25 August 2012
Old Charlie shuffled from the care home leaving behind the horrible pall of finality, out into the sunlit grounds full of sweet chestnut and forgotten birdsong. Mustn’t forget who he is, what he’s doing, not let the fog and false images crowd his clouded mind. Clutching the all important hessian bag tightly to him the old man prayed to what ever gods or angels there may be to help him; help him to get back to the place he loved for the last time. He’d watched Alzheimer’s steal his father from him all those years ago, take that kind; funny man bit by bit until only the husk of a person remained. Even now through the gathering haze, he was racked by the memory. Charlie would spare his own beloved family that pain and so, in the lucid moments, had devised a plan. He saved the little bottles of whiskey the children had smuggled in to help him sleep and a quantity of pills the staff administered, the ones that comatosed him and that he had felt better for not taking. Hid them in his old hessian bird watching bag and waited, waited for a good day; a day like today. He slowly made his way out through the spiked gates unchallenged and was filled with a sense of freedom, unaware his coat was buttoned up wrong and he still wore his new tartan slippers that he got for Christmas. But what now? Which way to go? What bus to catch? Nothing looked familiar. Then he remembered, yes! yes! – He’d thought of this, knowing his brain would falter and ruin his plan. Out of the bag he pulled a piece of card tied with gift wrap ribbon. It read, in shaky printed pencil – CHARLIE GOING HOME TO TOLLESBURY PLEASE. He put it round his neck and thought back, back to war torn London when he and the other children boarded the trains, sad and afraid, all with their name and address around their necks. That was the day Mother always said – the East End was drenched in tears. Except this time he knew his destination – he was going home. People were kind, they would help. “Come on old mate, we’re here” The bus driver woke him gently. “Is someone meeting you?” “Oh, I do hope so” he said. “I’ve come home”. Charlie gazed through his thick beer bottle glasses at the familiar sight, the village square bathed in the autumn sun, the pub where he’d sank many a pint and the church tower partly clothed in trees. ”I know where I am now” he said, smiled at the sense of belonging and blew a kiss toward the red brick wall of the churchyard. “See you soon my old love.” He’d walked the dirt road to the sea wall hundreds of times, watching the birds, noting their behaviour, fascinated by the ever changing seasons. His old hessian bag with binoculars and a flask. Always beside him his faithful rough collie. “Never been on a lead have you Sam? Never had to, good old boy” He would say. “Always asked me what I’d seen – my old girl. Both knew she couldn’t tell a starling from a sparrow, loved her all the more for it.” Now though, the sea wall seemed a long, long way. Charlie’s feet hurt and the bag felt heavy, but he plodded on, though the enemy in his head would always be invincible. “Sam! Where are you? Sam, here boy!” The old man panicked, the collie never left his side – now it was gone. Then rushing towards him the brindled mane flaring, the devoted dog was by his side once more. “You had me worried boy.” Charlie bent to pat his companion, but the phantom was gone, all he saw were the tatty tartan slippers – and remembered. The sadness washed over him as if for the first time as he knew it would again and again. The old man removed his thick glasses and wiped his eyes with the rough sleeve of his comically buttoned coat. Charlie sat slumped against the sea wall staring into some dim world of imaginings or into nothingness. The Blackwater beyond, sparkled in the afternoon sun. The bird watching bag unopened, the mission unfulfilled and forgotten. In his hand was the most important thing of all, the letter. Unneeded now it told of love, life, devotion and regret. Unseen sanderling swooped in the mirrored Blackwater sky and white unnoticed Egrets loped leisurely by. A swirling breeze followed the ebbing tide lifting the paper from his hand, it fluttered high over the seawall and saltings. Then like a stricken bird tired of flight, fell limply by the waters edge, leaving only a blank and sodden page.
TOM MAY
Birdwatching • Opuss № I