Ride On Through...

Old Town hadn’t seen change for as long as it could remember and it didn’t know what change looked like, not until he came along that was.

Some places fall into a way of things. A rhythm that feels a lot like the gentle beating of a heart. The residents of Old Town were in synch, their hearts beat as one. Everything had its place and there was a place for everything that was necessary for Old Town to circle around and keep doing its thing.

That’s not to say that people didn’t come and go, because they certainly did. Those people were always Old Town people though and this stranger wasn’t. This stranger was a different animal entirely. Some had him marked out as trouble from the start. Mostly though, the residents of Old Town were fascinated by him, fascinated in the same way that visitors in a zoo find the tiger enthralling and exciting, fantasising about that tiger and making him into something he wasn’t and something he could never be. No one ever actually takes a tiger to tea with the pastor. Not if they want to stay in the good books of the good Lord Himself.

Henry was his name.

This name was carried on the breath-filled breeze of rumour, but those who heard the word on the wind knew it to be true. Some things just are, and Henry’s name was one of them. Other things just aren’t and Henry’s place in Old Town was one of those things. 

Henry stuck out like a sore, bleeding and gangrenous thumb, only a whole lot more appealing. It was Henry’s appeal that was to throw the residents of Old Town into disarray. The gentle accord of the place was about to fall apart and Old Town would become a battle ground. A maelstrom of intrigue, petty hates and naked animosity.

“There he is!” hissed Jill as Henry rode on past. She grabbed Mary’s wrist and she squeezed it as she watched out of the window at good ole Henry. Only Henry wasn’t old. Henry wasn’t even in what older gentlemen like to call their prime. Henry was old enough, but he was young and he was a promise that rippled and flexed and moved in all the right places, in a way that told Jill and a hoard of other onlookers that Henry really would move in all the right places and not ever falter in that wonderful and magical endeavour.

That first sighting awoke something in Jill. Something long dormant and almost forgotten. There were many awakenings in those first days. Some innocent, some confused, others were riding on the skeletal horses of the seven deadly sins. Henry opened something in the heart of Old Town and the folks of that place were to find that there was darkness as well as light in their midst. There was a storm coming, the likes of which they had never witnessed.

“He has no right being here!” barked Judy to a circle of her friends. The circle were supposed to be knitting, but several of the number had carted around their six or seven lines of knitting since the beginning of this regular congregation and lost all interest in the repetitive clack, clack of the knitting needles, instead they came for the slightly less repetitive noise of the town gossip. There was always something going on in Old Town, if there wasn’t, that had never stopped them. Judy was the centre of it. She truffled around in dirt and always came up with grubby gold. It didn’t matter how true the words were, those ladies knew that they would take on a life of their own. This was what they lived for and it seemed that Judy wasn’t happy with the stranger in their midst.

Only Henry wasn’t exactly in their midst. Henry walked into Old Town an outsider and he remained an outsider. Helen, a casual outsider herself, thought that Judy’s problem was the attention that Henry got. Until Henry appeared as though from nowhere, Judy had her little group sewn up and she was the centre of attention. The gossip she dealt in was her commodity and her ownership extended to her knitting cabal also, or so she thought. Helen came for the knitting and she saw Judy for what she really was, a petty and hateful woman who had done so very little with her life that she’d stumbled onto the tawdry damage to other’s reputations as a way to fill the void of her life whilst evening the score. Helen came for the knitting, but she also understood that she attended this group to provide a little damage limitation. She was a double agent seeking to render Judy as harmless as possible. She was ashamed to admit that her part in the group also meant she wasn’t a natural target. She wasn’t ashamed to admit that seeing Judy’s nose put out of joint was entertaining. Karma was seldom conspicuous, so when it was you had best buy your popcorn and a nice cool drink, then take your seat and watch the show.

Henry seemed oblivious to the bow wave of disruption that preceded him, or at least that was the way it looked. Plenty of the townsfolk read it another way. They saw a callous and uncaring individual riding roughshod over their sensibilities and way of life. 

Many of the men of Old Town feigned disinterest, some even told those baying around them that they were overreacting and that they should calm down. This was oil to the flames of dissent and those men soon kept their counsel, either distancing themselves from the growing mob, or joining their number.

“Something needs to be done!” cried Lynn.

“But what?” said another.

“You do know he’s taken John’s place don’t you?” Lynn stated this in a harsh and loud voice.

“But…” said someone softly and just a little too quietly.

“This will not stand!” said Lynn.

“This will not do!” chimed in Judy, smiling triumphantly.

What Lynn had said was true. But as with so many truths, it was all in the edit. John’s place had been to tend to the Old Town and keep nature at bay. This was a full time occupation and in recent times, John had been fighting a losing battle. He wasn’t as young as he had been and over the last three winters his joints had begun playing up more than he cared to admit. His knee had eventually given out, but not before bending his beleaguered frame out of shape and buckling it some. The truth of the matter was that John was no longer up the job and it needed someone younger, and Henry fit that bill.

Then the bombshell landed. Never mind the truth of this one, that was besides the point. The damage was done as soon as it hit and there was no going back from this.

“He’s Trent’s nephew!”

No one saw who had spoken. There were suspicions though, and those suspicions were not far from the mark. However, the gathered townsfolk were too caught up in the gravity of this news to waste time on where the news had originated.

Trent owned this town. Trent was not liked. A good part of that dislike came by virtue of his ownership of the town. That in itself was good enough reason. That Trent was not a pleasant individual did not help his cause. Now Henry was tainted by this association and so too would anyone be who was seen to side with Henry. Now it was established that Henry was Trent’s man, the seeds of doubt and division really took hold and the good people of Old Town lapsed into being not quite so good as they had once been.

For Henry’s part, he was here to do a job and that was as far as it went. Henry was being disingenuous and deep down he knew it. He wasn’t only doing a job, he was being Henry too. How could he help but be him? He had every right to be him, but maybe sometimes a person should think about the effect they have on others and turn the dial of their being down a notch. 

Sometimes it could all get to be a bit much and in Old Town that was exactly the way of things once Henry rolled along and did his thing.

Henry was a smiler. He smiled his smile and sent ripples forth into the world. Henry’s smile was enigmatic, which was to say, it was down to the recipient to work out what Henry meant by it. Henry didn’t mean much of anything by that smile of his. That smile was out of control. That smile was a blunderbuss of meaning and he kept firing it off in the general direction of each and every inhabitant of Old Town. Some loved him for that smile, some lusted after the owner of those curling lips. Plenty hated him for reminding them of things they long ago sealed away and they hated him for a great many other reasons.

Henry sent Old Town into a mess of chaos, a smiling assassin killing meaning and the ties that bound. Neighbour turned on neighbour and the fragile peace of the place was washed away in the Summer drizzle.

Then one day, Henry was notable by his absence. The townsfolk knew something was wrong from the off. They were surprised by the reliance they had on someone who for all intents and purposes had remained an outsider. His place wasn’t amongst them and it was never to be.

A players exit stage right isn’t always dramatic. Sometimes it occurs while the curtain is closed. There was no showdown. Henry was not challenged by the biggest or the baddest of them. He wasn’t told that this town was not big enough for him. Old Town wasn’t only robbed of Henry, they were robbed of the entertainment of his leaving.

And then they were not.

There was a piercing scream.

It turned out that gentle Magda had a pair of lungs on her. The scream was heard half way across town and those who did not hear it were quickly told of it. Some would hear Magda’s screams as they drew nearer to the source of her panic and dismay. Others would swear they also had heard the poor woman’s screams of anguish, keen as they were to share in an event that would go down in Old Town’s history.

Slowly would the story unfold. In fits and starts. It would bungee back and forth as the chaff was discarded and the wheat of the matter emerged. What was clear as the echoes of Magda’s screams died away was one salient fact.

Henry was dead.

Magda had discovered Henry’s prone figure on the parlour floor of Old Jenkins’ place. She’d known the man to be dead by way of the wickedly large scissors sticking out of his back and the pool of blood he lay in.

Quite how Old Jenkins got the better of Henry was anyone’s guess. As were the circumstances of Henry being in Old Jenkins’ parlour. The way Old Jenkins told it was that Henry had been having his way with Ma Jenkins, Old Jenkin’s wife of so many years no one counted them anymore. 

The scissors were certainly the property of Ma Jenkins, her having been a seamstress since she was barely more than a girl. That was a fact that you could take to the bank.

There was one problem with Old Jenkins’ version of events and that was that Ma Jenkins had been dead these past fifteen years. Old Jenkins never wavered from his story though and it was clear that he believed it, but then that can happen in the twilight of a person’s life. Memories get jumbled and some slip through into the reality of the here and now so that what was, is now and ever will be.

Henry may have gone, but the divisions in Old Town remained. There was a faction that believed Old Jenkins and there were those who said Henry had it coming whatever the truth of his demise.

Despite this, there was much weeping and wailing at the news of Henry’s death. Even those who had deemed Henry to be a bad seed in their garden of plenty might admit that they missed the man.

But barely had Henry been planted in the ground than did Old Town’s attention move to the vacancy he had left. 

Jill sat sentry at her window awaiting Henry’s replacement. There was a certainty that he would be replaced. Old Town needed someone to tend to the place, the consensus was that they would need a young, virile man in the mould of the dearly departed Henry.

“No!” gasped Jill as she saw the stranger ride in. She squeezed Mary’s wrist and Mary looked at the offending hand doing the squeezing and shook her head. Jill did this squeezing far too often and it always left a bruise. Besides, it had put her off her favourite TV show. Now if she could just remember the name of the show and what had been about to occur, but Jill had this knack of discombobulating Mary.

Mary gave up on the show and looked around her. What was she doing here? This wasn’t her place. If only she could visualise her place right now, that would be some small comfort to her. She hated it here. She hated having been discarded like this. She couldn’t quite recollect who had discarded her, nor why they had. All she had was the feeling of being lost and it not being her fault. She had this hole and it was getting bigger and it upset her so terribly.

“You alright, love?” Mary looked at the hand that was now on her wrist. This hand was altogether different from Jill’s hand. It was warm and soft and something about it spoke of the vibrancy of life. She smiled, but the smile was bitter sweet. She was sad all of the time now, but didn’t know why this should be so.

Mary looked up into a kind face, “yes, thanks,” she said to Magda.

“Cup of tea and a custard cream?” Magda asked Mary.

Mary nodded, “yes please.”

Magda did the honours. She would come back in half an hour and the tea would be untouched, but of the biscuit there would be no sign. How Norm didn’t get fat on all the biscuits he snaffled from the other residents was a mystery that Magda was yet to solve. If he wasn’t eating them, she hadn’t seen hide, hair, nor crumb to betray his stash of mouldy biscuits.

“A woman?!” cried Jill.

“What’s that, love?” asked Magda.

“They’re replacing Henry with a woman!” said Jill indignantly.

“Oh!” smiled Magda, “that’s Hilary, she’s the new gardener.”

“Over my dead body!” hissed Jill.

Magda smiled and shook her head, “you’ll like her, Jill. She’s nice.”

Jill shook her head and then looked utterly lost, “like who, dear?” she asked Magda.

Magda was about to speak, but thought better of it. This could be a rabbit warren of a conversation and serve only to confuse the both of them. Besides, she had more drinks to dole out, “tea?” she asked Jill.

“Yes please, dear,” said Jill, “but no biscuit for me, thanks. I have to look my best for Henry.”

Magda stifled a sob, but Jill and Mary were oblivious to this. As they were oblivious to the relationship Magda had been having with Henry. She’d told Henry to stop. That he shouldn’t steal from the residents, but Henry wouldn’t listen, “they’re old. They won’t even notice anything is missing,” he’d told her, and not for the first time, Magda had questioned her feelings for a man who could stoop so low. All of that had changed when Henry had died though. Henry would forever be the man who Magda couldn’t have and he would forever cast a shadow over Magda’s future.

Old Jenkins had noticed. The old buzzard had treasured his wife’s necklace above all else. That necklace was his connection to Fran. He’d taken it out of it’s box every morning and every evening, giving thanks for Fran and her having chosen him. When it had gone missing he knew who was responsible. Fran told him. She also told him how to lure Henry back into his place and that she would do the rest. 

And so Old Jenkins had told Judy all about Fran’s family heirloom and how he really must get it valued, he even told her how he kept it in an old biscuit tin in the parlour. 

Then he had waited. He’d sat with Fran’s prized scissors and talked to her softly while he waited for Henry to let himself into the parlour with the key he had copied from Magda’s key chain. 

The rest, as they say was history, and Henry was that history.

The Old Town assisted living village, or assisted dying village as it was unofficially referred to, ticked along just as it always had. Every now and then a stranger would come into their midst and cause shockwaves, but the shockwaves soon subsided and were easily forgotten. Older memories were less easily lost.

Old Jenkins was still there. In the same place where Henry met his untimely demise. There was not enough of a case against him. No prints on the scissors and there was talk of diminished responsibility. Old Jenkins didn’t know about that, but what he did know was that Fran had a fierce temper on her when she was crossed. 

Henry had had it coming.

“You showed him didn’t you my love?” he said softly as he gently and reverentially held her necklace in his gnarled old fingers.