At the top of the hill I stopped and looked back at Weston. I remember seeing it clearly, for the full moon hung heavily in the sky, as though supported by an invisible column. Bathed in the moon’s bright glare, Weston looked serene and unencumbered by the problems that continued to plague the town. I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but these days whenever I go into town it’s the homeless people who annoy me the most, and the frightening thing is they seem to be everywhere. There are dozens of them living beneath the underpass in boxes that used to hold fridges or big colour television sets, with their matted hair and their bottles of meths. It looks to me like they’ll always be around as long as the church is happy to give them plastic cups of sweet tea and change their ulcerated bandages, without holding them accountable for anything. During the day they sit around the precincts playing the guitar like it’s some kind of summer camp that they’re attending. Why didn’t they pay any attention at school? It’s not too late to get their lives back on track. They’ve got their health, and they’re not retarded. Well, at least not the younger ones. And they’ve even got some kind of talent. It’s just a wilful waste, that’s all, and I believe most of them are doing it on purpose because they’re lazy and they want sympathy, but they never get it from me. When I refuse to give them money they scream at me, and I often feel scorn when I walk past them. I didn’t used to, but I do now that they’ve started in on me and other passers-by. A few days ago I was coming back from the hospital when I caught one of them, a filthy beast, eating out of a dustbin like a dog. I didn’t say anything, but I did look at him and then he started to shout. “You can’t hurt me any more,” he said. “You can’t hurt me.” Who said that I wanted to hurt him? I’m glad that Dad isn’t here to see what’s become of his town. I suppose I’m also glad that he’s not here to see that I’m living up in Stoneleigh. He’d never say anything to me about it, but he’d find a way to let me know that he didn’t approve.
I put the key in the door, slipped off my shoes and slumped down in my favourite armchair, surrounded by the mess of boxes and packing cases. In fact, I didn’t even take off my coat. The walk up the hill, plus the two halves of Guinness, had taken their toll. Through the uncurtained window I could still see the powerful light of the moon. Dad would have liked The Waterman’s Arms, that much I was sure of, for he regarded pubs as a place of refuge. He always used to say that they should be a sanctuary where you can be yourself and not have to watch your p’s and q’s, but this being the case you had to find a pub that fitted you. He’d remind me that they’re all different, like people, and while some bring out the good in you and open you up, others close you down and make you quiet so that you just want to sit in the corner and nurse a pint. “They’re not about drinking” was his big line, but Mum would just roll her eyes and get on with her ironing or whatever she was doing. I’d listen though. He’d insist that they’re about being yourself, and he’d stress that you had to keep looking around until you found a pub that you felt comfortable in. However, he never told me what to do if I found myself living in a place that only had the one pub. I don’t think either of us ever imagined that anything like this could ever happen.
I’ve not been in the local pub since that first night, and that was three months ago. But I see everybody all the time. The young courting couple, the yobs who were playing outside, the landlord. You can’t help it. You go for a walk, or you go to get a paper, or you wait by the bus stop, and there they all are, the cast of the village acting out their assigned roles. Those of us from Stoneleigh, the small group of extras who live up the hill, have yet to be given our parts. We’re still strangers to each other, let alone to the other villagers. The somewhat undernourished coloured man in the small bungalow next door is the only one I see regularly. He’s the caretaker for all the houses; if anybody needs a lock fixing, or a door rehanging, or the plumbing seeing to, then he’s the man to call. Apparently, there were so many complaints when the bungalows were finished that some owners in both culs-de-sac threatened to sue the developers unless they did something about it. I must have been lucky for everything’s fine with my place, but it turns out that I’m the exception. So, in order to keep everybody happy, they built a small bungalow for a handyman-cum-night-watchman and Solomon moved in. I can see him now, behind his blinds. He never pulls them fully closed, as though he always needs to have a little light coming into his place. Either that, or he’s not sure how to make them work.
His car is parked out front in its proper place. It’s clearly second-hand, but it’s always carefully washed and clean. The other day I saw him take a cloth to it and go at the bodywork as though he was buffing up a piece of brass. I’ve thought about asking him why he takes so much trouble over a car, but there’s no point because it fits in with how he behaves about everything. The way he dresses, or cuts the lawn, or combs his hair with that sharp razor parting. Everything is done with such precision. Like most of the folks up here, he keeps himself to himself, but unlike most of the folks up here, he lives by himself. Like me, he’s a lone bird. There’s me, there’s him, and there’s a man in the other cul-de-sac who has let it be known that he used to be something in the London jazz scene. He claims to have known all sorts of famous people, and played all the clubs, but he talks too much which, of course, makes me think that he’s making the whole thing up. But Solomon is different. He’ll be over in ten minutes. I know his routine by now, and I’ll have to be ready for him so that he can drive me into town to see Dr. Williams. In fact, I’m nearly ready. All I have to do is find my referral card and pull on my coat and I’ll be ready to go. Dr. Williams is not a proper doctor, more of a specialist. In psychological pressures. My old GP recommended him to me a few months ago, just after Sheila died. He thought it would do me good to talk with somebody, but after all this time I’ve still not been getting any real sleep, and so I asked Dr. Williams to give me some tests, which he did. Today I expect him to give me the results.
As I wait for Solomon I glance at the mantelpiece. I recognise my sister’s handwriting on the envelope. The lines are weaker, the shapes less aggressive. Strange, really, for it never occurred to me that handwriting can age, but it does. When I first saw the letter on the door-mat I looked at it and felt afraid to touch it. Finally, I picked it up and then propped it on the mantelpiece where I could see it, but I knew that I’d have to be stronger before I could tackle it. I remember laughing. It’s not a rugby-playing bloke, I thought, it’s a letter. I don’t have to tackle it, and so I left it where it was, but every day I find myself glancing at the handwriting. Weak or otherwise, it’s still her handwriting. After all these years of silence my sister can still do this to me. And then I hear Solomon knocking at the door.
I like the way he corners the car. He always holds the wheel in two hands and he pushes and pulls it gently, as though he’s making something, rather than spinning it around as though he’s gambling. He also wears driving gloves, which I like. Not the tacky type with the Velcro backing; his gloves have studs which you push to and they snap into place, all snug. I like this about his driving. It’s neat and careful, and it makes me feel safe.