Wise Old Owl

Arthur Tomlinson dragged himself home from the bus stop after an unproductive visit to the doctor.

He wanted to get back to his bungalow, slam the door on the world and lose himself in his latest library book. Not plunge into a bottle of his favourite tipple, not any more, but a good novel did the trick as long as it had plenty of action, suspense, and unexpected twists along the way.

You could drown in fiction easily enough, forget your current circumstances, ignore the gloomy news which never seemed to get any better and, best of all, not put your liver in peril. That’s why he’d given up on drowning his sorrows on the advice of a previous doctor, an older fellow who knew what was what but, recently retired, no longer available to consult.

This younger chap, well, fresh out of university and full of daft ideas. Social prescription, that’s what he’d been given, not the happy pills which his brother seemed to be doing okay on down south.

Odd how different doctors seemed to have varying opinions on what was, essentially, the exact same problem. Both of them were alone after decades of married life, though his brother at least had grown children although, admittedly, they seldom visited. No grandchildren yet. And with Jake, it was divorce, whereas with himself it was the more traditional death do us part.

Arthur unlocked his front door, well, his only door, and gave the door handle the secret handshake required to allow entrance. He had complained about this numerous times, but the fellow they kept saying they were sending round to fix it never blooming turned up.

They couldn’t organise a bun fight in a bakery. He smiled, thinking of how Emily changed him for the better. He used to rudely refer to something else in a brewery before he met her, swear occasionally as well, but she persuaded him to talk like the gentleman she believed him capable of being.

He got tired of waiting in especially on a sunny day. He supposed he would have to camp outside and get somebody else to ring up for him to say he wasn’t able to get into his own house. Then they would finally take action.

Not that it belonged to him, the bungalow. Council housing and lucky to have it, of course. Though he would much rather been sharing a nicer place with his brother if only the fool lived nearby. Between the two of them, they could probably afford one of those places where staff would help if you needed it but not interfere if you didn’t.

Arthur, however, was not about to uproot himself at his age and for reasons only known to his brother, Jake was disinclined to return to Yorkshire which everyone knew who knew anything was God’s own county.

Arthur filled a plastic measuring cup with water, pushed the button on top of the kettle to open the lid, poured carefully to the minimum level for boiling. Rarely necessary to make tea for two these days. While the kettle chuntered to itself, he rinsed the white mug with the fierce red dragon that used to be Emily’s. No point in washing it when only he used it.

Adding a single heaped teaspoon of sugar and a splash of low-fat milk before dropping in a Tetley’s tea bag, he thought back to all the questions the doctor asked about his diet. He was fairly fit, not obese, so that had wasted time for both of them.

Social prescription. How would that help him sleep at night, make the bungalow less empty, or the long days, for that matter, less boring?

He glanced at the empty bit of wall in the kitchen corner that, in a normal house, would have a door opening out into a garden. The bungalow, much too cramped, seemed to be getting smaller as if the walls were closing, transforming into his next residence:  a coffin.

Shame he hadn’t thought of that while he was talking to the doctor. Gloomy thoughts like this plagued him ever since Emily departed for heaven or whatever happened next. Ten minutes never was long enough to explain everything to a doctor.

He helped himself to a few hobnobs which Emmy liked best. Somehow whenever he went shopping, he tended to buy what she preferred as though maybe he expected her to be waiting for him when he returned home.

But she never shared this bungalow. He was forced to sell their house because the memories kept ambushing him and reducing him to a soggy mess of tears and emotions which he hid from his friends and neighbours by isolating himself. That was when he started trying to find solace in a bottle, but some bother from his liver had brought him to see that doctor who had steered him back to the straight and narrow.

With the cup of tea and plate of biscuits neatly arranged on a little tray, he made his way back out his front door which opened easily enough from inside. He sat down on a nearby bench which wasn’t his but, if possession was ninety percent of the law, might as well have his name on it.

The sun had gone into hiding again behind a fat bunch of clouds, but he found the cool breeze rather nice after the stuffy bungalow. As he sipped and nibbled, he considered whether or not to follow doctor’s orders.

He decided the best thing was to show willing, really. He could be counted on for cleverness, as Emily always told him. One of her pet names for him was Wise Old Owl, which amused him in their younger days but actually suited him in what she had called his dotage. Those tufts of white hair over his ears which augmented his exuberant salt and pepper eyebrows, plus the wire-rimmed glasses showed that he doubtless belonged in the Hundred Acre Wood rather than everyday life.

So, the following day this was why he turned up at the village library which was mostly run by volunteers these days with much reduced hours of operation but at least they still had a library. From everything on the list that the doctor gave him, this had the most advantages:  a familiar venue which had the obvious attraction of being filled with books, no fixed time commitments so he could drop in or out as he liked, and best of all took place on Wednesday afternoons when none of his very few social engagements were likely to interfere.

Arthur found to his surprise that the folk attending were not all old grumblers like himself, but a mixture, young and old and everything in-between. The teacher, although she said to call her Margaret, asked everyone to say a little about themselves to begin with, so he shared his name, age, and the job he used to do before he retired.

“And what brings you here?” she asked, pushing back a strand of her long blonde hair.

He glanced around the circle of interested faces and replied, “Doctor’s orders.”

That got a few laughs, which made him feel he had broken the ice well and truly.

After studying him politely as if she expected him to keep on talking, Margaret said, “Very good. Welcome aboard.”

The session passed pleasantly enough. No further interrogation as she seemed to like to invite people to contribute rather than single anyone out. Some airy-fairy mindfulness story, but he didn’t mind closing his eyes and having a nap though he had to be careful to avoid snoring.

Arthur was nonplussed when she assigned homework, considering how many years had passed since his school days. They were to cultivate the attitude of gratitude by writing down between one and three things, every day, which they were grateful for.

He immediately raised his hand. He always liked to find out the nitty gritty. It was no good sitting at home pondering what the teacher might have meant him to be doing.

“Yes?” she said with a little smile.

“Does it have to be different things every day?” he asked.

This brought on another chorus of amusement from the little crowd. He grinned back at them, happy to be a source of entertainment since this had often been his role throughout his life.

“Ideally,” she answered, looking around the circle, “so give those brain cells of yours an extra work out this week and remember to be kind to yourself, keep hydrated, and never give up.”

Upon his return to the bungalow, Arthur rummaged in the drawers to find the notebook which Emmy used to work out her Sudoku puzzles.

He started writing a numbered list and filled in the top three blanks:

1.      Woke up this morning

2.      Cool breeze on a warm day

3.      Met new people at the library group

Job done and only six more days to go.

For Thursday, he added:

4.      Ninja Ginger snuck inside and sprawled in a sunny patch (we aren’t supposed to have pets but who am I to argue with a cat who has claws and teeth and lightning speed?)

5.      Hobnobs go nicely with a cup of Tetley’s

6.      Guessed the right box for Deal or No Deal and enjoyed the confetti when the contestant won which rarely happens

Easy peasy, lemon squeezy, unlike say, his history or maths homework once upon a time.

Rain striking his bedroom window awakened him to Friday so he wasn’t walking to the newsagents for his daily constitutional. So, it took him longer to complete the entries which he imagined yesterday would be done well before lunchtime.

7.      Finished reading library book so can return this on Wednesday when attending session

8.      Postcard from school chum who emigrated to Spain with his family

9.      Good drama on Radio 4 about a fisherman steering his boat safely through a huge storm

Arthur decided he would bring the postcard to show as evidence. Boring to just read out the list by itself. Or were they supposed to read it aloud? He should have asked about that.

Easy enough assignment, really, now that he was getting down to it. Maybe he would go to another two sessions before he went back to the doctor for some real medicine. Simply to satisfy his curiosity about what other homework Margaret would assign.

Interesting that nothing predicted happened, not the constitutional, not a chat with the manager at the newsagent, and not treating himself with a Twix for the walk home either.

Saturday, contrary to his expectations, brought Arthur to a deeper layer of gratefulness.

10.  Framed photo of Emily not from their wedding day, not even a photo taken by him, but enlarged from a snapshot taken while she was on holiday in Crete with her sister. Seemed appropriate that he was not with her and yet, somehow, today he felt closer to her.

11.  Under layers of cardigans, the thick envelope that held their letters written while Emmy was away studying to be a nurse. He added letters to his list of chores, not that it was a chore but he didn’t want to forget they were there waiting to transport him like a time machine into the past.

12.  Discovering the ever so tiny cream-coloured booties and hat she painstakingly crocheted, being new to the craft, while expecting their baby who had never properly arrived. Revisiting their grief which persisted because due to the complications, she was never able to conceive again. Why had they never seriously considered adopting a child? He wished he could go back and change that. Strangely, remembering holding her in his arms to comfort and reassure made him feel that nothing could divide them, not even death.

Somehow, despite these three choices making him feel his loss more keenly, he also felt closer to her, almost as if she was standing on the other side of a door, waiting to join him. Maybe, much more likely, she was patiently biding her time until he joined her.

Sunday brought the return of the rainstorm which he felt had merely drifted over the hills and dales only to return again like a sheep escaping the border collie (prevailing wind) trying to herd it elsewhere. With his dressing gown on over his night clothes, he opened the door because you could never properly judge how hard the rain was falling by peering through a window.

13.  Ginger Ninja streaked in from the heavy rain. Once the cat sufficiently groomed himself, Arthur tied a crumpled bit of newspaper to the end of a string and played until the cat tired of the game and stalked round the bungalow as if searching for the elusive patch of sun he sometimes found.

When Wednesday morning rolled round, Arthur looked back over his homework. He noticed that his earlier entries had been very brief, but then blossomed into entire paragraphs.

He did mention the Ginger Ninja’s entrance twice, which initially he felt inclined to alter. However, the first instance had been passive observation, while the second could almost have turned into a story.

He used to write stories back in the day, mostly for Emily’s amusement. Maybe he could try his hand at that again. No harm in it. Keep him out of mischief. Had he kept those scribbled pages? Maybe rewriting those would inspire him to discover new ideas.

As he sat on the bus with a cloth Morrisons bag containing his library book and his homework, he found himself doing more than placidly watching the world go by.

Arthur speculated whether the young mother carrying a baby onto the bus was happily married. He wished he had been quick enough to offer to help get her pram on board, but suspected that the fellow who helped her might fancy her. An interesting story could develop there.

Rather than sit in silence for the journey as he normally did, he struck up a conversation with the middle-aged woman who chose to sit next to him, though other empty seats were available. About something and nothing, but better than sitting there like a numpty.

When he disembarked and started walking to the library, he felt a curious stirring of anticipation. How strange to be looking forward to something which, only last week, had simply been a means to an end. Attend a few sessions, then return to the doctor to say it wasn’t working and get a proper prescription like his brother had.

Seeing them again, he recognised all but one of them, a bearded fellow who was staring down at the floor. He would have been hard pressed to recall most of their names, but he felt welcome, though he veered off initially to return his library book. He never liked to keep a novel too long in case somebody else was waiting to read it.

Although he had planned to search out another book to borrow, he joined the circle early for some quiet chit chat with the others, one of whom even remembered his name. He could always hunt for his next read after the session.

When Margaret arrived, she began by greeting everyone by name excepting the newcomer whom she welcomed much as she had Arthur the previous week. Again, they each shared some details about their lives. Then, as she had last week, she asked if anyone had a chance to do their homework.

Everyone raised their hand except the bearded man.

“Excellent,” Margaret praised them. Her smile and the way her eyes shone reminded him of that English teacher who had always written thoughtful comments on the stories he wrote which were surplus to requirements but that she seemed to enjoy.

 “And who,” she asked, both hands spread wide to invite them to answer, “has felt some benefit either from doing the homework this week or from practicing mindfulness when you can fit in a few minutes?”

Arthur’s hand levitated into the air without any conscious instruction from his brain. All around him, hands lifted, people nodded or smiled.

A young woman raised two hands and explained, “That’s for both.”

The bearded fellow raised a hand, despite being new, and admitted, “I do try mindfulness sometimes, it seems to help.”

Arthur only half listened while Margaret was explaining what a breathing meditation was and how you needed to breathe with your whole body.

Looking around at the others, he realised that each one had a story all their own.

He would never want to be a journalist or to intrude on their lives in any way, shape or form. He wouldn’t use anything that they had confided last week or this week.

But maybe he could invent some stories, one for each person. Margaret herself would be a challenge, as he had no idea how her mind worked. What might have brought her here to try to spread some of her light to help others, some of whom arrived without much hope or trust like he did?

Before Arthur closed his eyes as Margaret instructed, he smiled, satisfied with the decision that he might as well start with himself. Write what you know, wasn’t that the old adage?

He already knew what the title must be: Wise Old Owl. And he would dedicate the story to Emily. Somehow, he could picture her resting her hand on his shoulder as he wrote as though she was only a breath away from him.