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.

4 - Birthday Connection With Holy Self

Today’s my birthday and perhaps I should be pondering what, to date, I’ve done in my life, what I haven’t and what to do with the rest of it … you know, all those deep and searching questions one asks when another year slips by. Strangely, I’m not thinking about myself at all.

I’m actually thinking of my son, Cain, who has his birthday in five days’ time. I’m in England and he’s in Australia and I miss him. I really miss him. I’m not bothered with what he’s done or hasn’t done or is going to do or is not going to do – I’m just thinking about who he is and that I miss his effervescent and peaceful charm, his intelligence and his humanity. All this (and more) I miss of him and I don’t know how to unmiss him – the yearning is still there, while I’m not physically able to be there with him. He won’t get to read this – he’s not too keen on computers – so this is not going to embarrass him. That, I would never do. All I can do, I suspect, is send my gratitude for him being in my life, over the emails and phone calls, and hope my attempts at connection assuage some of my deep desire to be with him. I love you Cain.

Every one of us is looking for connection and, as Jesus (my hero) says, it’s all a front, if you like, for the ONE BIG yearning to reconnect with God. We connect, he says, with each other in order to reach through to God. If we can see the God in each other, we can see both God and we can see who we really are. If I see beauty in you, I see my own beauty … and vice versa.

So why do we all try to find the worst in each other? We aren’t going to find God there – he’s in the other direction! God is only in the direction of peace, grace and gratitude … for each other. And so, as Jesus says, every encounter with another human is an encounter with my Holy Self … not quite sure how I got onto this subject and it’s funny where the mind goes when it’s let loose!

So, Philip, happy birthday and to Cain, my Holy self, happy birthday in five days’ time!

And so here is the fourth episode in the life of Arthur Bayly and if you can think of a good name for this book, please let me know. Happy reading!

"Look Sir, you seem shaken," she said, standing back and looking in his eyes. "Do you want to go over there and have a coffee?"

"Actually, I've just had one, thanks," he said, disappointed the hug was over, despite it feeling uneasy in a busy street.

"Well, I meant, do you want to talk about it?" she asked. He could feel her warm breath on his face and realised she was still holding his limp arms.

"That's very kind, Halee, very kind indeed," he said, feeling the tears welling up in his eyes and an odd sense of closeness with someone he had never met before, someone from the other side of the world, someone who actually seemed to care. "However, I really should go," he said, feeling conflicted between the warm feeling of a caring human and the awkwardness of hugging and talking to a young lady.

"OK Arthur, if you're sure, I won't intrude," she said, looking at him with concern. "But you know where I live, so to speak, so you just tell me if you want to bend my taringas."

"Your what?"

"My taringa, ears - if you want to talk. It's a great medicine," she said, letting his arms go. "And remember, this too shall pass." She turned and walked off, her bright red top and iridescent blue skirt contrasting sharply with the black of the herd she disappeared into. He stood there, trying to remember where he had been going. He turned about and headed for the underground station with a warm glow and a melancholy heart inside. Then, as he turned right into the all-too-familiar station, the customary dread returned, the tears stopped, his jaw tightened and his eyes became those of everyone else here - looking through and not at anything in particular. Down the steps, along the tiled corridor and down another wide flight of stairs and he was amazed - without showing it - at how few people were waiting on the platform; only about fifty or so. And so, in automaton mode he took his regular course back - four tube stops, get out, along the corridor, up more steps, through the turnstiles, above ground now, across the piazza of the crowded train station, through the turn stiles and into the train that took him home, only minutes after he found a seat. In fact, he saw many empty seats and realised it was probably the first time he had ever sat in the train at midday - just so different without the rush-hour crowds.

At the second stop, twenty minutes later at East Croydon, he alighted, walked up the wide concrete ramp, through the turnstiles and out into the air again. His first impulse was to turn left along Addiscombe Road, towards home, when he realised he needed some time to prepare himself before meeting his wife with the news. He turned right, instead, crossed the dual carriageway with tramlines embedded and pedestrian island between, turned left over George Street and headed for the park he knew was there as he had seen it many times in passing on his way to the library, of many a weekend.

He walked down the steps to the sunken garden. As he sat on the park bench he noticed there were three other people in the park - an older chap reading his newspaper with his dog beside him and a young woman eating an ice cream with her little girl. His bench was some distance from the others and he felt comfort in his aloneness, as well as a vague sense of shared ownership, with the other three, of this soothing green paradise. He looked around at the mown lawns, interspersed with gardens and trees, with ivy growing up the walls to the road, interrupted only by the steps down which he had come and, at the other end, a tiled tunnel that, presumably, went under the road to some other part of town.

He sat and smiled, though the tears threatened to well up and burst out again. The mask of commuter isolation began to melt away and he looked at the other people. Really looked. They all smiled back, one by one, and the warm glow and melancholy returned together.

As he sat back on the park bench he looked up and realised, with mild surprise, that England does, indeed, have blue skies, at times. Maybe he'd never looked up before … maybe people don't look to the skies … and so the myth of continually cloudy skies persists as no one actually looks up to check. And, as his mind soared up into the open blue skies, delighting in the freedom and simplicity, the beautiful nothingness, he realised it was actually a busy place up there. As he looked, totally present to the blue, he discovered there was never a moment when there wasn't a plane flying through it - it was full of them. He supposed he had heard them before, probably constantly, but never actually listened or looked. Quite obvious, really, considering he was sitting somewhere between Heathrow and Gatwick airports! He knew Heathrow was the busiest airport in the world - one aeroplane landing and another taking off every single minute of every day of every year, he remembered reading somewhere, and three hundred and fifty people on an average flight. He had spent his life among the seething masses of humans and had never considered where any of the might be going. As he tried to calculate how many might travel across the skies from Heathrow each year, he wondered where they all might be going. And then there was Gatwick, Stanstead and hundreds - maybe thousands - of other airports around the world and there could be millions in the air on any day, all going somewhere. So many people, so many places to go and, with a jolt, he saw his own life as a complete nothingness, a grey unmoving speck amid the colourful movement all about him. He'd done nothing but go to work every day, tend his small garden, read books of others' adventures and watch others' dramas on television. Where were his adventures, his dramas … his life?

He couldn't stop the tears as they began to ease out and he knew he couldn't hide them. And nor did he care. He simply sat, allowing the disappointment and bitterness leak from his soul, the sobs of pain to shake his body. Just a useless little man in a useless little job in a stupid useless world. He was powerless to live a bigger life, he was powerless to make a visible and lasting contribution and he was powerless to stop his body reacting to it all. For once, he didn't care what anyone else thought - he was a crying man and they could look the other way.

"Chloe! Chloe! Come back!" yelled the mother from across the park, jolting him back. He looked over to see the little girl - in her little blue boiler suit and with blond curls bobbing - trotting over to him with her half-eaten ice cream extended in front of her.

"Are you sad?" she asked, standing in front of him, her large blue eyes full of concern.

"Yes I am," he said, trying to smile as he leaned forward.

"Would you like my ice cweam, make you feel better."

"Th … thank you so much, dear," he said, as the tears flowed again.

"Here," she said with her dribbling ice cream nearly in his face.
"Oh, no, that's very kind but you have it all," he said, gingerly sitting back a little. "I'll feel fine by and by."

"But you're sad, Mister."

"Yes I am, Sweetie, but you finish it. It looks yummy."

"Chloe, dear, don't bother the man," said the mother. Arthur was unaware that she had walked over to them and had her hand on her daughter's shoulder. "I'm really sorry, Sir."

"That's no trouble, Madam, she's a very kind little girl," he said.

Suddenly he heard the sound of footsteps in the tunnel to his left - many footsteps, loud footsteps - coming his way. As he started to register and analyse these sounds, a thin, dark, wild-haired man rushed out of the tunnel towards them, looking back frequently, with fear in his eyes. Arthur had no idea how he did it but, in the moment, the instinctive and protective father within him reached out and scooped the two females off the path and, a little untidily, onto the bench beside him, just as the runner, looking back yet again, dashed towards them, running unsteadily.

No sooner had he reacted to this, than he saw a second runner, dark skinned, short curly hair, tattooed and solid, come racing behind the first man. The front-runner faltered, unsure what to do as the large brick wall loomed before him, quite unaware he was about to run into Arthur and his two charges. He looked back, momentarily, saw the three on the park bench and went to swerve away, had Arthur's instincts not cut in again. Someone - it certainly wasn't his own conscious thoughts - shot his foot out, tripped the man, who went sprawling along the tar-seal path beside them. The large runner behind took immediate advantage and tossed himself headlong through the air, crashing on top of the scrawny one.

"Oomph," came from both of them and, as the smaller one lay still, perhaps unconscious, the larger one on top rose to his knees and started rifling through the other's pockets with reckless disregard for the apparently lifeless form he was frisking. He quickly found what he was looking for after tearing the man's denim jacket open, popping a brass button off and yanking out two small plastic bags with what looked like, to Arthur, washings powder, inside. The black man leapt up and went to make off with his prize when he stopped. He turned to Arthur, panting and with a huge smile. Arthur's fearless instincts vanished and he was back in very conscious fear. He drew the stunned mother and girl closer for protection.

"Cher bro', you're the man!" said the large tattooed man in an accent Arthur hadn't heard before. The man extended his hand and instinct shot Arthur's hand out, to be engulfed in a huge brown paw that shook his vigorously. "That was choice, bro'. Kia ora Matua!"

The man turned and - whether it was some trick of the light or a malfunction in Arthur's brain - just disappeared … just, well, wasn't there. Still staring into the space where the brown man had been, he realised more, many more, footsteps were racing up the tunnel towards them. As the panic gripped him again, he leapt up, stumbled and fell over the still-prone man who was beginning to moan and move. Arthur looked back from ground level, fearing the worst and saw several police rushing towards him. 'So now I'm embroiled in something terribly criminal,' his mind said, reverting, as always, to the worst possible thought for the moment.

Uncertain about what to do in this possibly comic, definitely embarrassing predicament, he rolled off the man and lay there, as before, staring at the sky with both body and mind in neutral.

"Grab that man!" yelled one of the police and Arthur winced in anticipation of being grabbed. But nothing happened and then he saw two policemen pounce on the now-reviving body beside him.

"Umph!" the man said again as two policemen pinned him down. Arthur heard a definite 'crack' and wondered which bone had broken. Not one of his he realised, thankfully.

Still unable to move or think, a face suddenly loomed into his, a blue peaked hat slightly askew.

"Are you OK, Sir?" asked a still-panting but kind voice.

"Uh, yes, I think so," said Arthur, suddenly wondering where his glasses were. Hands grasped his and he was gently hauled up to a sitting position.

"Are these yours, Sir?" asked the same kind voice as his glasses came into view.