Next day dawned bright and sunny again. He had a little bit of a hangover and it took him some time to work out why, as he had usually had a few drinks the night before and rarely felt any ill effects. Ah yes – the pub! The atmosphere, the congratulations, the handshakes! He remembered it all distinctly, though he couldn’t quite fix on why that was. Something to do with the police, he thought. Gradually it all came back. The gardening episode at Mrs. Brenner’s, the police and their absurd accusations, the uproar in the police station, the lawyer, the neighbour, the Social Services chaps, the ride home, the vindication of his total innocence, the resultant congratulations – he savoured the memories at the same time as he decided, despite the hangover, to cook a proper breakfast. “Come on, Ginger,” he said to a still sleeping cat, “up you get. We’ve got a lot to do.”
He looked round the room. “Why haven’t I got a dressing gown?” he inquired of nobody in particular. “I shall buy one today,” he announced. He and Ginger descended the stairs carefully and he then began to search the kitchen for anything that might make up a decent breakfast. He found some bacon, eggs, sausages, bread, cornflakes, tea and some pork pie which looked as though it needed eating up. He fed Ginger first with a tin of cat food he found lying on the table (he had no idea where it had come from) and followed it up with some milk. Then, with some gusto, he began to cook himself the best breakfast he had had in months.
Afterwards, he had a good shower and took care with his shaving and dressing. At that point he suddenly thought of his computer. Surely he should fill God in with all that had happened? Well, of course, He would already know, being God and a super know-all, but all the same he felt he should at least tell Him what had happened when he had tried to Do More, as He had advised him. It hadn’t gone how he’d planned, but nevertheless it had all turned out alright, as it happened. So he sat down at his computer and called up his emails.
Dear God
I did try to Do More, like you suggested, but Mrs. Brenner’s garden proved to be a bit difficult, due to that Mrs. Watson making a big mistake and the police being quite disgraceful. I would report them, only I don’t know who to report them to. Do you think the Home Secretary is the right person to deal with it?
I am beginning to feel much more myself now, thank you very much for your help, although I can’t remember anything about why I’m living here, or where I used to live before. Do you think it matters? I would go and visit Mrs. Brenner again only I haven’t got the scooter thing and I haven’t got a bus pass yet so don’t go on about her needing TLC because the journey is impossible with Ginger. I think the garden is probably a bit beyond me.
Have you got any more good suggestions?
I am paying all my debts to the Credit Card Company.
Yours sincerely
William Penfold
Administrative Manager
He studied this for some time before deciding it was suitable. Eventually he pressed Send and set off for the shops, taking the large envelope addressed to the credit card company with him, which he had found inexplicably lying behind the toaster, with the Social people’s instructions, when he was looking for his pills.
His visit to the post office provoked a bit of a scene as he was unaware that large envelopes now cost more, according to size, than small ones, and his protests at the injustice of it met with no response. But as he was unlikely to be sending any more large envelopes he eventually ceased shouting about it. He paid up and continued on his way to the mini-market. There he stocked up with various basics, some impulse buys and as much beer and lager as he could carry. Fortunately there were no artichokes. He tried to remember where the dressing gown shop was but his mental map of the streets became fuzzy so he gave up and went home. He bought himself a newspaper to bone up on the Prime Minister, as he put it to himself.
Once home, he poured himself a lager, fed the cat and they both settled down on the sofa to consider matters. He felt a little different, he thought. More in control – that was it. More solid. Less – what was the word? Less excitable. Less likely to launch into one of his furious tirades. Certainly the world was quite mad, these days, not like the days when, but there was nothing he could do about it. You couldn’t put it all right, could you? Perhaps it was actually something to do with the days when. Perhaps the Social people were right. Perhaps it would be better for him to remember things as they were in the days when, then he would know, somehow, when it was alright for him to lose his temper in these new days that he didn’t understand and when it was not a good thing to do. Thinking about this was complicated and he began to feel a bit tired. At the back of it all was another question. Where did God come into it? What about the emails?
His train of thought was interrupted by a ring on the doorbell. It was Mrs. Watson! The one who had reported him to the police but who had then come round to apologise yesterday. Still feeling guilty and thinking that she had lost some standing in the eyes of her neighbours, she obviously wanted to make amends. Her method of making amends consisted of bringing round an apple pie and a small pot of cream. William was enormously impressed. No-one, as far as he knew, had ever given him an apple pie before. Life was certainly looking up. He didn’t quite know what to do, what the etiquette was when receiving an apple pie from a hitherto largely unknown neighbour, but in the end he invited her in for a cup of coffee.
Mrs. Watson settled down on William’s sofa, stroked Ginger and started to chat. “Your name’s William, isn’t it? Mine’s Maisie. You live on your own, William?”
“Yes.”
“You ever been married?”
No question she might have asked could be more awkward than that one. Had he been married? He had no idea. What on earth could he say? It was embarrassing. Desperately he looked at the ceiling but the answer was not written up there. In the end he said, in a rather strangled voice, “I don’t like to talk about it.”
But in Maisie Watson’s ears no answer could have been more satisfying. It was now obvious that William was a Mystery Man, with a Romantic Past. That was why he was drinking and being miserable. He had been Hurt Badly by some unspecified woman. As William had said he didn’t like to talk about it Maisie Watson was left with the enjoyable business of filling in the unknown parts of his life and her imagination was richly satisfying. She couldn’t wait to call on Freda Jenkins to impart her ‘ideas’ which, in her eyes, had become ‘news’.
Before she left, she invited William to attend the line dancing class at the Community Institute, next door to the library, which she said would bring him out of himself and do him a world of good. William doubted this very much as he had no idea what line dancing was and as far as dancing was concerned, he knew very well somehow that he couldn’t do the foxtrot and it would be wise not to try. However, Maisie left him a booklet about the classes, which she ‘just happened to have in her handbag’, and went on her way, well pleased with the morning’s efforts. William obviously needed someone to look after him and tidy him up a little. TLC – that was all. Then he would be alright. End of, as her grandson would say. She had only got to work out which one of her circle of female friends would be the one to work the miracle.
After Maisie had gone William continued his searching thoughts, which required a drink to see him through. Why had Maisie’s question thrown him? He’d given the best answer he could, in the circumstances, nevertheless, the whole subject bothered him. Had he been married? What were his relationships with women like? Could he remember having sex? Did he find women irritating? Or interesting? Normally, when faced with puzzling thoughts, he would shrug it all off. If he couldn’t solve it, well, forget it. Not worth getting himself into a stew about it. But, just for a moment, he wondered. He supposed the Social people knew his history. They often asked him about the past, invited him to talk about it, He always brushed them off, refused the invitation. Yet they must know something of his history. How much did they know and would they tell him if he asked?
Eventually, after going round in circles for several minutes, he said, “Bloody great mystery, Ginger. I think I’m best off without all that ‘once upon a time’ stuff, don’t you? What’s it matter what happened in the days when? Who cares? I’m doing alright at the moment. Got money in my pocket, got money in the bank. Got somewhere to live and people who bring me apple pies. Even got God on my side. Can’t be bad.”
He decided to make a list. He found a pen down the side of the sofa. It had probably belonged to Denis. Then he looked for a piece of paper. Eventually he made his list on the back of the Social people’s instructions; it seemed to be the only piece of paper he had.
The list was as follows:
Make sure the Socials give me my bus pass
Get a cheque book
Buy a dressing gown
Think about what to do with the money
Look at the booklet that the apple pie woman gave me.
The garden
What about a telephone?
He studied this at length. Really, the first three were dependent on the return of Denis and Robert. They knew where everything was. They wouldn’t be coming back for a while though. He couldn’t remember exactly when they had last been with him but it wasn’t so far back so it would be a week or two before they turned up again. Still he could wait a while yet, though it would be nice to have a bus pass, he thought, a little wistfully.
Now for the money. He had the best part of £1,000 in cash. And £3,000 plus in the bank. And what was left of the £300 the Social people had left him with. What was he going to do with all that?
He thought perhaps he would keep the money that was in the bank and try not to touch it, which was, after all, the advice of Denis and Robert, but he would spend the rest of it however he liked. It might lead to some difficulties in explaining his new-found affluence away but tough. He’d think of something. He felt invigorated at the thought of making decisions.
Idly, he picked up the booklet the apple pie woman had left lying on the table and studied the possibilities. You could do all sorts at the Community Institute, he discovered. Birdwatching. China painting. Bridge. Cooking for beginners. Advanced cookery. Scrabble. Art history. Life drawing. Pottery. Sculpture in stone. French. Italian. There were so many things people seemed to want to do. “Absolute rubbish, most of ’em,” he told Ginger. You even had to pay to do these ridiculous things! Line dancing for instance. The apple pie woman had wanted him to go to that. But that was not his thing. Definitely not.
“I’ll have to think about these classes,” he told Ginger. “Most of them are in the evening. I’m not sure if it’s worth missing the pub.”
He looked at the rest of his list. The garden! It was a rubbish-strewn mess out there. He really couldn’t manage gardens. He realised that after his abortive attempt to manage Mrs. Brenner’s. Couldn’t he get it paved over or something? There were several adverts in the booklet, one of which was about providing patios and paving for modern gardens. You had to phone them up and ask for a quotation. That’s what he would do. He’d have it all paved over. Flattened. Tidied up. He’d get in touch with Perfect Patios tomorrow.
Brilliant! The last thing on his list was a telephone. Everyone seemed to have a mobile phone these days. Why didn’t he have one? If he had one, he could get an estimate from this paving firm.
“You see what you can achieve with a bit of careful thought, Ginger,” he observed. “Now let’s go and fix something to eat.”
The next few days passed peacefully enough, if you discount a letter of severely-worded admonition from William’s credit card company. The idea of sending over £4000 in the post in cash had apparently caused uproar and great concern in their offices and, should he ever feel tempted to do any such thing again, they would withdraw his card. It was entirely reprehensible behaviour on the part of Mr. Penfold and his final flourish of ‘Keep the Change’ was not viewed as humorous or acceptable and they had added that amount towards his next payment. His actions had been dangerous and risked losing his money to opportunistic thieves and the company was appalled and would not be held liable for any loss if Mr. Penfold did anything so outrageously foolish again.
“Well they accepted the money, Ginger,” said William, “told you they would. Pompous sods. They should be glad they got anything at all.”
William concentrated on home improvements. He found an old radio at the back of a drawer in the old chest of drawers in his bedroom. He bought some batteries for it and put it in the kitchen. He bought some teacups and mugs, in case the apple pie woman came again and maybe brought her friends and hopefully some more pies, also some plates and – this was a great step forward, he bought a sugar bowl. He also began to tidy up the conglomeration of cans and bottles which lurked everywhere, not only in the kitchen. He found three underneath the sofa, which he put carefully in the dustbin. He bought another baseball cap, this time in red. There was a bath mat for the bathroom and a new, very large towel.
He also picked up a newspaper as he felt that he should be more up to date with the news. Somewhere it might say in it who the Prime Minister was. Then the Social people couldn’t trip him up any more. The various items of news astonished him. He had no idea things out there were so bad and some of the things people got up to were shocking. Some of the scandals were amazing and he found them very absorbing. The Prime Minister didn’t seem to be mixed up in them so he didn’t find out what his name was. He’d have to use the Internet if he really wanted to know. How had he let himself get so out of touch?
His next enterprise concerned the question of a mobile phone. He didn’t really know where to get one of these. Then he remembered that the big supermarket, where he had bought his new towel, stocked them. What sort did he want? He knew there were lots of different sorts and people had a lot of trouble with them. You were always being told to turn them off. Well, he wasn’t going to go to the trouble of buying one only to be told to turn it off. He needed one in order to phone the paving people. So his would be on all the time if he wanted it to be. He could feel the anger rising up inside him already at the threatened interference into his freedom to phone people.
It was still troubling him by the time he went to the pub. Jimmy Donovan wasn’t there, as it happened, but William was a known face in the pub now, since his run-in with the Old Bill, and total strangers offered to buy him a drink. When he started to explain his problem about what sort of mobile he needed to buy he was overwhelmed with advice. He was steered towards buying a pay-as-you-go model and the name was written down for him so that he wouldn’t have too much unwanted interference from the supermarket manager. William explained his dislike of the manager and was cheered up to discover that several of the pub’s customers also disliked him and had had arguments with him. “You get what you want, William, he’s well out of order, you tell him where he can put his artichokes.” William felt encouraged.