Once home, he put the motor scooter into the kitchen, having first removed the umbrella, and let a relieved cat out of the basket at the back. To his surprise, he found that he had acquired some post, which lay on the mat in the hall. Taking a bottle of beer with him, he and the cat went into the front room to read his letters, seated together on the sofa.
The first letter was from his credit card company, which informed him that he owed £4,097 in total, or a minimum payment of £125, payable by the 3rd of next month.
“Well, they haven’t lost any time, have they, Ginger? Or is your name Sandy?” He stared at the sheet of paper in disbelief. “What the hell do we do now then?” He tried to think of any way he could raise that sort of money; theft seemed the most likely but he didn’t know anywhere he could steal it from. He had a sudden brainwave. He would have to declare himself bankrupt. That was it. Then they couldn’t touch him. Problem solved. But that meant he would lose his possessions, wouldn’t it? The scooter, the computer, all his possessions and possibly the house. He had no idea if he owned the house or not. It was all very bewildering and he became very angry about it all.
He took another swig of the bottle and opened the second letter. It was from the Social Services people, the ones who came to sort out his money and laundry and medications and so on. They were going to come Wednesday. Today was Monday. At least he thought it was, but he could be wrong of course. No-one told him anything these days.
He thought about this. It was going to pose problems. He would have to put the motor scooter in the garden and bring the table inside. But what if it was raining? You couldn’t leave the scooter out in the rain for hours on end, just because of them. Anger began to build up inside him. Interference again. He’d a good mind to tell them not to come. Could he do that, though? How could he explain where he’d got the scooter from?
He tried hard to remember where they took him to get the money out but it was no use. Some building society or other. Or bank. He couldn’t afford to turn them away. He’d have to put the scooter in the garden and hope that they didn’t see it.
The anger continued to build up inside him. All this interference. He’d go and do some shopping; he felt he needed action. Angrily he put on his new cap and went to collect the scooter. The cat had disappeared, presumably out of the toilet window. He manoeuvred the scooter out of the kitchen, locked the back door and set off. He still had a fair bit of money; he thought he would go to the bigger supermarket, where he could take the scooter inside. This time he didn’t take the umbrella, which might have been awkward. The journey was uneventful and he was only hooted at twice.
The trouble started at the supermarket itself. He had amassed quite a large amount of shopping, putting it in the baskets at the front and back of his vehicle, from various aisles, before he was confronted by an irate manager.
“You can’t bring that scooter in here,” he roared, flailing his arms about in an effort to stop William, who was examining an artichoke with a puzzled expression on his face.
“I already have,” said William. “I’ve seen other people in here on scooters.”
“No you haven’t,” said the manager, “what you’ve seen is someone using our own Disability Assistance Vehicle – you can’t bring in your own scooter.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you just can’t, that’s why not. We’d have too many, and people would have accidents.”
“How do you know people would have accidents?”
“They just would. Wait a minute – haven’t I seen you in here before?” The manager’s voice was rising as a dawning suspicion grew on him that he remembered something about a previous encounter involving tomatoes and a can of soup – a suspected shoplifting episode. The Social Services had become involved, he recalled, and it had all been noisy and unpleasant. And unproductive. They’d all shouted abuse at one another, or at least he and the man had, and he’d had to back down, although he was sure that something fishy had happened but he’d had to let the man go.
“Certainly I’ve been in here before. But not on my own scooter. And why isn’t there any directions how to cook this thing?” William was waving the artichoke wildly.
“If you don’t know how to cook it you shouldn’t be buying it.”
“So only people who know how to cook can avail themselves of your establishment?” William was becoming loquacious and pompous as the scene developed.
The manager, whose face was turning purple with fury, shouted, “Only people who can actually pay for what they select can come in here. And they can only come in here on foot,” he added firmly.
“Supposing they want vehicular assistance?” said William.
“They can use the bloody scooter that belongs to the shop!” snapped the manager.
“There’s no need to swear,” said William, reprovingly.
“Pay for your purchases and get out,” said the manager, making a huge effort to control his temper.
William did, making a sterling effort to align his scooter with the check-out counter top. The bill came to £45 and he just about made it. It took an inordinately long time to load stuff on to the counter and then reload on to his scooter, whilst the manager stood over him, announcing to all and sundry, “See, he can stand up perfectly well, he doesn’t need a scooter, I knew it.”
“Stop shouting at him,” said a woman in the by now interested crowd around them. “You can need a scooter even if you can stand up.”
“Yes,” said another, glaring at the manager. “Little Hitler.”
“Tell him how to cook an artichoke,” said a third man. “He’s bought one now.”
“I expect he doesn’t know,” said William. “I bid you good afternoon, manager.”
William got out.
On the way home, he nearly had an accident with a white van, which appeared out of nowhere and almost collided with his scooter. In William’s opinion, White Van Man had not been looking where he was going, had not seen William’s signal, was driving too fast and was asking for trouble. White Van Man, on the other hand, said that William should not be on the road in the first place, he ought to be on the pavement, preferably with a keeper. He said that William was as blind as a bat and thick with it and if trouble was what he wanted he had come to the right place. William, noting that White Van Man was young and strong and twice his size, decided to defuse the situation by pretending he was deaf as well as stupid and drove off in a state of suppressed fury. He was not as keen on the scooter as he had been, as the incident had frightened him a little.
He was glad to get in and pour himself a can of lager. He started to unpack his purchases, but it was difficult as the table was outside. He went into the sitting room, where he was joined by the cat, and they sat on the sofa together, gloomily studying the television.
The sheet of paper from the credit card company was still there. “How the hell am I going to pay that, Ginger?” he muttered. He went to the kitchen, found some cat food underneath the artichoke and a pile of soap, and put out a saucer of food for Ginger (he had decided that Ginger suited him better than Sandy). He also put out some milk. He took another two cans of lager back into the living room and sat wearily down on the sofa again. It was nearly time to go to the pub, but he felt a little shaky. Might give it a miss tonight, he thought. That van driver! Ruining people’s lives. He should have reported him.
A sudden thought struck him. God. God had got him into this mess. So God could get him out of it!
Apprehensively, he drew near to the computer. He brought up his email programme. There was another email. Bet it was from Him!
It was. It said:
Explore. Broaden your horizons.
He stared at it, stupidly. What on earth did that mean? Explore what? Why? He didn’t go anywhere, except the pub. And the mini-market. And the supermarket. And the newsagent’s, occasionally. St. Anne’s Hospital, once. And the places the Social Services took him to. That was all. Quite enough for anyone. Why should he want to go anywhere else? All the trouble people got came from gallivanting about to Other Places. He hadn’t gone to the trouble of buying a scooter just in order to Go Somewhere. He just wanted it to use when he needed to go somewhere…well, local.
When you Went Somewhere you had all the trouble of getting dressed for it, looking up the route, taking enough money with you. Like in the days when. A worry. And the scooter – he didn’t have enough money for all this sort of thing. He couldn’t even pay for it in the first place.
He was worried. The email had worried him. If God was going to continue sending him silly emails he wouldn’t read them. He’d block them. There was a way of doing that, he was sure. But then Google would think he’d gone mad. Or BT or Yahoo. They’d gang up and make his life a misery. Anyway, to be fair, God’s emails had been useful, so far. He’d got some money and a jacket, the cat and a baseball cap out of Him. And a cat basket and an umbrella. And the credit card and the scooter. If only he could pay the bill, he could go on using it. Oh hell.
He got up and went off to the kitchen again, fetched some more beer and settled down to have a muttering grumbling session. He had intended to try out the bed upstairs, he remembered, but he decided he wasn’t going to be bothered. All this worry.
In this mood he fell asleep, with the cat on top of him, and slept till half past nine the next morning.
It was a lovely day. Was it today the Social Services people were due to come and disrupt him? No, today was Tuesday. He was sure of that. They’d be here tomorrow. Slyly trying to get him to remember the days when. Asking who the Prime Minister was. Taking him to get some money out. Doing the laundry run. Checking everything was working. Counting his tablets. Generally interfering with his lifestyle.
He shuffled along to the kitchen, found a can of lager and decided to put his shopping away. He made himself some breakfast, took two or three of his pills, which were still behind the toaster; the blue ones seemed to have gone down, perhaps he needed some more. He even washed up and made the kitchen tidy. Well, fairly tidy, if not very clean.
There was no sign of Ginger although the wrappings on the sausages had been torn somewhat and one appeared to be missing, so presumably he was alright. Among the shopping he discovered a leaflet that invited its readers to ‘Visit Your Local Farm Shop and Nature Park’. This reminded him of God’s email. Was this the sort of thing He meant? He had got hardly any money left so what was the point of going to a farm shop? Just a handful of small change. Still, he could go to the nature park. It didn’t seem far to go. Westhamfield was a village on the road leading out of town, past the supermarket where he had had the altercation with that ridiculous manager yesterday. The memory of that scene came back to him with angry little jabs. Stupid man.
On impulse, he decided that yes, he would go. Cheer his life up a bit. Get a bit of fresh air.