Chapter 2

Of course we all want a quiet, uneventful life. Who would want ant thing else? Even those involved in the pursuit of excitement for work, or leisure, admit to wanting order and 'space to be'. It is a natural yearning, which does, we are reliably informed, lead to a stable base from which to live our lives. Gaining inner calm is the first step. Let me lead you on your journey to a better life........

So said the pamphlet Clara had picked up as she waited for her next patient. As a chiropodist, her whole working life had revolved around giving people the stable base they craved. She was an expert and certainly did not need the assistance of the meditation guru in the next room. Any way, who did he think he was, sliding just the one pamphlet under her door? Did she look stressed? Well, perhaps a little, but who did not these days? Maybe it was a come on! Now that could be interesting, tall handsome Asian guy dating short gay woman. That would be one in the eye for her racist old dad. Yes it would be worth turning to the other side, just to see the old mans' face when she brought him home. Mind you she had not yet tested the old mans' face by taking home a girl friend. She knew her father was concerned that she was 'leaving it a bit late', but then he had no idea about her preferences. In fact she was quietly hoping he would die before he found out, because she was positive the news would kill him on the spot and she could not live with the guilt of it hanging over her.

There was a buzz from the front desk. The next patient had arrived.

'Send her up, please Liz', Clara said as she placed the flyer to one side of her desk and picked up a small blue patient folder to glance through. This patient would be a few minutes, she had bad feet and could hardly walk. Clara did not do call outs. When she had been training, she had seen quite enough grotty homes with old people barely coping in them, and vowed, that once qualified, all that would end. She was going up market and she did. OK, she was not making a fortune, sole traders rarely do, but it was a living and not a bad one at that.

A gentle tap on the door stopped her reverie. Clara rose to her feet.

*

John was sitting in his chair, at home, cup of cheap, instant coffee resting dangerously on the end of the slim, wooden arm of his chair. He was looking at the bird book in detail now, elbows resting on the sparse padding the chair had to offer, book held high, right up to his nose. To read clearly he had to wear two pairs of glasses, one pair on top of the other, in order to give the strength of vision he needed. He was, he thought, a blind old bugger, despite having had surgery to replace both lenses some years ago. Even though that had been a success, with adjustment made to give him near perfect vision, things had slipped somewhat since. Besides, he had hung on to these glasses for nearly forty years, there was nothing wrong with them. They would do, so why waste money on a new pair. No one was ever going to see him like this. Except Clara, and she did not count. She was family. John never had other visitors, he was generally alone in the world.

He rested the book on his lap and took a noisy slurp of his coffee. It was nearly cold. Looking at the clock on the mantle piece above the fake, electric, wood burner, he was surprised to see that he had not moved for a couple of hours. This was a good book and that was all it took to make him happy. However, he needed to get up, before he seized up.

'All too easy to let yourself go at my age', he muttered to himself as he heaved himself up and out of the chair, cup in one hand and book in the other. He put the book on the seat of the chair and walked, stiffly, into his tiny, though well appointed, kitchen.

John tipped away the the cold coffee, put his unrinsed cup onto the mock granite work top and pressed the kettles' on switch. Reaching for his jar of coffee powder, he decided his exercise this afternoon would be to look through the box of things that had formed part of the lot that the bird book was in. He would spread the contents out onto his dining table. That would have to be after he had cleared a space for it. The dining table was like all the horizontal surfaces in his flat; festooned with stuff. He moved things around in a constant searching for things he had definitely put some where. Things, generally he could never find. What he needed was a shed or workshop. A big one, with masses of racking, all labelled, boxes stacked neatly, all of a kind. That would look smart and it would work for him. He was sure of it. The trouble now is that he is here, in this little flat with all his things clustered around him. Clara had said she would 'help him settle in', but here are the boxes, and where is she?

With his fresh coffee in hand, John wafted back into his living room and, pushed some papers to one side, he put down the cup on the dusty surface of his dining table. He pull out a chair and picks up the assorted papers and magazines he finds there and dumped them on top of his new book, on his favourite seat. Now he was getting somewhere.

He sat down at the table and took a long hard look at the muddle that lay limp before him. Mostly papers, you know, letters and the like. They probably needed to be checked through and then either filed, or shredded. No time now. John had other fish to fry. He began piling up the detritus, until whole regions of the table top were unveiled, blinking in the unfamiliar light. He then stood up and scooped up the whole lot in his long arms. He navigated his stumbling way into a corner of the room that was relatively clear of stuff, and dumped the lot. Letting it cascade until it settled into a volcano shaped paper mountain. Job done, he returned to the table for phase two of the operation.

Pulling the cuff of his acrylic jumper over his right hand, he wrapped it into his fingers and wiped the dust, paper scraps and clips from the table using his duster forearm. Then he rubbed and tapped his sleeve to shake off the thick layer of dust it has accumulated. Dust motes floated up into the air around him glistening in the suns rays. John sneezed.

Standing up, and taking a well earned draught from his mug of coffee, John looked around at the room, his eyes coming to rest on his new box of stuff. He took another gulp of his drink. He put down his cup on the cleared table and took the couple of steps to the area of his floor that held his box.

In no time at all the box was on his table and the contents were being surveyed, by John and his cup of coffee.

'What is all this stuff?' he said to himself and with that he reached into the box with both hands and lifted out the most prominent object; a pith helmet.

John examined the ageing hat that seemed to be made for a person with a huge head. A huge headed colonial chap. There was a name in the hat, a hand embroidered label, greasy with wear. It read, Simon Simpson. What else is lurking in here, he wondered, as he reached in and pulled out a small leather bound box. It was slim, powder blue, with two rows of intricate, leaf and scroll silver embossing all the way around the lid. The little box had a tiny silver button on its' front edge, that when pressed, released the lid, which John hinged open to reveal a velvet lining and purposeful indentations, made to accommodate a two row, pearl necklace. There was something in the box, nestling, pushed tight into a small niche. To John, with his one pair of glasses on, it looked like fluff. John reached into the box and pulled it out. It was a small piece of tissue paper which had been folded tightly and placed deliberately.

Unfolding the paper, largely by touch, John could barely make out the writing that was there. He picked up his second pair of glasses and peered, six eyed at the little note. Putting down his spare specs for a moment, he forced the delicate paper smooth with the side of his hand. He then took another look.

A few words were written in pencil in a confident hand. Copperplate was the term that would have been used when he was a boy, now it would be called 'sloping'. Don't sound half as good, he thought as he struggled to make out the text. He began to realise that he needed to be more careful when he flattened the tiny document. He felt he had probably smudged it beyond hope. He held the paper up to the light, but to no avail. Finally he slipped the paper back into the pearl box and snapped the lid shut.

Now John was down to the things, that were, in his opinion, lesser items. There was an old box set of playing cards, with a shabby label that informed the outsider that these were for canasta, a ladies lace trimmed handkerchief, a small cup for shaking dice and some sheet music for a madrigal called Since First I Saw Your Face. None of it any use to John as he did not play cards, or games involving dice, or a musical instrument and he definitely did not need a frilly hanky. Certainly not.

John left everything on the table and went to put on the kettle again. He would have another coffee and a stroll to the shop to pick up a news paper. Later Clara would arrive and the usual evening routine would play itself out.