Two streets away William entered the local library. It was an old-fashioned and rather dingy building. As he went in, he came to a large area lined with computers and rows of DVDs and CDs.
He stared around him. “What have you done with all the books, then?” he inquired of a lady behind a polished desk.
“What book do you require, Sir?” she said, helpfully.
“I need to know where something is,” he said.
“Well, all the books are in order of subject matter,” she began, helpfully. “There’s Crime, over there, behind the DVDs, and then Romance, then –”
“I don’t want Romance,” said William. “That’s rubbish. I want –” here he paused. What did he want? He thought hard. “I want Banks. Where they are, I mean.”
“Well, there is a financial section upstairs, Sir. You’ll find everything you need to know about Barclays and Lloyds and so on up there.”
“I don’t want Barclays. Where’s the lift?”
“I’m afraid there isn’t one. The stairs are at the far end.”
“Are you telling me there’s no lift? How am I supposed to manage? I’ve got a dodgy knee.”
As usual, anger welled up inside him. He was about to launch into one of his tirades against the injustice of this world in not providing lifts for him when he needed one when a gentleman appeared who was welcomed by the library assistant as ‘our Mr.Fairweather who will be able to assist you, he knows a lot about banks,’ after which she disappeared with relief.
Mr. Fairweather, who did indeed know a lot about banks, was able to point William in the right direction. The bank was a building society called the Protect and Save and it was situated on the High Street. Mr. Fairweather gave him detailed instructions, then explained that the No. 74 bus would take him straight there.
On the way out, he came across a desk where they issued, or at least allowed you to apply for, bus passes. He had not got one. Why hadn’t he got one? Those Social men should have got him one. They had failed in their duty of care again! He could catch this No. 74 and go straight there! That library man had said so. He became very angry. By the time he had got to the desk and was engaging with the hapless young woman who staffed it he was already furious.
“How can I help you, Sir?” inquired the assistant brightly with a beaming smile.
“Why haven’t I got a bus pass?” he shouted, waving his umbrella.
“Well, when did you apply for one?”
“I didn’t. I think I should just have got one, not have to go through all this rigmarole.”
“Well, all I want is your address and a few personal details. Have you got proof of identification, a debit or credit card perhaps?”
That set him off again. “It’s as bad as the bank. I know who I am. I just want a bus pass so that I can get to the bank. To get a debit card,” he added. “Then I can prove who I am.” That’ll floor her, he thought. But she continued with her list of questions.
She persevered. “What is your date of birth?”
That was difficult. He had no idea. “May 11th,” he said, “1912.”
She looked at him suspiciously. “You don’t look that old.”
“Are you going to give me my bus pass or not?” He waved his umbrella menacingly. The girl looked round in desperation. She was saved by the arrival of Mr. Fairweather and another senior assistant. The senior assistant unfortunately remembered William from his previous visit to the library. Shortly after William found himself outside the building again, having been escorted by the two men, despite his noisy protests.
“I shall take the matter further,” he shouted, as they turned to go back inside.
“You do that, Mr. Penfold,” replied the senior assistant. And that was that.
“Prats,” muttered William. The whole world was against him. He marched up the street and endeavoured to remember the instructions from Mr. Fairweather. Rather surprisingly, he did find the High Street and, eventually, the Protect and Save Building Society.
It was closed.
William felt he had never been so angry. Here he was, a man of substance, with £4,000 in his wallet (suddenly he remembered it wasn’t! He hadn’t brought the lorry driver’s money with him!) and a further £3,000 in an account and he couldn’t get inside to demand a cheque book. Perhaps it was for the best. But still they ought to be open. How could people like himself conduct their substantial and important financial affairs when they were not given their bus passes and were then messed about by tinpot bureaucrats like people who worked in banks?
He set off home, longing for a drink and for someone to let off steam to. He paused on the way home to buy a few food and drink essentials, cornflakes, a large pork pie, bottles of beer and so on with some of the £300 from the Social Services men, which he discovered he had with him. When he got home he was greeted enthusiastically by the cat and settled down to have a calming drink. What a day! He pondered his options. He had no idea when the Protect and Save would be open again. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe they’d gone on holiday. Who knows? He thought of the credit card company. He had to pay that money. He’d told God he would pay them. It was a Debt of Honour.
He found the envelope they had sent him. He needed to send them £4,097. Slowly, he began to put 82 £50 notes into the envelope. It was no use. It just wasn’t big enough. Once more he had been defeated by organisational incompetence. Grumbling and muttering, he thought what to do. He looked again at the large brown envelope in which the money had originally been given to him by the lorry driver. There was still money in there of course. There was no name or address on it. He could use that. So slowly, carefully, he began to sort it all out, putting 82 £50 notes into the large brown envelope. When he had done that he remembered that the credit card company had demanded £4090. There had been a sizeable fee for delivery, on top of the bill for his umbrella and so on. He looked at the money he had been left by the Social men and also whatever money he had left of his own, plus the £1,000 left over from the lorry driver. He could only assemble £4,100 but it would have to do. Feeling rather grand and rich he inserted the paperwork from the credit card company and signed it, writing ‘Keep the Change’ in big letters across the form. He signed all the bits that appeared to need a signature. He sealed the envelope, relieved at having done his duty.
At that point, he realised he had put the piece of paper with the credit card address on it inside the brown envelope. Anger welled up again but there was absolutely no-one he could blame for the incident but himself. He calmed down with relief when he found he still had the empty envelope from the credit card company. Carefully, he copied the address. He wondered if one first class stamp would cover it. Probably not, he thought, they get you for everything these days. All he had to do now was buy the stamps tomorrow and send it off.
He did wonder if they would be annoyed at getting their money in cash but the thought did not really trouble him. People were glad enough to get any money back, he reckoned; they weren’t going to say no. They should consider themselves lucky to have got it at all. With that thought still uppermost in his mind, he went to the kitchen to make himself a meal. Ginger came with him.
He had another fry up of sorts, which was quite filling and satisfactory, and fed the cat, who seemed to like cooked sausage as much as raw. Remembering the laundry he wondered if any of it would have to be ironed. The bed linen could go straight onto the bed, no question. T-shirts – no, underwear – no – trousers? His old blue trousers that he had been wearing before the arrival of the cream, red-striped ones? Yes, perhaps they could do with a bit of smartening up, he reckoned. But that was all. He gathered up the sheets, pillow cases and, with what turned out to be a duvet cover, he set off upstairs. There he discovered the irritating difficulty inherent in putting a duvet cover onto a duvet; in the end he completely lost his temper and just laid the cover on top of it. ‘That’ll have to do,’ he told Ginger, who had come upstairs with him. But the room looked a little fresher and cleaner for his efforts. He wandered into the other bedroom, which didn’t contain anything much, just a few bits and pieces of furniture and a large rug. He looked out of the window. He looked down at his garden, which seemed to consist of unidentifiable rubbish, with an old, broken-down shed at the bottom, next to the gate which led out to the alley beyond.
“Garden’s a disgrace, Ginger,” he said. “P’raps I’ll try to clear it up a bit.”
He looked at Mrs. Brenner’s garden. That was a garden, a proper garden, with flowers and things. Already it was beginning to look a bit overgrown. The grass needed mowing, bushes needed cutting back, the hedge needed clipping. He remembered God’s instructions – TLC for Mrs. B. and he, William, had to start to ‘do something more’. It wasn’t something he would have chosen to do, he knew. What did he know about gardening? Anyway, he hadn’t got any gardening tools. But wait, there might be something in the near-derelict tumbledown old shed at the bottom of his own garden. He didn’t think that he’d ever been in it, actually. There could be something left by the previous tenant. He’d have a look tomorrow.
With that thought he turned, went downstairs carefully, because of the cat, and set off for the pub.
The pub was not a success that night. They were holding a quiz and he and Jimmy hadn’t got a team and no-one seemed to want them to help make up theirs. They shouted out whatever they thought was the correct answer whenever they could but it never was and they gave up after a while. ‘Quizzes,’ said Jimmy, “get in the way of intelligent conversation.’
“Yes,” said William, mournfully. “They’re not interested in the right answers, anyway.”
“No,” said Jimmy. “They just make ’em up.”
As he made his unsteady way home that night, he began to be beset by unwanted thoughts. Why had he been thrown out of so many places? Twice he had been ejected from the big supermarket, once when he was, wrongfully and embarrassingly, accused of shoplifting and once again, when he was on his mobility scooter and had actual money to pay for things. Twice he had been thrown out of the library, the last time just for asking for a bus pass. He couldn’t remember what the problem was the first time. He’d thrown the social workers out of his house at least once. Wherever he went there were always rows. Why were there always rows? Why didn’t he have friends, other than Jimmy Donovan? And he didn’t count him as a friend, you couldn’t talk to Jimmy Donovan. The man was basically an idiot. He was just there as a drinking mate. He did remember Mrs. Brenner’s reference to ‘my friend Mr. Penfold’ though and that cheered him up a little.
When he let himself in Ginger met him in the hallway and began to demand food and fuss. “Well, it’s you and me against the world I guess, Ginger,” he said. He fed the animal and took a couple of bottles of beer back to the sitting room, with some cheese biscuits he’d forgotten he’d bought. He sat on the sofa in a cloud of grumpy self-pity.
“Do I drink too much because I’m miserable, Ginger, or am I miserable because I drink too much?”
The cat did not express an opinion but went to sleep next to him. Usually anger welled up inside of him, anger at everything that gone wrong, that had landed him in this kind of purposeless life, anger at everything and everybody, but tonight the fires were muted, stilled. He was afraid. Did that mean that the demons were coming, that depression was slowly creeping up on him, ready to bring him down? Was he due for another spell in the place with the red curtains? What had they done there? Had they been trying to get him to drink less? Or was it a place where you learned to stop being so angry and recall the past? He opened another bottle whilst he considered this.
After five minutes’ earnest consideration, he said, “Load of nonsense. Well, bedtime, Ginger, where are you going to sleep?” The cat elected to go with him to the foot of the stairs and, very unsteadily in William’s case, they both climbed to the top and went into the reasonably tidy front bedroom, with the clean duvet cover spread out and William’s new pyjamas neatly folded on the pillow.
“Tell you what, Ginger. I’ll see if there’s anything to be done about Mrs. B.’s garden tomorrow. Or mine. And we’ll buy a few more things and see if we can get a bus pass as well. After all, we have got £1,000 in ready cash, £300 from the Social men and over £3,000 in the bank, even if I can’t get at it. What do you think of that then?”
The cat ignored his comments, jumped on the bed and curled up ready for sleep, whilst William pondered the problems involved in having disposable income. He didn’t want to spend it all on drink. Or on food. What was it God had said? ‘There’s more to life than artichokes.’ Very profound. God had told him to ‘Do More’. That non-specific directive had made him angry at first, but, come to think of it, although he could still feel a certain nagging anger that the bank had been shut, maybe it was something to do with their opening hours, he suddenly thought. He’d get a cheque book somehow. It was his human right. And he would ‘do more’. With that he too fell asleep.