Southend U3A

March 2023

The Stranger - Malcolm Fyfe

The soft snuffle and snorting of animals woke the sleeping man curled up in his sleeping bag, stiff from the cold seeping from the wooden floorboards of the old signal box that had served the steam trans of an earlier time.

Yawning and stretching, he made a warm drink from a small cooker, then used the remainder of the water to rinse his face and hands.

His accommodation, such as it was, consisted of his now rolled up sleeping bag, an old armchair that resisted his attempts to stuff its springs back and a reluctant cuckoo clock that only worked in warmer weather, although it must be said, with more of a screech than a cuckoo.

His ditty box sat in one corner that held a few clothes and a hardwood box containing his navigation instruments: dividers, sextant and a slide rule of yesteryear. All beautifully kept in their felt lined slots.

On clear nights he would sit by the creek studying the stars and constellations marvelling at their bright stillness knowing their positions relative to each other, familiar to him as with generations of navigating sailors.

Opening the door to the morning sun he surveyed some cows breathing steamy clouds in the cold morning air. They had disturbed him earlier, gathering around his box waiting for their morning greeting, normally a wave and sometimes a curse given in a very rusty Gaelic learnt as a child.

He reached down to a waste food box and retrieved a half-finished chicken leg that his blunt teeth had trouble with, carried it down the steps and dropped the bony offering into a tin lid for the stray cat that appeared occasionally.

He pulled the door shut and set off to work along the stony path towards Benfleet pulling on his hat and pea jacket he had since his service discharge, why it was called a pea jacket, he had no idea, but it had served him well.

His boots thumping on the stony ground, his fingers felt in a pocket for the familiar shape of his brass flint wheel lighter, but the pocket was empty and all he could feel was a hole in the worn lining.

He groaned, it must have dropped out, telling himself, ‘I’ll look tonight, probably on the hut floor.’

All was silent, except for the thump of his boots on the stony path and the wailing call of a curlew accompanying the rattle of a rigging stay against a steel mast.

His lips tightened as he saw a figure walking in the distance with two dogs on a long lead and heading his way at a good trot.

Michael Seamus O’Rourke self-proclaimed lord of this seashore parish wasn’t exactly friendly and wasn’t fond of dogs either. An argument with a stray resulted in reducing his hat to a somewhat air-conditioned state when it blew off and the dog refused to give it back and then proceeded to chew one of the ear-flaps off.

In the distance, Seeing the solitary woman approaching dressed in her usual yellow jacket and waterproof trousers, he slipped away down the grass bank and walked to wards a level crossing made from old railway sleepers, no doubt laid in the days of steam.

This happened several time and Michael, not wishing to be unsociable, was keen to take avoiding action.

He was aware of the dangerous silent approach of the modern high-speed trains and, looking carefully, crossed the rails quickly.

In the distance was stood the remains of a castle. He was once told it was built about twelve hundred and something – a long time ago, he mused, built them well.

And beyond that a steep slope that would lead up to the farm owned by the Salvation Army. They managed the land, grew crops and bred various animals: cows, goats and other breeds.

Michael worked on the farm. He was good with his hands, fixing and repairing and for a few pounds and a hot meal he would do what was needed. He was reliable and never needed to be asked twice and the staff valued him.

As he trudged along, he felt in his jacket pocket fingering the hole, thoughts of his lost lighter and felt sad, it was a link to his navy days, a lost reminder of his shipmates, days in the wardroom, card games in a satisfying smoky fug.

With the day’s work done, Michel worked his way home, mounting the steps and opening the door with a key that he kept on a string around his neck, noting the chicken bone he had put out that morning had disappeared. He scanned the floor in the vain hope he might find his lighter.

Now, Michel had one outing he enjoyed, that of meeting a few friends at special times, Christmas and the occasional St Patricks Day.

Most times he wasn’t exactly well dressed, in fact needing a good scrub down. He knew that but did his best but the night shelter where he met his friends got funny about socks that were more hole than sock and trousers that were hardly decent.

With such a date in mind Michel would work extra hard to curry favour with the army major in charge.

With a knowing smile she allowed Michel to rummage in the second-hand charity box that accepted donations, finding some clothes that would fit him. There was only one condition to this kindness, she bullied him mercilessly in having a hot shower in the staff room.

Michel would emerge, temporarily a new man, gather his old rather unsavoury clothes and walk home putting his unwanted stuff in the skip at the farm gate.

His other pleasure was a train trip. On a such an evening he walked home, tidied his hair with a rather toothless comb, put his bodrun in a carrier bag and off he would go whistling a tune only he knew.

Leigh station was a few minutes away he walked along beside the track, up the platform ramp, hopefully avoiding a sharp-eyed porter. With the train in, he would board, proudly sitting upright, Bodrun between his feet, hands tidily on his lap.

Quite what the commuters thought, eying him with distant suspicion, was never voiced but the ladies would inch their handbags a little closer and the men surreptitiously sensing their wallets were tucked in jacket pockets.

On such an evening Michael turned up at the shelter, conveniently located in York Road and settled down to a free mug of coffee and a rather curly sandwich placing his Bodrun and stick on the table in anticipation of a bit of a sing song of sorts.

He jumped at a tap on his shoulder, turning to see a vaguely familiar figure dressed in a yellow coat. His good manners reminded him to be polite instead of what he was tempted to say.

‘I am surprised to see you.’

He inwardly growled something but instead answered, ‘Yes, I meet friends here sometimes,’ politely asking, ‘Do you work here? “

‘No, I work in the Samaritans as a listening volunteer, we’re just up the road.’ ‘At Christmas time people kindly bring in some nice things for the volunteers, we don’t really need them, so they bring them down here for the visitors, I’ve just bought a boxful down, I’ll be off in a minute.’

She sounded very kind so Michael said, ‘Would you share a coffee with us, this rough looking bunch are quite harmless.’

She hesitated. ‘Why not.’ So the next hour passed in conversation with Michael and his friends, the loss of the lighter and how it had represented better times and companionship.

Despite the futile requests of the shelter manager to keep the noise down a fair old sing song developed with Michael on his drum, a battered banjo, usually kept in the kitchen and a few folk on the spoons, it was time for shared songs and stories until lights out was called.

A week or so later in the late afternoon, feet sounded on the box steps followed by a timid tap on the door, in response to the roar of ‘Who’s that?’ The feet retreated back down the steps in a bit of a hurry.

The door opened and an eye could be seen peering out. ‘it’s Sunday, me day of rest,’ announced the voice.

‘It’s me, I’m the son of my mother.’

‘Well of course you are, boy. What do you want?’

The door opened a little more.

‘I ride my bike when mum and me walk the dogs.’

‘Ah yes, good for you’ but in exasperation said, ‘What do you want?’

In response the lad rather warily held out his hand. ‘I think this is yours,’ showing in his hand a rather round brassy object.

Michael stared, looked, suddenly quiet. ‘Raise the Almighty,is that what I think it is?’ coming down the steps one by one, ‘it’s me lighter.’

‘I was riding my bike, you know, with the dogs, I saw it in the grass. ‘Mum told me it’s yours. There you are,’ handing it to a now speechless Michael.

At that point the lady in the yellow jacket appeared, ‘I’m glad it’s yours, Sean mentioned he’d found a lighter and I remembered our conversation in the shelter.’

Michael stuttered his thanks feeling the familiar shape that fitted snuggly in his hand.

Turning to go she asked, ‘Perhaps we might see you again.’

‘That’s for sure,’ was the heartfelt reply.

‘Wait, would you have cup of tea with me if you’d like to come in, its cold out here, teas on the go.

His

new friend sat on warily on the armchair, Sean on the ditty box and Michael on an old cushion on the floor. A slightly stewed tea was handed round in mugs and young Sean shyly produced a slightly melted Kit Kat from an inner pocket to share.

Strangers no more.