The Old Man

This story contains stalking and potential threats to a juvenile.

Even in my teen years, I found Cardiff (the capital of Wales) too small for my ‘adventuress spirit’, except Friday nights as these were booze nights. 

In my heady youth of the late 1960s, the law stated that only 18-year-olds were allowed to buy alcohol or set foot inside a pub. But when I was about 15 years old, my friends and I saw it as a badge of honour to lie to our parents regarding our whereabouts and get into a pub without being challenged. We were considered heroes if we could buy a drink, find a seat in the pub, and brazenly chat and laugh loudly with our friends. Back in school on Mondays, we shared and re-shared our stories, enjoying being the centre of attention. 

We didn’t drink very much - cash was a problem at 15, and the effect of alcohol on a young person meant it was a cheap night out. I worked in a shoe shop at weekends, and my meagre earnings helped pay for my half or pint of lager. My girlfriends and I would spend laborious hours in front of our bedroom mirrors, putting our immature make-up skills to the test. In those days, we aimed for the Panda look, consisting of dark eyeshadows and black eyeliner, followed by ‘Twiggy lashes’ on our lower eyelashes; and pinky nude-coloured lipstick. I would wear my best Friday night clothes: a mini skirt, a tight cable-knit short-sleeved top, favoured red or blue tights, and kitten-heeled black patent shoes. I thought I looked fabulous, although I was simply a carbon copy of most young women of the 1960s. I would sneak out of the house before my mother returned from work. My friends would meet up at the terminus to catch the local bus and journey ‘into town’, seeking the most exciting pub to spend our evening in.

As I’d walk into the ‘Robin Hood”, the pungent smell of beer, cigarettes and cheap perfumes would hit me. Taking a deep breath, I’d walk brazenly up to the bar and order my drink. Pubs were always darkly lit, and with enough face paint on, we were rarely challenged.

My friends and I caught the last bus home on this particular night. We had run up to the top deck of the bus, lit our last cigarettes, sat and happily puffed away, discussing the various boys we’d met or longed to meet.

I was the last to leave the bus as my house was nearer the terminus. As I alighted, one man was still on the bus's upper deck. He got up and followed me down the stairs. By the time I hit the pavement, the lager and my bladder were beginning to argue, so I was almost running up the pavement to my house when the man behind me said:

‘Hi, I wonder if you could help me?’

‘Yes?’ I stopped and turned around. It was a man aged about 30 or 40, not too tall and a bit chubby.

‘Do you know Blue House Road?’ he said.

‘Yes, why’.

‘I promised my friend I would visit him, and I’m not sure where it is.’

Slightly boozy and distracted by memories of a handsome boy chatting with me in the pub, I couldn’t have been more friendly and helpful. Not even for a moment did I think it was strange that he was visiting a friend in the middle of the night and wasn’t sure where he lived.

‘Yea, you go straight up here, turn right, and follow the road around for a while, and Blue House Road eventually intersects - you can’t miss it.’

‘Thanks, so up here, turn left and ….. then did you say right?’

‘No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Walk with me. I’m going up the road you need to take.’

We chatted happily as we walked, and he told me he’d been in the same pub as me and had recognised me on the bus. I certainly hadn’t seen him in the pub. I was too busy hanging around boys aged about 18, youthful and handsome. Through the eyes of a 15-year-old, this man was just old and was not particularly attractive. 

When I got to my gate, I tried again to direct him and failed.

‘Look, I’ll walk you to Blue House Road. Hope your friend is in as you’ve missed the last bus home by now.’ I said.

As we walked up the next road going to where the intersection lay, he suddenly said:

‘I walk up here for about 30 yards, and the intersection is at the top.’

‘Yea, you’ve finally got it - well done’, I said, relieved. Thank god he’s finally understood the directions I needed to get home.

Unexpectedly, he grabbed my wrist, holding it tightly. His face wore a twisted, unpleasant expression, and he said:

‘I should have got it; I’ve lived there for ten years, stupid.’

I was suddenly afraid. There was something unpleasant about our exchange. I didn’t like the look on his face. The whole atmosphere between the two of us had changed. He then began laughing, an unpleasant laugh tinged with real nastiness, and my blood froze. He must have known he was frightening me and seemed to elicit some joy from this. This whole scene began to feel like a nightmare.

I fought like hell to get my wrist released and pushed him away with all my childish strength. I turned around, running as fast as possible down the road to my house. Charging through the garden gate, I opened the front door of my home and, almost falling on my knees, caught myself and managed to lock the door firmly behind me. My heart was thumping with a mixture of exertion from running but more from real fear and confusion as to what had just happened.

I could hear my mother calling from her bedroom:

“Is that you, Sandy? You’re late home. Did Sally’s mum walk you home?’

I answered: ‘Yea, it’s me - sorry to wake you’, but thought, ’Shut up and go back to sleep. I need to be left on my own. Something not good just happened, and I need to think about it. I can’t deal with the lie about being in Sally’s house.’

I sat in the kitchen and started sobbing as quietly as I could. Why had that guy frightened me so much? He hadn’t touched me besides grabbing my wrist, but somehow he had terrified me. That expression on his face and nastiness when he called me ‘stupid’ wasn’t the same pleasant man I had been guiding to his friend’s house.

I thought about my foolishness. Fancy walking with a stranger in the dark streets sprinkled with dark alleyways where the dustbins lived. Imagine he had hauled me into the lanes. He was so menacing when he revealed the ‘joke’ that he lived in Blue House Road, but it just wasn’t funny. Thank god I’m home. 

The following day, my mother again questioned me about my late arrival home last night. 

‘Why were you home so late? You mustn’t keep Sally and her mum up late next week.’

‘I need to get ready to go and shop - is your list ready?’, skilfully avoiding her questions.

Utterly devoid of makeup, wearing casual clothing, and looking far younger than my 15 years, my mother stuffed her detailed shopping list into my hand and off I went to the village shops to get our required butcher and greengrocer needs. In those days, there were no supermarkets, and you had to go from shop to shop and then haul your shopping home. 

Leaving my house, I walked off in the direction of the shops, which was also the direction of the bus stop. Ahead of me was a slightly chubby man of medium height walking towards the bus stop. Walking a distance behind him, I sensed there was something familiar. It was him! Dismayed to see him again, I slid into a neighbour’s driveway and hid amongst the foliage of the large trees. I nervously peered out, expecting to see him quite far up the road, but instead, I saw him standing only a yard or two away and looking at my house. 

‘Of course, he knows where I live - I had told him it was my gate last night before I had offered to continue walking with him’, I thought. 

Watching him from amongst the trees, he eventually continued walking towards the bus stop. I waited, and when I felt the coast was clear, I began to make my way towards the village shops. The bus passed me, and I longed to check all the windows of the bus but was too afraid. Even though I felt confident he must be on the bus, I approached the shops with trepidation and checked every store carefully before setting foot inside. No man was to be seen.

I spent a week peering out of the curtains in my bedroom, which overlooked the road where I lived, checking that no strange man was to be seen. Confiding with my young, silly friends about the man, they helpfully said, 

‘But nothing happened, so what’s the problem?’ 

Two weeks later, the silly fright all forgotten, I was back in the pub drinking, laughing and smoking. Through the blue smoke, an unwelcome face appeared. ‘Walked any more strange men home lately?’ laughing jeeringly at me. I froze. He walked away. For some reason, the joy of being in the pub had evaporated. I caught the last bus home with my friends, sat downstairs, and got off at a different bus stop, looking behind me to ensure I wasn’t being followed.

By the next day, about to go to the shops for mum, I glanced out the window - and there he was - looking at my house. I jumped from the window and cautiously peered out from the curtains until he was nowhere in sight. From that day on, I regularly saw him standing on the opposite side of the pavement, idly smoking, often looking up at the upstairs windows.

As the weeks passed, I could no longer go out unless I had thoroughly checked the road length to ensure he wasn’t there. First, I’d look through the crack in the curtains, sometimes opening the window and leaning out, looking left and right. If I couldn’t see him, I would furiously run down the stairs and rush out of the front door until I could get around the corner, hiding in driveways and constantly looking until I was convinced he was not in sight. I couldn’t seem to work out that if I told mum, perhaps a solution could be found.

Mum began to notice that my behaviour was changing. My temper was getting short. Sometimes I refused to leave the house and wouldn’t go to the shops. She asked me several times what was wrong. I could hardly tell her that her 15-year-old daughter had been drinking in a pub on Friday nights - she’d go mad. Suppose I was to say that my judgement, partially clouded by alcohol, had resulted in me wandering late at night in dark, barely-lit streets with a man who had lied about needing directions. I could imagine her disappointment, followed by the telling off and refusing to allow me out with my friends on a Friday.  I decided not to tell her.

As the man began appearing on my road almost daily, I started having full-blown panic attacks. I was so ashamed and guilty and felt I was being punished for lying and breaking the law. I wanted to tell mum, but apart from being yelled at, how would confessing to her remotely help the situation? 

A friend invited me to her home on Saturday. I left my house after carefully checking that he wasn't there. 

I shouted: ‘Bye mum, see you later, off to Lynne’s’.

As I began my journey, I heard quick footsteps close behind me.

‘Hi, I wondered when I would see you again. Where are you going?’ he said. 

Nausea hit me full in the throat. How had I not seen him when checking? I began to cry.

‘Go away. Leave me alone.’

‘Can’t you take a joke? I thought it was funny that you took me home when I lived there. Come here, don’t run away.’ his voice had taken on a horrible soothing tone as if he were coaxing a shaking, terrified dog to trust him. 

The panic began to take over. My breathing came in short, shallow intervals, accompanied by a strange sobbing, moaning noise. There was something unfathomable about the terror he invoked in me. I could sense that he was getting a real kick out of the fear he engendered. 

His horrible stubby fingers tried to viciously grab my arm. Surprisingly an entirely different hand pulled my arm away from him.  

‘Get off her! How dare you try to touch my daughter. Who the hell are you?’ It was an angry, strong voice. I turned, totally amazed: it was mum. 

She stood her ground, brave and forbidding, threatening him whilst demonstrating the strength of a mother’s love and protection for her juvenile daughter.

‘I’m not doing anything. I’m a friend of your daughter’s.’, he replied aggressively.

‘Really? she asked. I shook my head.

‘She doesn’t know you and doesn’t want to know you. You’re a grown man,’ she said. ‘Why on earth do you think my 15-year daughter is your friend?’

I found myself sobbing. All the powerlessness I had experienced over the last few weeks disappeared. I stared at my saviour, realising I had never really known this woman.

‘If I see you once more standing outside my house or hear of you approaching my daughter, I’ll call the police for bothering my child. You live at 32 Blue House Road, and I know where you work and that you have a wife and child. I will ensure you lose everything. Now go!’

He looked shaken by the ferocity that the older woman had shown him. Amazingly he walked away, didn’t turn round, but just kept walking.

‘How on earth do you know he lives at 32 Blue House Road? I said.

‘I saw that man following you and decided to find out who he was - so I began stalking him. I saw him going in and out of number 32, so I knew where he lived. I spied on him with his wife and child. Then I began following him on the bus, so I knew where he worked.’ I imagined my small, determined mother tracking his every move.

‘I knew something had upset you, but you wouldn’t tell me, so I decided to find out what made you act so strangely. I watched you leave the house and noticed how jumpy you were …. and then I saw him, creepy him, again and again, and put two and two together.’, she explained.

I had no idea that my mum had it in her. I thought I was the courageous one, going into pubs underage, getting served and thinking how clever I was for a 15-year-old. But I was the dumb one who innocently got herself into a situation she couldn’t solve alone. My heart burst with pride when I saw my mother going into action to save her baby from the nasty man.

Mum and I returned home. We sat for hours, crying, sharing, laughing and drinking tea. She persuaded me that we were a team and must always look after each other.

‘Will he come back, mum?’

‘That’s a good question. He’s met a formidable team, you and me, and I think it unlikely he will ever return. However, you might not be quite so lucky next time. Unfortunately, the adult world you are so anxious to join is not always pleasant. 

‘Nothing is stopping him from going out on Friday nights or going to pubs; he is of a legal age to go drinking. So for your own safety - don’t go to pubs, and when you say a mother is escorting you home, make sure you are telling the truth.’’

As she went through the safety rules, which mainly consisted of me staying at home with mum, in my head, I thought, 

‘OK, only another three years before I am old enough to go to pubs again - and by then, that creepy guy will be far too old to go out in the evenings. But if I see him again, I'll threaten him with my mum!'