,” said the sergeant.

“Pardon?” said Arthur, not quite comprehending the request.

“Just to get a statement from you,” said the sergeant, “if you’re OK to come with us now ...”

“Look, I’m very sorry, Sir, but I’ve had rather a bad day,” pleaded Arthur. “Could I do this another day. It’s all been a bit much, really.”

“I understand, Sir, this incident has shaken you badly,” said the sergeant, “but we do need to know what happened …”

“This incident, I’m afraid, was nothing at all,” said Arthur, trying to explain. “It was this morning that was unsettling, quite unsettling.”

“Excuse me, Sir, perhaps you’d like me to look after this man while you take these ladies to the station and see to the prisoner,” came a female voice behind the sergeant.

“Oh, well, if you’re sure, I’d be much obliged, constable,” said the sergeant leading the woman and her little girl away. The constable sat down next to him.

“I hope you don’t think I’m intruding,” she said, “but you said you had had a bad morning. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Ah, um, yes, I suppose I could, thank you,” said Arthur, wondering where to begin and why she might be interested.

“I’m Constable Cousins – Amanda Cousins,” she said. “Call me Amanda if you like.”

“Ah, yes, Amanda. Hmm, I’m Arthur Bayly – that little detail I do know!” said Arthur attempting a small joke.

“Well, you haven’t lost your sense of humour yet. That’s a good start,” said the constable, smiling at him. “And your morning was pretty bad, was it?”

“Yes it was, my dear … Amanda,” said Arthur. “I’ve been working for the firm for twenty six years – all my life – and, today, I’ve been made redundant.”

“Oh!” said Amanda.

“Yes, oh is about all I can think of at the moment,” said Arthur, smiling sheepishly.

“And you’ve got a good employment lawyer?” said Amanda.

“Oh dear, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Arthur. “Now I feel a little worse, if that’s possible!”

“Ok,” said Amanda, becoming more animated, “I’m not a lawyer or anything but I’d suggest you need some good employment law advice … soon!”

“Yes, gosh, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Arthur, feeling a small sense of progress, of despair evaporating a little.

“And, secondly, I may be able to help in another way,” said Amanda. “I was made redundant, three years ago, quite suddenly. Would you like to hear a little of my story – it might help.”

“Why, yes, Amanda, if you have the time,” said Arthur. “I’m sure you’re very busy.”

“Arthur, I am very busy but, you know what? This is one of my favourite jobs, helping people through what I’ve been through. It’s not really police work but I’d like to help in any way I can,” said Amanda.

“Looks like my lucky day!” said Arthur, forcing a smile as the heaviness in his stomach lifted a little, “after my unlucky day!”

“Right,” said Amanda, “I get off work at one o’clock, in ten minutes. How about I go back to the station, sign out and come back and we can go and have a coffee together?”

“Gosh, that’s the second invitation I’ve had from a nice young lady today,” said Arthur, feeling his humour returning a little. “That sounds like a lovely idea, thanks.”

“I’ll bring my paperwork back and tell the sarge I’m taking your statement. That’ll save you having to come in,” she said, getting up. “I’ll only be a mo’.”

And so Arthur sat and quietly waited. He could have felt uneasy being still there, considering what had just happened, but he just couldn’t be bothered feeling much at all. Besides, he told himself logically, it’s unlikely another scuffle would happen at the same spot in a matter of ten minutes. At that moment, the sun came out from behind a huge cloudbank, as if to confirm that all was well with the world and he smiled. He wondered what people might think he looked like – a suited, middle-aged man sitting on a park bench by himself, smiling at nothing in particular. It occurred to him that he’d never sat in his own town, on a park bench by himself but he comforted himself with the thought that lots of other people probably did it anyway. And those who did were probably jealous that he was able to find the time to sit and enjoy the sunshine – on any other working day, he’d be ensconced in his little glass cage, creating busyness and boredom. And, of course, that little thought led him to be wondering what in the world would he find un-boring. What would he really love to do that would stir his passions and raise his spirits. Sadly, he had trouble thinking of anything logical – all his mind could come up with was writing a book and climbing Ayers Rock. He hadn’t thought of ever doing those things before and he wondered where those thoughts came from. However, he wasn’t likely to be doing either in the next year or two and so he tried to think of other interesting things to do – things he had never done before. Nothing presented itself and he began to wonder if his wife was right in labelling him a man without passion and ambition. He also began to wonder why, for the first time ever, he was wondering what he could do that would stir his blood and give him excitement. He just hadn’t thought about such things before and he wondered if he was creeping or rushing into dementia.

Then he remembered a quote he’d read from Somerset Maugham: “They told me that when I got old I’d lose my mind. What they didn’t tell me was that I wouldn’t miss it much!” He sat with these random thoughts rushing round his head, accompanied by the overriding question of whether any of really mattered in the end, anyway. Somehow, the time slipped by without his noticing it.