21

THE LETTER

Young Johnny rose on that memorable day from a cosy bed, washed and went down stairs. His dear, sweet mother as always greeted him with a kiss and said there was a plate of his favourite hot oats waiting for him, then handed him a letter that had arrived by the early post. Before enjoying his breakfast he opened his mail, only to find it was written in a foreign tongue. ‘Mother, be a dear and read this for me, you have a flair for languages and I don’t know what it says.’

His mother obliged and sat down to read. What happened next was unbelievable. He watched his mother turn from a gentle, loving lady into a furious, foaming-at-the-mouth monster. ‘Argghh, you beast, you horrible evil creature, get out of my house this instant and don’t ever come back here again!’ she screamed, throwing his letter at his feet, then grabbing his collar she heaved her son from the house. Johnny stood there in the cold street flabbergasted. Without a moment to lose he picked up the offending letter and set off to ask his vicar why its contents had turned his mother mad.

The vicar, as always politeness itself, ushered him into the parlour. ‘Hello lad,’ he said, ‘what brings you to my door this early?’

‘Well, vicar, I received this morning a letter.’ He removed it from his pocket and handed it to the vicar. ‘Please, could you explain, if you can, why it has turned my dear, sweet mother against me?’ The vicar smiled, reassuring his visitor that his mother had obviously read it wrongly. ‘No mother would do such a thing, especially yours.’ He unfolded the page and sat down, popping a pair of one-legged glasses over his nose. For a minute he paused, then without warning reached into an umbrella stand, retrieved a golf-brolly and started thumping the poor lad over the shoulders. ‘Get out and take that, that thing, with you.’ Johnny gathered up his letter and dashed for the safety of the front door. Once outside he thought ‘nothing, no matter what, would make the old, gentle vicar react in such a fashion, some one just has to explain what is in this letter.’

How, though, could he show it to people? He needed a plan. Soon the paper with its demonic contents was folded safely in a leather wallet, only to be shown to whomever he deemed completely trustworthy. For a while he lived a quiet existence, living in a tiny flat high up in a tall tenement building, speaking to no one. He got a job in the bucket lorries, working very hard and deliberately keeping his letter a secret.

Then one morning, during a torrential downpour, he met Sally; he was sheltering in the café doorway where she worked as a waitress. Seeing how wet he was, she invited him in for a warm cup of coffee. They immediately fell head-over-heels in love. Within six months they were wed, but not once during that time did Johnny tell Sally about the letter eating away at his heart. Then one night he asked her a question: ‘do you love me more than anything?’

‘Yes, of course I do, darling, you should never have any doubts.’

‘If I show you something, will you solemnly promise me not to let our love rule your head?’

‘Nothing could spoil our life together, absolutely nothing, now what is it?’

Johnny sat his love down on their bed and very carefully unfolded the letter from its wallet. Not taking his eyes off her face, he handed Sally the tormenting document. ‘Perhaps like me she won’t be able to read it,’ he prayed.

That night with his torn cheek and blackened eyes Johnny again found himself wandering the streets, destitute and alone. Would he ever know the true contents of the letter?

Next morning, along with other street tramps, he was rounded up and moved on by the local police. One policeman spoke to him and enquired why he had ended up on the streets? Frightened to speak to anybody, let alone the law, Johnny turned and ran as fast as he could down an alleyway. The policeman, thinking he was a criminal, gave chase. It was easy catching poor Johnny, with him being hungry and battered. Soon he was sitting in a prison cell, a shattered man, and he hadn’t a clue why. ‘Look,’ he screamed at four other men sharing his cell, ‘see what I have. Do you want to kill me or hang me from the ceiling by your shoelaces? Come on then, tell me what is in this letter first.’ Poor unfortunate thing, he would rather have died than never to have known why this awful letter plagued him so. An old man stood up and took the letter from Johnny’s fingers. He sat down, took a pair of heavy-rimmed glasses from his shirt pocket and began to read.

‘Please don’t hit me, I beg you,’ Johnny wriggled on the floor like a cowed dog. ‘Please, mister, just tell me what it says.’

Slowly, with fire raging in his eyes, the old man leaned down and said, ‘why, do you not know what this says?’

Johnny cried into his jacket sleeve that he just hadn’t a clue.

‘When you get out of here, go and visit this old Chinaman, he will tell you what to do.’ The man handed Johnny a piece of paper with an address scribbled on it.

Soon, address firmly clasped in the desperate man’s hand, he set off to find the wise Chinaman. At long last they faced each other, with Johnny’s existence depending on what he’d be told, please God.

The same scenario unfolded with the Chinaman threatening to cut off his head with a Chinese War sword and Johnny begging for his life. He told him that the man in the prison cell had said he would help him. The slightly-built little man thought for a moment, then said, ‘Before I copy this into English you must solemnly promise to follow my instructions to the very last letter.’

‘As I live and breathe, old man, I will do all you say.’

‘When I copy this I will seal it inside an envelope, then inside a metal box, and you must take yourself to a far-off shore. Find a boat and row miles and miles until you are completely alone, remember no one must be anywhere near you. Then, and only then, remove the letter and read it.’

Johnny gave his word, hand on heart, thanked the small man and did all he asked.

In mid-Atlantic we now find him bobbing alone in his little skiff, miles from anything remotely human. Beads of sweat begin to trickle down his face into a dry hot body. His breath now comes in short pants. He opens the metal box, a seagull screeches high above him and he dives under a tarpaulin. The sky is once again clear, there is nothing further to delay him. Hands quiver, as inch by inch he unfolds the letter. He holds it up, then opens sunburnt eyelids and, and, and—swoosh! A GUST OF WIND BLOWS IT OUT OF HIS HANDS.

If you feel like hitting me, folks, then that’s exactly how I felt when first hearing this. Sorry, but some you win and some you lose.

Not very nice to you, am I? Still, after spending all this time with me, I’m sure you’ll forgive and forget.