Six of one, half a dozen of the other

 

Story one
December 2012

Ronald Pennyworth was in jail for the third time that year. It was mid-morning and his head was beating feverishly.
The fucking room was not comfortable. No cushions, no sound, miserably cold and a worn musty blanket on the bed. And a not quite clean toilet. Ron was morose and that was all there was to it.
He knew the squelching detritus of his existence was there for all to see, laid bare, but he resolutely ignored the tangled knottiness of that day.
Ron was not bad, nor was he particularly good.
He positioned himself somewhere in the middle, cruising around the outer edges of circumstances, occasionally poking his nose in to normality for a gulp of new air.
The door of the jail whaled open and a wintry sunlight poured in.
“Let’s get this over with,” said PC Mess fussily.
Another room in the station was set up with a table and two chairs; both men took their places.
“Tell me what happened last night, “asked PC Mess. Ron turned to one side and looked at the wall in silence.
“I will tell you then,” said Mess. “You were found drunk with a dead cat on a park bench. Would that seem about right?”
Ron nodded in agreement. When the forms were filled out and a caution issued Ron was released back into the brooding arms of civilisation. Into another day, which was much like all the other days he knew.
The dead cat was a mystery to Ron. The being drunk element of the situation, he believed wholeheartedly and without question. Why was the cat involved? Had he killed the cat? Mess and Ron both spectacularly failed to resolve the dead cat matter – and so this was quietly dropped from the paperwork. It was an average drunk-man-sleeping-on-a-park-bench incident and no real harm was done. But there was a dead cat in the frame, whichever way you looked at it.
Ron walked around that day – in no particular direction. His intention, ultimately, was to find the park bench he fell asleep on the previous night. This he found. It was a park bench alright. A little tatty around the edges but good enough to sleep on, clearly. He sat down and ahead of him were a small tree and a path leading down to a babbling stream. He sat there combing his brain for more information trying to tease out the events of last night. It was no use – he came up with a blank in every direction.
A dead cat was a little unusual. He shuddered at the thought of lying comatosed with a not alive animal in his arms.
“You back then?” The voice behind Ron was deep. “I thought you might be, so I waited.”
“And who are you?” asked Ron.
“You won’t know me but you will know my cat.”
This new piece of information was crawling its way through a billion tubes and cells in Ron’s brain – and not really resolving itself, landing in a clump in a dead vortex.
Finally Ron spoke.
“I am sorry about your cat. I have no idea what happened to me last night – it is a complete wash out. Do you know anything at all?”
“I think I can help.”
John sat down.
“God you look rough. The cat, my cat, was not well and his time was up, and I think he, Max, found you and nestled up for warmth before he died. I think cats do that. They look for one last moment of comfort before death. I was out last night looking for Max – it was unusual for him to be out so long. I then came here and chanced upon my cat dead in your arms. The scene was very graceful in a strange way. The cat and you looked very content, very blissful, so I left you both alone. I realised that Max had died, but his body was still warm and I assumed he was keeping you warm. So, I thought, that was a good use of Max – if he could keep you warm long enough to get you through the night I considered that a good use of Max at the end of his life - and a rather noble last gesture.”
Ron was 32. He did not have a friend to call his own, girl or boy. He lived alone in a quiet street, which he liked. His neighbours fussed around him, twitching and twiddling with their proprietary bits and bobs. He worked in a warehouse on an industrial site out of town; he was good with his hands and kept things ticking over. He needed little instruction from the owner and managed to keep his distance from him and the other staff.
His father had died last year, out of the blue, on a bitterly cold day in December – which was a shocking experience. His mother lived nearby, rebuilding her life and coping with her new-found but unwanted solitude. He had a brother who had immigrated to Australia and taken up citizenship holding onto the flag for dear life as if that was all that mattered; this was his final fuck off snub to his home country.
Ron had been in jail overnight three times in his life, all in the same year and all for being drunk and falling asleep in a public place. The three times had occurred on the anniversary of his father’s death (a year ago yesterday), on his birth, and then on his own birthday. He considered these reasonable excuses for what was clearly to an onlooker maniacal and, indeed, somewhat somnambulistic behaviour.
PC Mess viewed him as a slowly declining human-being falling deeper into a pit of self-pity and was fully expecting their paths to cross many more times until such point he, Ron, would be extracted from society all together and banged to rights. Good and proper. That was not Ron’s plan. Ron had other plans. What did Mess know anyhow?
Ron wanted to know more about Max.
“Your cat did a great thing last night.”
“I am not so sure that this would be the correct interpretation. He was likely looking out for himself. Cats are not known for selfless acts, rest his soul. But maybe there is a deeper meaning to be had, or maybe not. Maybe it is just one of those quirky things.”
“I like to think we helped each other out and this alone is enough for me. Can I ask your name?”
“John Coldwell. I am a lecturer at the university and yours?”
“Ron Pennyworth.”
“Can I ask why you fell asleep on this bench? I assume you were drunk?”
“That is the very reason. One year ago yesterday my father died and although that is a poor excuse for what I did, I still did it. I don’t regret what I did.”
“No I can see that.”
There was a pause as both men analysed the sogginess around them; the tree hanging limply in the wet air and the imperceptible gurgle from the stream. Best described as a day of drabness but still lit up by sunlight.
“Can I ask you one question?”
Ron nodded.
“Where do you go from here?”
“Is that a philosophical question or one about geography?”
“Let me put it this way. I am no great judge of character. My life is incredibly simple. I am married to a woman I love very much. I have a very ordinary job as a lecturer. I have two fantastic kids, both grown up and married themselves. I suppose I couldn’t ask for much more. But I see in you something missing - and not just the loss of your father - but something fundamental missing from you. So my question is, where do you go from here?”
“I am not sure I need to answer that question – although I don’t hold it against you for asking. I am also not sure you know me well enough to ask such a question. If I am honest.”
“You’re right of course. I am wondering if I can pick up Max – do you remember if the police took him away with them?”
“Yes they did. He travelled in the back of the van in a bag with me. At the station someone took the bag inside and that was the last I saw of him.”
“I would like him back so we can bury him. Will you come to the station with me, see if we can find him? They might need you to verify the story.”
“Sure. Not sure I want to see the station again, but it seems the right thing to do.”
Both men, one aged 32 and the other 61, departed to locate a dead cat in a police station – recognising that although the circumstances were fanciful, the purpose was correct and it certainly turned an ordinary day, such as this, into one that had some possible worth.
“My name is John Coldwell and this is my friend Ron, who I gather was here earlier,” announced John at the front desk. “May I speak with PC Mess, please?” The man at the desk decided he would oblige and languidly trudged into the deep recesses of the station in search of Mess.
A few minutes later Ron’s captor emerged and stood looking at the two men.
“How can I help?”
“I believe you may have a dead cat in a bag in the station. If so, the cat belongs to me.”
“So that’s the mystery of the dead cat solved. Do we know how it died?”
“He died in the arms of this man. It was a natural death. His time was up.”
The cat in the bag was brought to the front desk and another form was filled out.
“You were lucky - it was about to be sent off to be cremated. Is that all?”
Ron and John thanked Mess and took Max in the bag away with them. Outside the station they stood undecided.
“What now?” asked Ron.
“I really don’t know.”
“We should bury him. That’s the least he deserves.”
“I think so. Will you help me?”
The men returned to the park bench, which seemed the right thing to do and sat down with Max between them in his bag.
“I suggest we bury him here by that tree,” said John. “That would seem fitting, don’t you think?”
“It’s a nice enough spot. The stream is comforting enough and it is quiet here.”
So that was decided. There was no need for intervention or permissions from any of societies’ controlling, overblown authorities. The two men had decided what was right for Max and that was enough for them. That was enough for society.
A flaw in the plan emerged almost instantly.
“We need a spade.”
“We do indeed need a spade,” agreed Ron.
An hour later both men were standing by the little tree with a cat-sized hole in the ground and a small mound of earth to one side. Max was on the ground, out of his bag, free from constraints but definitely dead. It was a remarkable looking cat not so much for its entirely white head and entirely black body – but more so because he only had three legs with a tiny stump where a fourth leg used to be.
“How did that happen?” asked Ron.
“That happened on a road around here, we suspect. He came back in a hell of mess one night without a leg.”
“Poor Max.”
John lifted Max into the hole and filled back the earth and replaced the sod of grass they had carefully cut out of the ground. Without wishing to remain standing there in silence for too long, after all it was only a cat, they both turned away and left Max to rest.
“I would like to buy you a drink at The Three Stars? May I?” said John.
“I would normally say no and I don’t drink that often, and my head is a right old mess, but I think it would be the correct thing to do. Thanks.”
The two men walked back into town and Ron told him about his life in the warehouse. Peter Peter, the owner, was an honest man, respected, low key and dedicated, sharp as a button. He had set up a small but thriving business making and selling awnings for caravans and camper vans. He had customers across the world and had built up a superb reputation.
Arriving at the pub, Ron and John paused at the entrance. Ron was fixated on a poster stuck on the wall outside where John leant – its edges frayed and the writing in marker pen had started to fade almost to nothing. But the colour picture in the middle of the poster showed no signs of wear and it was clearly a picture of a cat, by all accounts a missing cat, with a pitiful note from its owner, a Mrs Mo Small.
It read: Please keep an eye out for our precious Oscar. He is a dear, sweet cat and we all miss him terribly. A reward will be offered for any information, please call Mrs Mo Small on {such and such number}.
Ron slowly turned to John who was also looking at the poster. John had turned ashen white.
“Why is Max on that poster? And why is Max called Oscar?” inquired Ron softly.
Without a shadow of doubt, and no matter from what angle you looked at the picture – you could not fail to recognise the recently dead and buried Max sitting in Mo Small’s small but immaculate garden. The three-legged animal in the picture was evidence enough one would argue – no need for PC Mess’ assistance to deduce that one – and the entirely white and entirely black body made this pretty much an open and shut case.
Max was actually a cat called Oscar.
“I was not expecting that,” said John.
“I bet you weren’t. So now I have a few questions of my own.”
“You do.”
Both men entered The Three Stars.
“Not you again Ron,” shouted landlord Bill Tillworth without a hint of anger. “Last time I saw you, you were pissing against my pub wall and falling down drunk. I don’t hold any of this against you, as I know you well enough to know this is not your normal behaviour. But I am surprised to see you back, so soon.”
“I am surprised – but this has been a strange day, a very odd day – and it’s not over yet. Can we get a drink?”
John sat on a bench seat by the window. The afternoon sun gave little warmth and try hard as it might it did not brighten the day.
“I don’t need an explanation John, and I don’t expect you to stay if you don’t wish. I am intrigued don’t get me wrong- but you don’t owe me anything and I don’t owe you anything and we could just walk out of here now and forget all of this ever happened.”
The two jugs of frothy bitter on the table remained untouched.
John looked Ron squarely in the face and let out an inaudible sigh.
“I do owe you an explanation.”
Bill’s sudden outpouring of laughter shook the silence and made both men start. Bill was telling a punter at the bar one of his stories and clearly enjoying the conclusion more than the old sop opposite him. Who was clearly pissed.
“Is Mo Small a relation?” asked Ron.
“No. I don’t know her.”
“So Max, or should I say Oscar, was not your cat?”
“No. I have known the cat for as long as you have. I have never had a cat.”
“I am intrigued. But you can still leave now and I would not hold it against you.”
Both men turned to their jugs of beer on the table and took a small sip each.
“Christ – how can this taste so disgusting!” said Ron.
John cleared his throat:
“Here it is. The truth. Last night I saw you leaving this pub. You were clearly in a bad way. You were mumbling about death and the injustice of it all – and – and there was a great deal of hatred inside you. I was just passing by on the pavement and realised that this situation could go horribly wrong. I couldn’t leave you. So I tried to reason with you, but you were blind drunk – it was messy and your eyes were sunk so far in your head that I don’t believe you could see. You pushed me away and stumbled down the street.
“I followed you – to see you home safely. We were like that for hours, me following you in circles around town, you alternating between collapsing and walking. You eventually crossed the road to the park – thank god it was a quiet road - and you found your way to the other side where you collapsed on the verge.
At that moment a car came speeding down the road – like a bullet – and at the same time Max came shooting out of….
“Oscar…,” Ron corrected.
“…yes, Oscar came shooting out of the hedge, moving pretty damn fast on his three legs, and plunged straight into the wheels of the car. He was knocked in the air and landed by you on the verge. The driver in the car didn’t notice and sped away.
“This all happened in a flash. Oscar was alive but clearly terribly wounded and you managed somehow to pick him up in your arms and rest him on your knee. I recognised Oscar from the missing poster outside The Three Stars, it has been up there for months. It was sometime later before you stood up and carried the cat to the park bench and sat down. I followed you at a distance and – this is…
“Go on.”
“… and you sat there with the cat on your lap, stroking him softly and then you cried like I have never seen a man cry before. It was so deep, guttural, primeval that it made me shake with fear. The sadness was so awful to witness that I contemplated coming over to you – but I remained rooted where I was, hidden in the hedge, not daring to allow you to be interrupted. I concluded that whatever had happened to make you so wholly desperate must be allowed to expel itself. To get out. You needed to rid yourself of this titanic burden.
“The cat, Oscar, died in your arms and you rambled, mostly incoherently – you spoke that night of memories, remorse and thoughts maybe you have never faced up to before. Your hatred turned to loneliness; your longing for your father, your longing for somebody to share your life with. Your soul was laid bare before you and I knew then you were not conscious of the fact.
“I concluded, as any psychologist would, you would wake the next day and forget the treatment you had offered yourself; I was afraid you would waste this moment of catharsis. The chance to rid yourself of such a heavy, overbearing weight – and I was fearful all would remain unresolved, rattling through your system forever, like an express freight train. Your memory loss the next day was all I needed to set my plan in motion.
“I decided to sit there and hide in the hedge for as long as it took and wait for you to fall asleep, which you did of course, with the dead cat wrapped up in your arms. It was a cold night and the warmth still emanating from the cat’s body would keep you warm. I waited all night and watched over you and decided on my course of action. It was there I invented a story. The story of Max.
“The police arrived as the sun was just creeping over the horizon – it was a beautiful morning, the ground was damp, and the little tree and stream seemed to welcome the little heat the sun shed and came roaring back to life.
“The police prodded you and laughed at your misfortune. They bundled Oscar into a bag and when you had finally roused they manoeuvred the cat and you into a van and drove away.
“I remained hidden in the hedge finalising the story of Max. I had been reminded of the missing cat poster on the wall of the pub the night before – the night I first laid eyes on you. I used this as my starting point. The only possible flaw I could see was that you knew about the missing poster - the missing three-legged cat, but I took a gamble.
“I waited outside the station where they took you and figured they would allow you to sober up, caution you and let you on your way. They did and again I followed you as you made your way back to the park bench… it was then I spoke to you and is why we are now sitting here.”
Ron held his hands, palms pressed white flat down on the table in front of him, his arms shaking. Tears in his eyes. Finally he mustered up the deep reserves he needed to speak:
“I don’t understand why you made up the story about Max…”
“I knew (and remember I had time to work this all out) that if I told you the story there and then when I met you earlier today, the real story, you wouldn’t have faced up to your deepest angst. You would have shrugged off the whole incident, called me a mad old fool and gone on your way with no concrete understanding of your real misery.
So I invented a charade, a game, which would bind us together through a strange set of events that would lead us here, to this table, where you would be compelled to find out the truth. I built up the pressure points so by the end only the truth mattered. You were burning with curiosity by this time. By this point in our strange day you wanted to know what had really happened, not just the rudimentals but the whole shooting match - and you were by my manufacture, call it manipulation, deeply receptive to what I was about to divulge.
"So there you have it – the whole story and nothing but the truth. The truth about you. The truth about what I witnessed last night.
And I hope from this experience you can move away, move on and find what you deserve - find your own contentment. I hope the pain inside of you can flutter away harmlessly...”
Ron remained motionless, his palms face down on the table; a terrible sadness spread across his face as though brushed on by a painter.
“I have nothing to say.”
“I am sorry I put you in this position, and I know I have taken a huge gamble – and maybe I have not been fair with you, but I know, I am sure, that what I have done is right. You may say I shouldn’t have intervened, left you to it – left you none the wiser, and you may be correct. I took a risk, it was calculated, and maybe not today but one day you may look back and take heart from this experience - see that my actions were meant only to confront you with your own misery and so drop it out of sight forever.”
“You had no right! You fucking old man– you had no right!”
The pub went silent.
“You took a liberty, you had no right to confront me with this… you’re playing god. It’s sick, you have no rights over me!”
Ron rested his hands in his head and sobbed, harder and deeper than ever he had done before. John held his arm and remained silent. The two of them stayed seated long into the evening as Ron held his head in his hands swaying to the sound of the Juke Box in the corner.
John Coldwell was a psychologist and lectured on the subject at the local university. His life had run adrift in recent years and the zest that powered him through his youth and middle years had dissipated. He was emptier inside than ever before. Not attached, not detached, simply being what he needed to be and reaching out to each new day with dread. He had failed to recognise this in himself. He had failed to recognise the loss of his wonderful wife who passed away a few years ago. He kept her alive in his mind – and spoke of her as though she was still beside him. He had failed himself entirely – and he had failed both his sons in turn. He had not seen them or their wives and children, his grandchildren, in so many years, shrinking himself away, making himself invisible, and turning inside out from the light. Making himself much smaller than he liked. John explained this to Ron in slow quiet tones - revealing more about himself than ever before.
As he held Ron’s arm these glimpses of insight passed through him with wave after wave of electricity. As the two men connected in this way slowly both emerged from their deepest thoughts and on reawakening to the sound of the Juke Box in the corner, both men finished their beer in silence.
Ron broke the hush:
“I don’t regret what you have done John. I don’t regret it. You were right to take the decision you did. I will never know why you did what you did –and only you can tell. I don’t want to know right now – but I assume this was driven by your own losses, your own sadness.
“But I do know we have a few jobs to do. It’s not too late to call Mo Small and explain what happened to her cat last night. The truth that is – the truth about Max. I think then you should come and meet my mother tomorrow. She would like you and I think you would like her. And if all of that works out we may even plan a trip to Australia and visit my brother – he’s a prick of course – but he’s a nice prick.”
The two men left the pub and shook hands under the watchful eye of Max or Oscar, the most famous three-legged cat in town.
"You were lucky I spotted the poster," laughed Ron. "Another possible flaw in your plan!"
"Us psychologists can direct your attention wherever we like," laughed John
“One last question John.”
“Yes. Fire away.”
“If the cat hadn’t been at the station when we arrived – your whole charade would have unravelled.”
“I had that covered. I spoke with PC Mess at the station soon after you were delivered there with the cat. I explained to him my purpose – he is not a bright man for sure - but he understood enough to see that my plan, if successful, would mean your paths didn’t cross again.
So he promised the cat would stay at the station until I brought you there to collect it.
He’s not a bad person, but he’s not particularly good.”

 

Spike Milligan

When I was in my early 20s I met Spike Milligan. For him it was a nothing type of experience, for me it was intriguing. I was working in a famous (it was then, not now) hotel. The kind of place where celebs would travel too for a weekend in the sticks. It was said that Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor went there in the 60s, or so. Very possible.
I was working as the porter, taking bags to rooms - pretty much the lowest paid job in the place, but I took all the tips. Some days these could double my day's pay. I would come home and empty my pockets of loose change and the occasional note. I remember getting £50 from someone once - it's a lot of money now but back in 1989 it was a small fortune.
One day Spike Milligan turned up at reception looking ashen faced. I was called by the receptionist, as usual. I knew who he was, but my mind didn't really react as I had no particular loyalty to the man. I knew he was a funny man, but he was from a different era - I was more into Monthy Python and the Young Ones. I took Spike's bags up to his room and showed him the mini bar, the light switches and the bathroom - all of which he took in quite seriously. I turned to leave when he said: "I would prefer it if just you could keep an eye on things." I didn't know what to say, but I think he meant he didn't want to see anyone else from the hotel during his stay. I later found he suffered from depression and when it got really bad he would leave, on his own, and hole up somewhere to get over it.
For the next few days I brought him meals to his room, fixed his radiator and generally dropped things off that he needed. We never spoke more than few words to each other - and nothing personal. It worked really well, I have not forgotten it. It has remained with me, really, because of the terrific normality of it all.