AAA White Robed Angel & Other Stories

WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES
WHITE ROBED ANGEL

The patients knew she was an angel – that white robed figure who slowly and silently moved
through the dim night hours in Ward Eight of Huddersfield Royal Infirmary. Some people do not
believe in angels, and I understand why they do not. But I do!
Angels come in all shapes and sizes. Their existence does not depend on whether people do or do
not believe in them. Most think of angels as diaphanous spirits floating down from heaven to
minister to people in times of need, before returning to ethereal realms. This angel was not
visiting from heaven. She was an earthling, who did not know it, but was on her way to paradise.
The angel’s name was Norma. We had been married for almost thirteen years when she became
ill. Initially it seemed to be nothing more serious than a sore throat. She took a turn for the
worse, becoming hoarse, tired, and weak. I drove her to the hospital, insisting that a doctor
examine her. The doctor ordered tests and x-rays.
The test results and x-rays came back. The young physician was taciturn, avoiding my gaze. “I
think we’ll keep her in,” he said. “We need to do further tests.” I wheeled her into the reception
ward, hugged her long and hard, and left for home. When I returned with her necessities, she was
in bed in Ward 8.
She was gratified that something was being done and after some rest, she was more like the
happy, laughing woman everyone knew. I spent each day with her and she had many visitors.
Friends and neighbours flocked to see her, bringing her flowers, fruit, chocolates, and the
mandatory energy drinks.
Her happiest day was the Sunday three of her four surviving children visited. They spent the day
talking, remembering, and laughing. She loved to laugh, but her greatest attribute was her
impulse to loving service. Although now enfeebled by disease, she obeyed the divine impulse to
serve others, shuffling painfully through the ward, seeing to the needs of others.
A young girl, struggling to come to terms with life, lay listless and morbid. Tattooed, pierced, her
arms bearing the scars of frequent self-mutilation, ostracised by her fellow-patients, brooding, and
depressed. Norma encouraged her to think positively about herself and the possibilities of her
life.
In the bed across from Norma was an old lady. Everything she ate came back. Norma soothed
and comforted, encouraging her to take a little nourishment to get strong enough to fight the
illness that was sapping her vitality.
One elderly Indian woman spoke little English. She had many visitors at one particular time of
each day, but for long periods after that, she was alone and unable to join in conversations.
Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

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Norma, who spoke no Urdu or Gujerati, sat on her bed and painstakingly made contact. She
understood how important it was for people to have human company if they were going to feel
good about themselves.
Many others, scattered throughout the large ward, were grateful recipients of Norma’s
ministration. She was often up in the night, comforting those who were feeling lost, or lonely, or
who were anxious, or unable to sleep. It was not easy for her to move around, because her illness
sapped her strength, and made walking difficult. However, it did not stop her from visiting and
helping. The nurses and doctors praised her enterprise, appreciating the value of spiritual support
in healing.
In the next bed was a woman in her thirties. It was she, more than any other, who attracted
Norma’s most profound compassion. She was a tender little thing who apologised every time she
opened her mouth. She was so anxiety laden that it was painful to hear her. If she dropped a
crumb onto the bed covers, she apologised, looking as if some ogre was going to punish her. She
repeatedly complained that she was being a nuisance, and felt that she caused trouble for the staff.
One night, she called for a commode. After using it, she began to cry that she was sorry, that she
was sure she had made a mess. Would they forgive her? Norma assured her that everything was
all right. She spoke softly and encouragingly. The woman came and sat on the edge of Norma’s
bed. Norma took her hands in her own, looked her in the eye and spoke softly but directly. “You
have a Father in Heaven who loves you.” These were the last words she heard. She smiled, the
only time Norma had seen her smile, then died. How fitting that the last words she heard in
mortality were words of love, assurance, and hope.
The White Robed Angel had performed her ministry. Three weeks later, she was herself called to
a better place where, I do not doubt, she continues to minister to fragile souls who need to learn
that through all the disappointments and anxieties of life, they have a Father in Heaven, and he
loves them.

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COME BACK DEREK HARROWBY,

ALL IS FORGIVEN!
As a child, I had an almost pathological dislike for red hair. The origin of my distaste is hard to
determine. Red haired people did not figure large in my childhood, so I am at a loss to understand
how my aversion began, and why it continued past my teenaged years.
One boy in my class at school had red hair. His name was Derek Harrowby. Our paths crossed
infrequently, except in my last year when he decided to take over bullying me.
I didn’t like bullying. Probably because I was an easy target. A smallish lad with no fight in him.
The fight, if I ever had any, had evaporated before the power of all the grown-ups who had
dominated my life since the first stirrings of my memory.
I first went to school when I was two-and-a-half years old. Then, due to the tragic event that took
place in Europe in September 1939, nursery school was immediately suspended, and I stayed
home until the following January, when my fifth birthday qualified me to attend infants’ school.
I have few distinct memories of those early years. Of some classes, I have but a single memory:
of others, none at all. Yet, though the events have slipped out of my mind, the pain of alienation
and oppression I felt remains distinct.
I should add that I did not suffer a lot of bullying. Most of the time I was merely treated with
disdain, as though I was invisible. That was less painful than the physical bullying that I
experienced from time to time. However, these episodes did not last long. Principally, because I
usually collapsed in a heap before the onslaught. The ‘cave-in’ invariably ended the attack.
I was bullied by a variety of boys. Some of the smaller boys did so under the tacit approval of
their bigger, more fearsome friends, who stood near in case I ever fought back. I never did. I do
not recall suffering any serious injury other than loss of dignity in front of my peers, and the small
death that occurred unseen and unheard inside me on these occasions. Many others suffered at the
hands of the ferocious and bold who seem to have been regularly fed on raw meat. No small
accomplishment in war time.
To be fair, Derek Harrowby was not a regular bully, only an occasional one. It was a surprise,
therefore, to find myself being pushed backwards through the school playground one lunch time
by this ginger-haired lad. Surrounded by bloodthirsty boys, calling to see my blood, he poked and
prodded me into retreat until he had me trapped in front of the schoolhouse door.
Then, something inside me snapped. I will never forget his look of triumphant satisfaction as he
exulted in his absolute power over me. Nor will I forget the look on his face when my fist shot

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out and bloodied his nose, felling him as if he were a sack of potatoes. His supporters were
stunned onto silence. I was stunned into an angry tirade.
It was as if all the pent-up anger accumulated over the years by those times when I had been
petrified and unable to frame any response to bullies, except either to flee from them, or to cower
before them trembling with fear, unable even to raise enough voice to plead for mercy. Now, I
vocalised loudly and eloquently. The savage mob that, only a second before, had bayed for my
blood, fell silent, then evaporated, leaving my tormentor quite alone and sobbing on the ground.
Dorothy had unmasked the Wizard!
It would not be fair to impute my dislike of red hair to this incident. Yet, what else to assign it to,
I do not know but, from whatever cause, I did not like red hair, and that was undeniable.
Time passed, as time does, and I met and avoided several red headed people. Of them, I
remember little except my natural disaffection. Then one day I met one who changed my attitude
to red-haired people – or ginger nuts as they are commonly referred to in England – and who also
changed my life.
My wife had gone into the maternity hospital deep in the heart of Hampshire’s New Forest, for
the birth of our first child. The day she was born, I went to the hospital to see them both. After
seeing my wife, who looked radiant in the way only new mothers can, I went to the baby unit
where the new born were stored in serried ranks of cots, facing the viewing window like so many
codlings on a fishmonger’s slab.
A nurse, whose face I did not see, carried a pink bundle to the door. I was not allowed to hold my
daughter, but I could see two things that struck me. One was her absolutely beautiful face. You
will understand that I am speaking without any special pleading or bias simply because she was
mine. She was utterly adorable - although I have been blessed with other children, none was as
beautiful as Andrea was. The second stunning thing was her hair. She had heaps of copper-
coloured hair. She was perfect and it was love at first sight!
How did I feel about her red hair? I loved it. My presuppositions and prejudices were swept
away as suddenly and as completely as the West Wind of late autumn sweeps away the dry dead
leaves of a forgotten summer in its sudden and deadly gusts. Come back Derek Harrowby! All is
forgiven!
Since that time, I have loved red hair. I have also learned that particular characteristics are a poor
foundation for character assessment. My prejudice had been exposed, tested, and forced into
retirement and my life is the better for it.
See that ye do not judge wrongfully

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BRAINS VERSUS BRAWN

It was a long way down to the kitchen from the attic bedroom I shared with my Granddad
Bennett. Seven days a week he woke before the rest of the household was stirring, lit the fire, and
turned on the electric oven to warm up the lodger’s breakfasts that had been prepared and placed
in it the previous evening.
His scraping out of the coal ash from the fire grate in the room that served as dining room and
sitting room for everyone except Nanny, as we called Grandma Bennett, could be heard through
the wide chimneys in each of the rooms on the three stories above. This acted as an unscheduled
alarm, rousing the occupants from deep sleep to meet the demands of each new day.
Only on Sundays were breakfasts cooked from scratch. Sunday was a special day; the day of
fried eggs and bacon. Even in my rooftop haunt, I could smell Sunday, as its special aroma
drifted upwards through the house. However, on common days, the breakfasts were piled into the
ageing Creda cooker the night before to await a flick of the ‘on’ switch.
The lodgers grumbled down to breakfast according to their job commencement times. Most
works started at 7 30 am then, although one job I had meant a 7 00 am start. However, due to my
inability to get up in the mornings, I never ate breakfast. I would jump from my bed, dress whilst
still asleep, and leave the house at a gallop, racing to see who would reach the bus stop first, the
diesel fume belching conveyance or me. Most days it was a close run thing. This unfortunate
condition of rising late and with reluctance lasted until I became a soldier, when less licence was
given to individual preferences such as what time to rise.
There was only one occasion when I got up before my Granddad, and on that occasion I decided
to play the good fairy and switch the oven on for him. I had never turned the oven on before. In
our house, there were many things that children did not do. Among these, housework and
cooking were pre-eminent. Because I never ate breakfast, I was not familiar with the culinary
delights provided to titillate the palates of our Epicurean boarders. Nevertheless, it was common
knowledge that Granddad turned the oven on after he had got the fire started.
Although I rose in time for breakfast on my Good Deed Day, as was customary, I did not, eat
breakfast. My thinking was that I was being helpful to my Granddad for whom, of all my family,
I had most affection due to his kindness and the attention he paid me. The switch-knob made a
satisfying “click” as my helpful fingers turned to the ‘on’ position. My work was done. I felt
satisfied, almost, but not quite, smug. “How that would please him,” I mused as I imagined his
face at finding the oven turned on and breakfast warming nicely. It has been said that what you
don’t know can’t hurt you. That morning, I learned that this was not an absolute truth.
At his usual time Granddad came down, lit the fire, and then went into the kitchen to see to the
oven. He came back a few minutes later bearing his morning pot of tea. Of the oven, he spoke

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not a word. I imagined that he would thank me later: now his incredibly bushy eyebrows were
buried down to their roots in a hot, sugary pot of strong tea. I waited in timeless silence.
Children did not initiate conversation with adults, so I was not able to broach the subject of the
oven.
 What I didn’t know was that when he went into the kitchen, he did not check the
oven.
 What I didn’t know was that he did not check it because had no reason to check it.
 What I didn’t know was that not all breakfasts needed to be warmed up.
 What I didn’t know was that some breakfasts couldn’t survive heat.
 What I didn’t know was that the physical properties of slices of the inexpensive but
delicious meat-jelly, known locally as brawn, would melt into almost nothingness even
in the presence of a gentle heat.
 What I didn’t know was that by some quirk of the malignant fate that dogs the
faltering steps of fools, the oven was filled with plates of brawn.
Five lodgers duly went to the oven and collected plates of puzzling warm gravy. Gingerly
carrying them to the dining table, they scrutinised breakfast in minute detail before reaching for
doorstep-sized pieces of bread with which to soak up the brown slop before eating it. The
comments at the table were mostly negative.
Some people, like brawn, can not stand heat. They need special treatment, special care, and more
tenderness than most folk, to safeguard their fragile natures. There are times in each of our lives
when we will need special consideration for our own special needs.
Children need our gentleness. There are also adults who need special nurturing and care, who
would wilt and dissolve if we were not to shield them from the fires of anger, the heat of
disapproval, the flames of harsh criticism and the bitter antagonism of enmity.
To these we must extend out protection from the harshness of life, shelter them from what they
cannot bear, and surround them with our tender love. It is a duty that cannot be lightly laid aside,
and will not go unanswered.
Because thine heart was tender …

I also have heard thee, saith the LORD

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MAD DOGS AND SINGAPOREANS

GO OUT IN THE NOONDAY SNOW
Chandra became our lodger after we saw him standing bewildered in the foyer of our church on
his first Sunday in England. He explained that he had just arrived in Huddersfield to study Law at
the University. He said that he had come to England from Singapore with nothing but a few
clothes and a lot of faith that the Lord would see him alright as far as getting his tuition fees for
the university and the means to pay for a place to live.
He had found a room in a lodging house on his arrival, but told us that it was costing more than he
could afford. We took him home for dinner, got to know him better and then arranged to collect
him and his few belongings from his lodgings and provide board and lodging for him at less than
we had ever managed to collect from our own children.
Although he was twenty-six, Chandra was not possessed of that kind of wisdom necessary to
make his way in the world without careful guidance. We became quite protective towards him,
gave him good advice when necessary, and became his surrogate parents.
He was a young man who loved discovery and met it with unconfined joy. Chandra had no
median. Either he was in the deep pit of hopeless despair, usually over some point of law that he
could not understand, or elevated on wings of joy to the very pinnacle of excitement.
One day he came charging into the house after attending a service at a local evangelical church,
and began a harangue against David Jenkins, then Bishop of Durham. He had just learned of the
Bishop’s beliefs apropos the Resurrection and the Virgin Birth. He and a few of his like-minded
fellows were setting out for the Bishop’s palace the next week to confront him and make him
retract his unconscionable views. If no such retraction were forthcoming they would destroy his
office and smash his desk! It took but a few moments to douse the flames of his ardour by
pointing out that if they did demolish the Bishop’s office, they would do their faith a disservice.
Everything that Chandra did he did with utmost enthusiasm. However, since we had never been
to Singapore, there was something for which we were totally unprepared – Chandra and snow!
Chandra came to us in October. By the following February we thought that we had seen every
facet of this interesting and volatile personality who had become our son. We were wrong. One
Saturday in February, during the lunchtime conversation, his eyes turned to the window. His
mouth dropped open and his chin almost struck the table. With eyes widening alarmingly, he
pointed to the window, seemingly speechless. We had our first snow of the year. In a matter of a
few minutes about four inches lay on the ground and covered all the trees with iridescent mantles,
transforming the bleak deadness of the winter landscape into a portrait of a world made brilliantly
white. Breakfast forgotten, Chandra made a bolt for the door, leaped into the garden, then danced,

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and jumped around in the snow with uplifted arms as if it were gold pieces falling from heaven.
His cries of delight alerted our neighbour’s children, who watched bemusedly at his apparently
bizarre antics.
Being used to a long succession of cold, wet Yorkshire winters, and finding less enjoyment in
each successive one, we failed to understand why snow should be the cause of such emotion.
When he finally came back inside, eyes wildly bright, cheeks glowing, and sodden but ecstatic, he
explained breathlessly that Singapore was sub-tropical, and in all his years he had never seen
snow.
To us, snow was a nuisance that we got through the best way we could. To Chandra, snow was a
miracle - a gift from God.
The difference in our attitudes caused me to ponder how it was that what was a nuisance to me,
was a blessing to Chandra. I carried the example into other areas of my life. I was surprised by
what I found.
I discovered that I had not recognised many blessings that it had pleased God to pour upon my
head. Often I had failed to recognise God’s goodness, by failing to identify his hand in things that
had happened and, therefore, missed the enjoyment of his miracles. I complained, but Chandra
rolled in the snow. I learned a valuable lesson. No matter what comes my way now, I do my best
to roll in it. Only after we have rolled in something can we know whether it is just another
nuisance or a blessing from God.
In nothing doth man offend God,

or against none is his anger kindled,
save those who confess not his hand in all things.
Chandra taught me a great object lesson, and I have learned to grumble and moan less because of
it. It is this:
those who look for God’s hand in all things will see it,
and it will transform them.

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LUKE
Norma became ill around the beginning of September 1997. Late October her doctor told us she
had bronchial carcinoma. With treatment, he said, she might have as long as eighteen months
before she would have to leave us. She took this in her stride, sustained by her profound faith in
the Saviour’s promises. Three weeks later she died in my arms.
After her funeral at the end of November, Joanne invited me to stay with her and Nick at Telford,
120 miles from Huddersfield. I needed that. I wasn’t ready to face an empty house.
Jo and Nick have three bright sons. At that time, Joseph was four, Thomas two, and Luke a
bubbly 10 months. Spending time with the boys and being a full-time grandfather helped ease
some of the pain of Norma’s death. I planned to stay with Jo and the boys through Christmas,
then return home.
I felt a wonderful peace knowing that Norma was in a better place and that her suffering had
ended, but I missed her terribly. Ours had been a loving, happy marriage lasting twelve and a half
years, and even being with Jo’s family, I felt alone.
One day, I laid face down on the living room carpet in front of the fire to rest. Luke toddled over
to me, climbed onto my back and snuggled down, his face wreathed in smiles. It was so cute that
someone took a photograph.
From that time, Luke and I have been inseparable. When I sit, he climbs onto my lap, looks into
my eyes, and snuggles his head into my chest with his arms reaching under my jacket. At times
he pulls back, looks into my eyes, smiling broadly, before planting kisses on my mouth, then
snuggling down again.
Since the time my own children had been babies, I had never known such affection from a child:
it was unexpected, miraculous, and fulfilling. By some miracle deep inside him, Luke had
become my consolation. He supplied the balm that eased my pain and assuaged my loneliness.
Jo said that when I was not there he could be a monster, but that he was always angelic in my
presence.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After almost a year had passed, I told Jo that I was planning to remarry. She was horrified. She
felt that I was being disloyal to her mother and that I should never remarry. I tried to explain,
but she could not understand. She made it plain that I was no longer welcome.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For almost four months, I did not visit Jo and her boys. It was a sorrowful season and while I did
not yield to melancholy, my spirit brooded, distressed by the awful anguish of separation.

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Eventually, I decided to risk a hostile reception. I bought some sweets – I always had my pockets
filled with sweets when I visited – and drove to Telford. I decided to and ask her if she would
give the sweets to the boys, so they didn’t think I had forgotten them. When I got there, they
were out in the garden in the sunshine. The boys were so excited, and Jo took me in the house
and made me welcome.
What happens to time in childhood? It must be that children do not mark the passing of time, but
stack events into broad categories unrelated to time. The boys were overjoyed to see me. Luke
saw me, beamed, and raising his arms for me to lift him up, snuggled into my shoulder as if he
had seen me only the day before. I was home again. I still had painful moments when I knew
that I was not fully accepted by my daughter and that my upcoming remarriage was viewed with
hostility.
In December 1998, I travelled to Arizona to marry my bride, Gay, returning to England with her
in January 1999. It was some time before we felt able to visit Jo and the boys. But, when we did,
although Jo was guardedly friendly, the boys were as warm as ever, and Luke was still my baby.
Then, Luke decided he would become Granddad. Pushing a cushion up his shirt and tying a
pretty hair bow around his neck as if it was my bow tie, he announced, “I’m granddad! I got
sweeties!” whilst dispensing Lego bricks from his bulging pockets.
Sometimes he would come toward me with outstretched arms, calling me “My baby,” as I call
him. Often, he breaks off from his play to come across, hug, and kiss me.
Because babies change everyone thought that Luke would outgrow this magical affection.
Children grow up and find other interests. But they don’t grow out of love, nor do they tire of
being loved. And granddads don’t stop loving their grandchildren or their children, however hard
that gets!
One thing is sure: some kinds of love, like some friendships, are made in heaven, and that’s the
kind Luke and I have. The sort of love that never wears out, whether we are in the world or out of
it.
I thank God for Luke, my blessing, and my consolation. I thank God for love. Love is the source
of life, the gift of a loving God. It is solace to the despairing, and a light to those who dwell in the
crushing darkness of loneliness.

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Meadomsley Days
When I was about thirteen, I went on a week’s holiday to Meadomsley near Consett in County
Durham. I stayed with relatives of my stepfather, Tommy Scott. The house was an old
farmhouse whose people had retired from farming to enjoy their old age.
Like most country folks, they couldn’t cut their farming ties and so they kept a pig to fatten and a
yard full of hens. It was a small quaint house built of small red bricks made in ancient times.
What remained of the farm had that comforting smell of permanence and the tangible memory of
deep roots, settled customs, and country manners.
It was a sunny week and the people were nice, gentle, and not demanding. I enjoyed the sunshine,
watching the hens, sketching the house, and stroking the pig whose name was Bonny. It was a
place where I enjoyed that strange feeling of ‘otherness’ that always came when I had escaped by
distance and custom from my own home and family. Consequently I have always loved to travel
and experience the freedom of being unknown and unjudged.
For a whole week, Meadomsley was a springboard to other joys. Country walks began just
outside the house door. Leafy lanes invited me to walk along them and gawp at the sights. The
country church, older than living memory, had been the place for the rites of passage for those of
simple faith whose ancestors had wrested their living from the land round about, and were now
laid to rest in that fertile soil.
Walking through the countryside on sunny days was the nearest I ever got to timelessness. I have
felt this in different places and different lands when life’s demands have been eased for a time and
duty briefly laid aside. The pleasant warmth of the sun is akin to being caressed: an important
event for those who need to be caressed and touched as confirmation of their humanity and worth,
however small that worth is felt to be. It is for a stolen moment ‘to be’ and to know that one ‘is,’
and is, perhaps, a foretaste of true heaven.
Those sun-bathed days spent within the kindliness, patience, and generosity of an old couple I did
not know, and whose faced have long since slipped from memory, but who selflessly extended
their simple benevolence to an unattractive town boy they did not know, stand as some of the few
truly Golden Days of an unhappy childhood.
All too soon, the week was gone. I was wistful on the journey home. The nearer I got to home,
the more the dark clouds gathered themselves about my head, plunging my thoughts once more
into the fearful mode that was normality.
Yet, like Wordsworth with his daffodils, I had a treasured memory that permitted at least
temporary escape from the harsh realities of my unhappiness, back to a time of sweet, sweet peace
in another place, in another time, under the gentle eyes of people who were at peace with

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themselves and the world. Thank God for such places. Thank God for such times. Thank God
for such people.
Even now, as I slowly climb the foothills of old age, the recollection of my Meadomsley Days
fills me with the glowing brightness of timeless sun-filled summer days, when tranquil the silence
of God’s wonderful countryside was broken only by the gentle sound of bees about their work,
and by the sweet songs of birds praising their own days of plenty. And I feel again the peace of
those placid hearts; the warmth of simple kindness remembered; and the miraculous genesis of a
half-glimpsed vision that life could be good. And my heart sings with gratitude to God, who
makes all things possible.
Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing:

thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.
Psalm 30:11

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FROM A FRIEND
When I was a young man, I ended up in jail for a spell. When the judge passed sentence, I was
immediately burdened with a burning sense of injustice that made me look at everything through
hate-coloured glasses. I grew fierce and hard to get along with and took it out on everything and
everybody.
It would not be far from the truth to say that I developed an attitude that the devil would be proud
of. No matter who spoke to me or what they said, my response was hostile and bitter. Before I
was aware, I was fast establishing a reputation of someone to avoid.
Unlike most prison inmates, I had very few friends. That was OK by me - just how I liked it.
After all, friends expected friendliness and I had little or no friendliness left in me. A chance
remark, made without antagonism might provoke a sudden punch to the nose, as the unwary
discovered to their cost.
I spent most of my free time reading in my cell. I preferred a single cell away from others so that
I did not have to either speak or listen to them.
At night, I dreamed of my children, living, I knew not where. My wife had found another love,
and had suddenly gone away taking our two small children with her. Almost every dream was a
search that ended in failure, serving only to deepen my despair.
And, in this way the months passed, and with their passing my bitterness deepened. Yet, there
was to be a turning point that came suddenly, unexpectedly, and decisively.
During the long months I had spent confined, I received no news of my wife or my children. My
own family is noted for not being letter writers, and so it was little surprise that I got no mail from
them. I had some close friends on the outside but for reasons known only to them, they neither
visited me nor wrote to me during the whole of my sentence.
On Christmas Day, after a breakfast that included the only fried egg I was offered during my ten-
month incarceration, and a dinner that was truly a traditional English Christmas dinner, we turned
out for exercise, walking in circles in the snow-covered exercise yard, beating our arms across our
bodies and stamping our feet to stave off the cold.
There was a stirring in the prison that could only be explained by the fact of it being Christmas
and that somehow, even within the grim, grey, confining walls of Winchester Prison, the Spirit of
Christmas had found place in the hearts of men more used to taking than giving, and it had made a
difference.

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But not in my heart! The hardness remained, unmoved by the day. That is, until exercise period
ended and I returned to my cell.
To my surprise, lying on my bed was an envelope. Mail? I never got mail! And on Christmas
Day when there were no mail deliveries anyway!
I picked up the envelope hardly noticing that it had no stamp and no address. Inside was a
Christmas Card bearing the logo of the Salvation Army. The hand-written message read:
‘At Christmas, God sent His Son to bring Peace

May you know His Peace
From a friend’
I burst into tears on my bed, my heart softened by an unaffected but compelling message from an
anonymous benefactor, wishing a convicted criminal he did not know a ‘Merry Christmas and
God’s Peace.’ I had forgotten the Peace of God; forgotten my Saviour’s Love, and was reminded
of both in a profound and touching way.
This simple experience of someone reaching out to me in love changed me from the bitter,
vengeful person I had become, into the softer, more tolerant and forgiving person I used to be. A
fellow-prisoner, who had tangled with me during my early months of detention, met me again
after my Christmas experience, and was forced to exclaim in obvious disbelief;
“I have never seen such a change in a human being!”
The lesson I learned that day has stayed with me. Not only do I seek the good in all people,
whether they are friendly-disposed to me or not, but I have learned to suspend judgement until I
know the whole of their story. As it has been said,
‘To understand all is to forgive all.’
Of course, I never learned who my benefactor was. But I know that had he not been filled with
the true Spirit of Christmas, which is the Love of God, I might have been left to seethe forever in
the ferment of my own hatred, and been lost to humanity. The only way I can thank him, is to
ensure that every message I give to my fellow human beings is as full of love and compassion as
was his.
Now abideth Faith, Hope, and Charity

but the greatest of these is Charity

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WHAT I LEARNED
FROM A DUCK
My good neighbour, Michael, works in an abattoir. From time to time, he arrives at my front door
with a huge joint of meat, fresh killed, as a gift. Soon after that, I eat real meat. It is not that I
don’t like proper meat – joined up meat – it is just that it if usually beyond my reach because of
cost, and that’s why I buy minced.
One day, as we chatted in the street, Michael asked me if I liked duck. Duck is not the most
popular of birds in the North of England, usually gracing the plates of more discerning and
wealthier folk. Or, it is served in Chinese restaurants as crispy duck, and people go wild about it.
I had eaten duck once in my life, as a guest at Isaac and Joan Hughes when their daughter Helen
was home for a season in between her globetrotting. In response to Michael’s question, I quickly
recalled that I had not enjoyed the duck and so I said, “Yes. I love it!”
The next day, Michael delivered a duck. I had spent some time the previous evening looking up
how to cook and serve duck in the many cookery books I have accumulated over the years. The
most straightforward way was to roast it. I prepared a roasting tin complete with trivet for the
arrival of Donald’s distant relative. When I heard his knock, I opened the door and he handed me
the duck.
Thanking him for his kindness, I hurried the parcel into the kitchen ready to begin the process of
turning raw bird into a delicious dinner that I hoped I would enjoy, but was sure I wouldn’t.
Only something was wrong. I thought, when I took the parcel from Michael, that it seemed a
little heavier than expected. I put that down to imagination and wondered whether I should go for
the simple roast or try a more adventurous duck a la orange. I got rid of that idea as quickly as it
came. This was no time to be breaking fresh ground.
However, it was much worse than that. As I pulled the bird from its wrappings, I found to my
surprise and horror that it was not ‘oven ready.’ It still had its feathers, legs, and head. What was
more, it was full of its insides. I balked, replaced the bird in the plastic, put the roasting tin and
trivet back in the cupboard, and turned off the oven.
What to do next? I considered it would be churlish to ask Michael if he would pluck and dress his
gift. Yet, I was not equipped to do it. Michael’s work at the slaughterhouse would mean that he
was able to do it, but it would not be polite to ask the giver to further embellish the gift. Other
avenues had to be explored. Then, I discovered something extremely interesting.
I asked many people if they could pluck and draw a duck. Everyone I asked assured me they
were possessed of the skills to perform the task. However, when I told them that I actually had a

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duck that urgently required their services as a plucker and drawer of wild fowl, each of them
hastily declined with what I can only describe as voluble abhorrence.
Why such inconsistency between what they said they could do and what they were willing to do?
I was completely foxed. Not only that, but I had a dead duck on my hands and had no idea what I
was going to do with it.
I recalled an incident many years ago when a farmer gave me a pheasant. That was also dead and
had its feathers and everything else that pheasants have. I knew that I had to hang it so that it
became ‘gamey.’ That’s what happened to birds shot in the Scottish Highlands that were taken to
London hanging from the back of a stage coach: by the time they got to London they were gamey.
I hung this pheasant from a rafter in the cellar and each time I went down there I had to avoid it. I
was just stalling for time, because I hadn’t a clue how to proceed. When I started having
nightmares about being pursued by dead pheasants, I decided to throw it into the back garden for
the cats.
I decided not to let the duck defeat me. Now I was older, smarter, and this was cheap meat!
Eventually I figured that if one man could do something, another man could, even if it was me. I
had read somewhere that if you plunged a bird into very hot water, its feathers almost walked out
by themselves. I did – they didn’t! I pulled so hard that, at times, lumps of duck came off with
them. In time, the duck was mostly nude. The rest of the feathers, I concluded, would burn off
during cooking.
A few sharp chops with my favourite Sabatier, and the legs, wings, neck, and head were severed
and discarded. The next bit brought me as close to nature as I ever want to be. How one medium-
sized duck can make such a mess in a kitchen, I will never know. It looked like the aftermath of
the Valentine’s Day Massacre.
Whilst the bird was roasting on top of the retrieved roasting pan and trivet, and cooking nicely in
the rekindled over, I cleaned the kitchen.
Although I read the instructions carefully, and followed them precisely, the bird died for a second
time. In fact, the first time it had merely been killed, but this time, its goose was well and truly
cooked.
This was another one of those lessons you learn if you live long enough:
If someone says they can do something, but recoil in horror when asked
to do it,
there’s probably a very good reason why you should not try to do it
yourself!

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NONE SO BLIND…
Some years ago, I taught an early morning religion class in the Seminary programme of the
church I attend. The class was held in a town about ten miles from my home, which meant an
early start each weekday to get there in time for the 6 am start.
One morning in November, I set off on my 49 cc-engined Puch moped. It was a cold, frosty
morning, and my trusty steed needed a little coaxing before ripping into life. I wrapped myself up
against the cold, wearing a thick waterproof jacket, leather gauntlets, safety helmet, and a woollen
muffler wound tightly around my neck. Movement was difficult, but it helped prevent the biting
cold from gnawing at my still-sleepy bones during the journey of around forty minutes at a top
speed of twenty-five miles an hour, if I caught a tail wind.
This morning, there was no wind; just a light frosty mist that made the landscape white and
ghostly. As I headed away from home, the haze gradually deepened. Undeterred, I pressed on,
trying hard not to wake up altogether.
The intensifying fog made houses along my route appear and disappear as if moved by some
ghostly hand. One moment they were invisible, the next they presented full-blown for a fraction
of a second before silently withdrawing into the wintry hinterland of secret things.
There was little traffic, which made my journey easier in increasingly forbidding conditions. As I
chugged over the top of Daisy Hill, my mount, straining and complaining at the steep incline,
threw out vast clouds of acrid blue smoke, from which my risible speed made it difficult to escape
until I topped the hill and sped down the other side
The short side of Daisy Hill ended abruptly at Duckworth Lane. I peered both ways before across
the junction to the precipitous descent of Crow Nest Lane, thinking that the sudden incline of the
lane would lead me into the clearness of lower ground. I was wrong.
The mist in the lane was denser than that it had been at the top of Daisy Hill. Before I had driven
yards from the junction, I came to a sudden halt. I could see nothing. The dim yellow glow of the
headlight lit up no more than a few pale inches of the profound, impenetrable gloom that was now
all around me. I was fog-bound!
My brave little mount, usually temperamental in damp weather, chugged noisily away as I
considered my options. I was less than a mile from home and could not foresee what conditions I
might meet on the road ahead, although it was hard to imagine anything worse than total
blackness that had reduced me to impotent motionless.
I had brought the bright yellow Puch moped when I lived at Heckmondwike, to ride to my early
morning Seminary class, because it was an arduous climb of almost a mile up Halifax Road from

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my home. When I was appointed to teach the class, rather than walk so hard, so far, so early, I
bought a second-hand pedal cycle. However, on my trial run I ran out of steam before getting
halfway up. That taught me an important lesson: my cycling days were over! I bought a
newspaper, scanned the classifieds, made a telephone call, took a trip, and bought my first – and
last! – moped.
Besides transporting a mountain of teaching materials and me, the moped made a notable
contribution to class discipline. Students who applied themselves to their work were rewarded by
driving it around the car park, while waiting for their rides home.
Now, its tiny engine rumbled cantankerously as it stood becalmed in an ancient lane on a frosty
Yorkshire morning, whilst I searched for a solution to my predicament.
I could dismount, I surmised, and walk beside the machine, feeling for the kerbside with my feet,
and hope that I eventually came out of fog. On the other hand, I could turn right around and go
home. It was about nine miles forward and much less back. Home, associated with warmth,
comfort, and safety, beckoned me with crushing logic.
My mind fleetingly turned to fishermen who trawl Arctic waters in winter’s treacherous
conditions. A sudden reincarnation of Walter Mitty rose inside me as I imagined myself as lost
and isolated in an iced up vessel, stranded in the dreadful darkness of an Arctic night. I came to
my senses with a long sigh of surrender.
As I sighed, I noticed that the breath of the complaint curiously warmed my nose, trapped
between my fog-damp damp muffler and the visor of the helmet. I ungloved a hand and pressed
my forefinger inside the visor to clear any condensation that might be there. It was a trivial
gesture made to delay a difficult decision.
As I slid my finger across the inside of the visor the world stood before me, uncommonly visible
and in astonishing detail as my finger swept aside the fog. The fog was of my own making, and
was confined to the few square inches of the inside of my visor! I laughed aloud at my absurdity.
A simple adjustment of my scarf prevented further self-deception, and I completed my journey in

good time.
Although I felt stupid, I was not embarrassed by the event, because it taught me a valuable lesson
about life: we can be blinded by our own thought and actions and the worst blindness within
ourselves that prevents us from seeing what is before our eyes.
As my old granny used to say,
None so blind as those who will not see.
Or, as another ancient wrote,

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Woe unto the blind that will not see.
As I press on through the journey of life, I remember when I was blind, helpless, and bewildered,
endeavouring always to avoid blindness and prejudice of my own making.

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I SHALL NOT LOOK

UPON HIS LIKE AGAIN
A TRIBUTE TO ALFIE CLEAVING
What can I say about Alfie Cleaving? Whatever I say will be inadequate to express the greatness
of the man because my impressions of him, gained over many years, are but one subjective
calculation of this interesting character. Blessed with profound sense and sensibility that
exceeded his poor education, he intuitively knew more than his education and understanding
permitted him to express. We met when I attended his "Health and Strength" club in
Huddersfield, Yorkshire.
Like everything about Alfie, the club operated on absolute essentials. The ring was a makeshift
constructed with ropes that had seen better days. The equipment was old and worn out, but it
served the needs of the club. The boxing gloves smelt of generations of sweaty hands; the
paintless weights were adorned with polished rust.
His catchment area was the world of need. He understood the imperatives of good health and the
right mental attitude - Mens sanum in corpus sanum was his watchword. He advocated Positive
Mental Attitude before it became a multi-million dollar business. All boys were welcomed, and
each received Alfie’s individual attention. He tutored with infinite patience and care, dispensing
advice like a machine gun:
If a boy was injured, Alfie tended him with his bag of potions, lotions, and liniments. His gruff,
soothing voice indicating the lad’s condition and Alfie’s prognosis. He healed everyone:
persuaded them to adopt the better life of honesty and uprightness, if that was appropriate, and
had cheerful words for all, although he never smiled. He was never jovial. His lugubrious
elongated face looked no better after shaving because of his ineradicable blue-black stubble. His
hair stood in a shock, untamed and unashamed. For Alfie, the measure of manhood was not
outward appearance, but the character of the heart - what one was when unobserved and
unaccountable.
Alfie’s dour roughness and emotionless common sense hid the greatness of this good man. He
probably never read a book, but he knew about health, strength, boxing, and character, and
dedicated his life to these objectives.
Whatever measure of success Alfie enjoyed in his life came only through what he taught to his
lads. He was short, stocky, ungainly, bow-legged with an ambling gait, and had the exaggerated
features of a dwarf. He was not cultured except he that understood the need for 'please' and 'thank
you' and while he was rough in manner and short on schooling, he was inoffensive. His gruffness

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hid a sweet, generous heart. He was a man that strangers would not approach, because he seemed
an unattractive ruffian.
He had no children, no close friends, no support system, but himself. I came to know him better
than most because of my friendship with his stepson Eric. He married to provide a home for an
unfortunate woman and her tragic son, to whom he was a reasonable stepfather. The marriage
was not a love affair: he understood his limitations. His marriage was an opportunity to help
someone in distress.
He lived in a front terrace house on Turnbridge Road without electricity. It was lit by gas and
cooking was by gas stove. The kindest way to describe the house and its furnishings would be as
‘distressed.’ His was a make-do world that recognised poverty as the normal state of things.
Alfie’s trousers never matched his jackets; he never wore a shirt or tie, preferring a jersey. Even
when he was cycling (his other passion), he wore long trousers and a jersey as his short, powerful
form propelled his cycle at amazing speeds.
Alfie’s mission was not to make the world a better place to live in, but to make men better
equipped to live in it. He expressed no political philosophy or agenda. He was a denizen of the
real world at the point where you muster your wits to survive, or submit, and go under.
I never knew what Alfie did for a living, or whether he worked. His wife was a cinder sorter at
the gas works near their home.
Her stepson, was a likeable, self-effacing lad who became schizophrenic. His mother came from
a ‘good’ family that disowned her when she turned ‘funny’ then had a baby out of wedlock. Alfie
volunteered to be their family.
The last time I saw Alfie we were both in a hurry. At something of a pace, I saw him at the same
time he saw me. It had been many years since we last met, but recognition was instant and warm.
He told me only that he was now living in Halifax, then continued to rush for his bus. To my
regret I never saw or heard of him from that day.
How many lives he touched for good we may never know, but when the Great Timekeeper rings
the bell for the final round, it will be surprising if Alfie is not among the highest ranked saints.
During my association with Alfie Cleaving, I passed from boyhood to ladhood. Although I had
eagerly anticipated this part of the growing up process, it went by unmarked. Like a traveller who
has slept past his stop and finds himself at another destination I discovered that I was older
without the sense of so becoming. Being grown up was more difficult. I expected that when I
grew up, the quality of my life would improve. It was disappointing to miss that rite of passage. I
grew older but not wiser. Yet, my life is richer because Alfie Cleaving touched it.
Knowing Alfie Cleaving taught me a great lesson. Yet, it is only in my mature years that the
lesson has found its full force. Each time I read the words that Jehovah spoke to the prophet
Samuel, I remember Alfie Cleaving, and my heart is glad.

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Look not on his countenance,

or on the height of his stature;
for the LORD seeth not as man seeth;
for man looketh on the outward appearance,
but the LORD looketh on the heart
Alfie’s heart will stand up to the Lord’s scrutiny. Thank you, Alfie.

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THE DAY MUSHROOMS FLEW

It’s a funny thing, but I always wanted to write a story entitled, “The Day the Sea Boiled.” Since
I make it a rule only to write about things I have actually experienced, it could be a long time
before I lay that title down and actually tell the story. However, I have seen flying mushrooms.
The most common unlikely flying non-flying things are pigs, but since I have never seen pigs fly,
I can’t write about them. In any case, if I did you’d never believe me, so I’m going to tell you
about flying mushrooms.
I once drove an asphalt wagon for a road building company. One job was laying a new airstrip at
a small airport in East Anglia. It took several weeks to get the strip ready for the final surface, so
that when we went to lay it, one of the road gangs had already been on site for some time.
The surfacing gang had a supervisor whose robust manner and lack of human understanding made
him an outcast. He did not eat with the workmen, and spoke only to grunt instructions or rudely
bark his displeasure. He had a rich vocabulary, and in the heat of an angry delivery of opinion
would confuse syllables from several common cuss words to create new ones. This had the
opposite effect than he intended. The gang, all grown men, took all this in their stride, allowing
his individuality to be his own concern.
His social history was unknown. The feeling was that if he was married, everyone had sympathy
for his wife, and, if he had children, that sympathy was extended to his offspring. Two things
were known about this enigmatic man, one, his legendary greed, the other, his love of
mushrooms. This is not much to know about a man, but no one had any grounds for delving
deeper.
Although he was halfway respected – he was the boss after all – he was also held in derision.
Some of the bolder men jested at his expense. Sadly, although he knew how to surface roads, that
appeared to be the extent of his wisdom. He could have been a classical idiot savant, but we
could not be sure, and no one was going to get close enough to find out. Humour was the pattern
of the asphalt gang. Even the presence of the dark overlord couldn’t change that.
My wagon was first to bowl onto the airfield that morning. The sun had risen early and was busy
warming the dew and flashing off the windows of airport buildings as I drove to the delivery
point. Ten tons of hot asphalt smouldered behind me discharging its heady fumes.
The road-laying machine was being fired up, the pans having heat applied by fierce blue flames.
With the engine switched off, I rolled down my window to talk to some of the workers waiting for
the giant machine to start. It has been said that the devil finds amusement for idle hands: here
were idle hands and the devil knew it.

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Giddiness was already in the air as the dark blue car carrying our anti-hero swerved up to the
gang, his face peering through the windscreen, already contorted with signs of fury as he prepared
to deliver his first missile of the day. Down came his window as he swung his face round to the
aperture and opened his mouth. He was stopped in his tracks.
“Do you like mushrooms?” asked one of the more laconic asphalters, aware of the man’s passion
for them.
“Yes,” answered the puzzled and unsuspecting executive.
“Take a look up there!” The speaker pointed straight-armed to a spot about three hundred yards
away on the brilliant greensward.
Sure enough, the grass was speckled with hundreds of white balls. It was enough. His foot hit the
gas pedal and the car lurched forward at breakneck speed.
People handle disappointment in different ways. Some take it in good part, knowing that life has
a habit of not delivering on time, and that, often, it delivers not at all. This was to be one of those
occasions. It is at times such as this that our sense of humour rescues us from the awful
consequences of delusions of self-importance.
This poor man had never been known to laugh or even crack a smile. Had he done so, he might
have survived with his dignity intact. As he approached the mushrooms with his engine racing
noisily, each one of them stood up, unfolded its wings, and flew away, converting themselves into
seagulls in the process.
The mirth-ridden crew rolled onto the floor, legs buckling beneath them and hands clutching their
shaking abdomens. The car rocked but did not move. Time passed in the bright sunshine of the
morning, the asphalt smoking in the clear blue air, the pans grew hotter sending a heat haze up to
challenge the sun: still the car did not move.
Not a single gull remained. There was nothing to show where the mushrooms had assembled
themselves as if anticipating the joke. Eventually, the car eased away, crossing the field to a
different exit. He was done for the day.
When next he visited that merry band, he was noticeably quieter. His rages became less frequent,
and his language more congenial. This signalled a significant shift in the dynamics between the
group and their overseer, and allowed something approaching normal human relations to be
placed and maintained. In time, the warm miracle that human personality alone can generate,
overtook them and friendship set in.
Was it a mistake? Was the event that led to the humanisation of a fiery demon and the dissolution
of a relationship whose essential characteristic was the savage interplay of animosity and ridicule,

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the result of a cruel joke, or a genuine mistake? You’d have to ask the asphalt raker with the
binoculars, who spends his weekends bird watching.

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ONE MISERABLE SATURDAY

One miserable Saturday
I learned the soul-destroying
bitterness of disappointment.
The house where I was born was a large terrace house at the top of Fitzwilliam Street, directly
opposite the end of Wentworth Street, which is why it was called Wentworth View. That legend
was painted on the plaque above the shared passage way between our house, 121, and the
Barratt’s house, 123.
Entrance to the house was by the back door. Only ladies, gentlemen, and Doctor Hanratty used
the front door. In fact, since ladies and gentlemen never called on us, so our Irish physician was
the sole ingressor through that hallowed portal. Lesser, therefore, ineligible mortals who knocked
on the door, were brusquely directed to the back door. Nanny had been in service for many years,
and knew a thing or two about protocol.
We used the back door for all purposes. When I was older, friends who came to see were
admitted just inside the back door. Peter West was my only friend, but if I had had others, they
too would have had to wait inside the back door. The only children who ever got in the house
were my cousins. They did not come often enough, but were good, friendly, happy children.
Three-fourths of the way through the passageway was the coal chute. This was a round hole cut
in the huge sandstone slab that paved the passageway and formed the roof of the coal place in the
cellar living room. A round cast iron lid closed it with leaf shapes cut out in a roundel, almost star
like. This balanced precariously on a narrow ledge that ran all around the top of the hole. The
regular coal man would drop bags of coal with a hundredweight each down the hole into the
keeping cellar. We would count the bags, since coal men could be dishonest, letting one bag go
down with a pause halfway so that the householder counted two bags for one. When taking in ten
bags or so, it would be hard to tell if there was one short by looking at the mountain of coal in the
coal ‘ole.
When I was about six or seven, I was told that my father was coming to see me and take m e out.
My sister Rene was not invited. He did not accept that she was his child, although he had married
my mother during a moment when he had thought he must surely be. This inconsistency was
typical of everything I remember of my father’s later years. My stepfather was referred to as
“your dad” and my biological father as “your father,” usually with a qualifying but unflattering
adjective.
On the day, someone washed and dressed me, stuck my hair down with corporation hair oil, – it
would spring back up when dry – and sent me to wait outside for father was not welcome inside
the house.

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It was a beautiful day. The brilliant sun shone almost audibly, and caused a haze to shimmer up
from the wide stone paving slabs. It made the gas tar, in which the cobblestones of Fitzwilliam
Street were set, bubble out into exotic-smelling pools of irresistible sticky stuff, that added to the
ecstasy of the heady summer fragrance of June blossom and honey that hung in the air as if
waiting for homage. The glory of the day suffused every breath that warmed its way inside me.
It was one of the longest days I have ever known.
Hour after hour, I stood in Fitzwilliam Street, looking up and down its length for the arrival of the
mysterious stranger whose face I could not remember. I trembled with anticipation at the
prospect of reunion with someone who would surely love me and take me, if only for a while,
from the darkness, despair, and misery of that awful house with it’s bizarre population.
Hour after hour passed as the leaden weight of an increasing sense of futility grew in my heart.
He would come; He had promised! I did not go in for dinner from fear that I might miss him.
From time to time, I ran through the passageway, avoiding the coal hole lid in case it gave way to
make sure that the back of the, house was still there. Of what can a child be sure, and what are the
certainties of a powerless existence?
I do not know how long I had waited before I was forced to admit that my hero was not coming.
All the hopes I had entertained, that someone might, somehow, rescue me from my unnamed
fears, and lift the dark ceiling that oppressed me, were dashed as the hard echo of despondency
rang in my ears with a piercing Munchian scream. I was frozen by the noise; paralysed by the
awful awareness of my wretched self-deception.
In the calmer, still sunlit early evening, I was called from my solitary vigil and sent to my attic
bedroom. I drew the blankets over my head to shut out the cruelty of life, curled into that position
which provides comfort for all wounded souls, and cried myself to sleep, not understanding what
it was that hurt or why.
The experience wounded me and contributed to my lack of competitive spirit: what is the point of
competing if you are bound to lose? From then, I expected very little from life and I have not
often been disappointed.
While I may not have been the best father in the world, I never made any promises to my children
that I did not mean to keep, and have never broken a promise to them. As I make promises my
children and grandchildren, I see the ghastly spectre of a little boy who trusted a promise, only to
have his faith crushed, his trust repudiated, and his heart broken.
Who would thoughtlessly harm the sweet, trusting innocence of a child? Promises to children are
sacred and must be kept, whatever the cost, or the world will not seem safe for them.

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INASMUCH AS YE DO IT UNTO THE

LEAST OF THESE, MY BRETHREN, YE
DO IT UNTO ME
Some years ago, when I was running the annual national Single Adult Conferences, a young man
who had registered turned up, and by his appearance caused mouths to flop open with
astonishment, and tongues to wag in barely disguised whispers.
His leather jacket had seen better days, and his blue jeans were of roughly the same vintage. But
what caused most stares, nudges and whispers, was the wonderfully exquisite and extensive
Mohican hairdo that he sported.
Once inside the building, among all the customary and noisy bonhomie of a Singles function, he
was not overtly sociable, preferring instead to remain in the small group of saints with whom he
had arrived.
There was much talk about him behind selfish hands that should have been extended in welcome.
Arms that should have gone around his shoulder were left to hang limply in studied neglect. I
found him very shy, almost painfully so, and he was hard work when it came to personal
interaction. Yet, there was a compelling innocence and sweetness about this gentle young man.
I caught glimpses of him from time to time during the Friday evening activities. He stayed in the
cradling comfort of the darker corners, away from the bright lights, isolated from the closeness of
the many huddled groups full of the chatter of the forging of new friendships, and the awkward
business of old ones being repaired.
He ate breakfast in silence. Nothing unusual about that. Travel the previous day had been long,
tiring, bedtime had been somewhat late, and breakfast always came too early for most. He was no
exception.
After the devotional service, we went into workshop sessions. Emerging from the one I had
presented, I was greeted by a distressed sister. "Brother Phil has gone!" she blurted tearfully. I
did not need to know any more. I knew why he had run away. Those in the group that had
travelled with him came to me to tell what they knew about the gentle stranger.
He had been a member for about ten years. Struggling against the de-laminating effect of
schizophrenia on his mind, and its destructive effect on the integrity of his personality, he had
sought to ease his pain with the anodyne of alcohol, but it had served only to hasten his descent
into the fractured world of his terrible psychosis.

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He had been inactive for several years, but through the ministrations of a caring sister, had begun
to attend Church again, and was trying to get some order and sense back into his life. His
outward appearance was a symptom of something profoundly troubling in the deep wells of his
questionable humanity, a problem most of us will never experience.
As his monsters were devouring him from the inside, he sought to establish a recognisable
identity and this was what he had come up with. It was his best shot, but not good enough for the
rest of us. The trouble was that no one else could see his monsters or feel the effects of them
tearing into his brain with their bloody claws. Mental illness has no face. We can only see the
misery, but can not see the cause, and so we judge foolishly according to the wisdom of man.
For me, the rest of Saturday and its activities passed satisfactorily, although under a cloud of
gloom and failure. Phil was eventually dropped as a subject of speculation and gossip. How sad
that he should so soon vanish from the consciousness and conscience of this happy company of
the Lord's people. Of the 250 attending the Conference, only one person spoke about the runaway
to me consistently over the weekend. Through Hilda's narratives, I built up a picture of "the
Mohican," as he was commonly referred to.
Sunday morning devotional was accompanied by a Testimony Meeting. This was always the high
point of the Conference, when one after another would movingly express their faith in the Lord
and how they had felt the Holy Ghost uplift them through the activities of the weekend.
As was customary, I stood to speak first, principally to call for brevity in testimony bearing to
allow as many as possible to testify. Otherwise, the meeting would run all day, and one of the
wards needed to get into the chapel to hold its service.
The Conference Choir sang. As I stood to speak, I was overwhelmed with a sense of what had
happened there. For what seemed an eternity, I stood silently looking into the sea of happy faces
who had been moved, some to tears, by the beautiful singing of a choir that had met for the first
time less than a day ago, but who had found unity, peace, and love through sharing music. I
thought about Phil and tried to grasp why he had felt it necessary to escape from us.
When I found my voice, I said simply,
"This weekend, the Saviour Jesus Christ has been with us.
But we have driven him away. Most of us did not recognise him.
He wore blue jeans, a leather jacket, and had a Mohican haircut."
The effect was electrifying. After a moment of stunned silence, the recognition of what I had said
sunk in to the hearts of these good people. Many cried, most hung their heads under the burden of
guilt and shame that they now felt. Until now, they had not realised what had actually transpired.
In my head, I clearly heard the slow and deliberate words of the Saviour:

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"Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."
Each person that came to the pulpit to bear testimony spoke about Phil and about their sorrow at
having seen him only as an object of rude comment, and for not having seen him as a Child of
God. They had learned that hearts and minds are not won by ostracising those who are different
from ourselves. Over two hundred of the attendees wrote to Phil expressing their love for him.
He answered my letters for several months before he slipped back beneath the murky waters of
his illness.
At the end of the Testimony meeting, we did what we always did at the end of a Single Adult
event. We stood and held hands in a huge circle and sung "I Am A Child of God," the Single
Adult anthem. Only this time we thought about Phil instead of ourselves. The anthem was
transformed from being one of self-identity, into a celebration of the divine identity of others, and
we were all the richer for it.
Later that day I sat quiet and alone and thought about my daughter Alex. I remembered the first
time I had seen her as a Gothic Punk. I remembered standing with her in Queensway London, in
the swirling crowds of people from every clime and culture and recalled how one nose and ear
pierced Asian woman had done a double take at Alex' multi pierced ears, nose and lips, taking in
through her wide-eyed stare all the chains that ran from one place to another in an untidy web
across her face.
I remembered how my acceptance of her self-identity helped bridge the gulf that she was sure
would spring up when I saw her like that. I didn't like it, but I heard the cry of a girl fighting to
become herself, whatever that might be. I also recalled the day in the crisp sunshine of an early
Spring when we had stood for our farewell in a back street in Colchester after talking together
though the whole of the previous night, emptying our hearts about who we were and what we felt,
and how, for the first time since she was a little girl, she threw her arms around me and cried that
she loved me.
I had not travelled the miles with her, in the same way that I had not travelled the miles with Phil.
Yet it was not hard to realise the truth of the old saying that to understand all is to forgive all. We
sometimes need to exercise patience and get to know the person behind the persona. The effort is
usually worthwhile.
May each of us so live that the Holy Spirit will have before our eyes continually the true images
of others, rather than the image of the false god of ourselves as the Significant One, whose needs
blind us to, and outweigh, the struggles and needs of others.

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AN UNLIKELY HERO
Granddad and I shared the little attic bedroom. Lodgers occupied the big front bedroom on the
first floor and the big attic room on the second floor where the steps narrowed for past servants.
Going to bed involved the longest walk in the house, because the trip started in the cellar.
Sleeping in the attic was perfect training for lighthouse keepers, not only because of the vertical
distance, but also because of its isolation.
The furnishings and appointments of the house were basic; the last gasp of Victoriana, offering
minimal comfort while serving to remind one of the temporary nature of one’s welcome. I lived
there for the thick end of seventeen years without feeling accepted. To feel tolerated was very
heaven, but rare.
The front room - Nanny’s sanctum sanctori on the ground floor- had a lush Persian carpet,
brocade curtains, and a three-piece suite whose settee converted into a double bed. No one shared
its comforts with her. Only once did I sit in a chair in her room that boasted the coveted Pianola,
a radio that never played, and a clockwork gramophone that remained permanently silent. To
enter the room one stood outside, not a little fearful, knocked at the door and waited for the
stentorian command, “Come in!”
Admitted to the Presence, one’s petition was delivered in suitably hushed and reverent tones. It
was usually granted. I sometimes think, at the luxury of distance, that Nanny may have been a lot
nicer than she appeared. However, no one ever got close enough to find out.
Granddad was banished to the cellar-living room and the attic bedroom. He never entered the
Middle Kingdom.
I remember standing at Granddad’s knee, as he sat on a kitchen chair furthest from the crackling
coal fire (he knew his place), and asking questions of him. His answers were thoughtful, usually
true, and delivered without haste. No one else engaged him in any discussion. As I grew older, I
became aware that some of his answers were works of imagination and fiction. It was a game I
learned to play to amuse the lights of my life, my sweet grandchildren.
Any love that had ever existed between my grandparents was gone long before I came. The
family whisper is that he philandered when Nanny was giving birth to Auntie Nora. If that is so,
he remained forever unforgiven.
Although he worked with my stepfather, and walked to and from work with him each day, in the
house they did not interact. My grandfather lived a solitary life, much as I did, but for a different
reason. Whatever the offence, there was but a single punishment.

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What endeared me to Granddad was that he always had time to talk to me. He seemed to know
everything. He was a very small, inoffensive man with a propensity to ‘chunter,’ a form of
speaking without saying anything. No one can disagree with chunter. Nanny took it to be the
desperate attempt of a sub-specie to impress his opinion on the gathering.
Nanny squashed his opinion with a savage “Stop your chuntering!” He never could bring himself
to stop. It was the last act of defiance available to him. He could not levy economic or moral
sanction, since he had neither money on the one hand, or the moral high ground on the other, but
his voice, though tactfully muffled, could not be stilled.
His was a lost cause, and all one can do with one of those is ‘chunter.’ In keeping with the
standard practice of our family, no one paid him any heed except me. I knew what he was going
through.
In my stumbling efforts to fit the demanding profile of a perfect grandparent, if I don’t know the
answer to a child’s question, I make something up. Always having the answer, whatever the
question does my credit good, and I will probably be dead, buried, and forgotten before I’m
rumbled. My grandfather taught me well.
Grandparents should be attractive, generous, and benign dispensers of hugs, kisses and all the
trappings of love. In addition, their pockets should be permanently full of irresistible sugary
treats. My grandparents had no commitment to those ideals. They were preoccupied with their
own heavy burdens and disappointments that kept them from seeing the needs of small fry.
Though Granddad imparted no skills to me, left me no pearls of wisdom, did not share his
Werther’s Originals, and never took me anywhere, the times he spent talking to me in the cellar
sitting room made the brightest and warmest memories, that stand out like oases of reality in a
desolate and denying landscape.
Our conversations were not marathons, but for a few moments, I was somebody. He affirmed my
humanity through the medium of simple encounter. Granddad never knew how much his words
meant to me, for I had not the words to tell him. It may be that he was using me to maintain his
own humanity, and that what I took from the encounters was mere spin-off. I shall never know.
But I am inclined to the view that he was moved by simple kindness for a struggling boy, whose
circumstances, to some extent, mirrored his own, and for whom he had compassion tinged with no
small sorrow.
He died while I was in prison. Grandma had long predeceased him, and he became confused, and
deteriorated through self-neglect. Although he was the only adult male with whom I had
established any kind of emotional bond, I was refused leave to attend his funeral. He lived lonely
and he died lonely. I would have liked to have been present to weep over him.
Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that

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thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die…”
No life should be regarded as insignificant, nor any child made to feel so, when simple acts of
kindness can soothe hurt souls, and make the unloved feel less so.

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SOCK IT TO ME …
I know that you have either said it yourself, or heard others say it. I have been hearing the
complaint since I can remember. Even in the olden days when mother did the laundry in
galvanised vats and a dolly tub, sloshing the clothes up and down in the sudsy water with the
posser to force the soap in and the dirt out before taking each garment or blanket and wringing the
water and the life out of them at the same time, she would wipe her hair back from her eyes with
the back of a bubbled hand and sigh through the steam-filled scullery, “Where do they get to?”
Understand this; my mother was no philosopher. The object of her impassioned query was not
the Lost Tribes of Israel – her mind never went down that road. Nor was she enquiring after the
family’s lost millions. That would have been mere wishful thinking. No! The dark matter that
occupied her grey matter whilst scrubbing, possing, rinsing, and wringing was the ancient,
ubiquitous, and vexed question of where odd socks get to. I’ll bet that in the days when washing
was beaten to death on the rocks by the river’s edge, some socks escaped. The question is where
to?
It’s not that I am really interested in just where maverick hosiery ends up – that’s not the burden
of my reflection. I just wanted to point out that losing things is not a modern plague, and neither
can lay the blame on newfangled contraptions.
That being said, I did discover where one of my strays landed. The satisfaction of knowing was
tempered to a remarkable degree by the cost of my finding out where it had gone. Well, to say
that ‘I’ found out is not exactly true. A man of few words informed me. But the few he managed
to squeeze out of himself were as expensive as those used by exorbitant lawyers who get paid for
their verbosity.
“This is what done it, mister,” he said, as if it was my entire fault. He offered me a chewed-up
soggy sock. I took the item and examined it. I tried not to look as guilty as he made me feel.
“That was a new pair,” I said with manifest mortification.
“You was lucky. It didn’t do any damage,” he said. “I just had to take the machine apart to get at
it!” I hated the way he grinned. It was all part of his power play. Trouble was, it was working!
He had done this before.
I had had enough. It was my home, my washing machine, and, er... my sock! “How much,” I
managed to squeeze out of my tightly closed throat.
“Forty two pounds,” he grinned. Why did he have to enjoy it so much?

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I paid him cash and ushered him out of the house before he could improve on his transparent
moral ascendancy. Moralising is all well and good when you have gained the moral victory, but
palls somewhat when you are the vanquished.
I looked on the bright side, I still had the washing machine, and the pump was working again,
now that my sock had been snatched from its greedy maw. And, I still had the sock. But it was a
poor thing and hardly matched its non-mutilated partner.
The more I thought about it the brighter I became. The repairman had my money, and his well-
developed sense of superiority over those that used washing machines but didn’t know how to get
inside them or are afraid to try, was still intact. He walked away with his superiority, his hybris,
and my forty-two hard-earned pounds.
Yet rising from the ashes of this signal defeat, was a maturing realisation that I had won the
laurels. It slowly dawned on me – that was an improvement, because for most of my years,
nothing dawned on me at all – that for a measly week’s wages, I had learned that little things can’t
hurt, unless we let them get inside us.
It’s not the size of the bothersome thing that matters. It's whether we let it get inside us. The
indifference we feel for someone may be small beer. But once we let hate get inside us, it will do
irreparable damage to our souls.
On the other hand, it doesn’t take a lot of love burning inside us to transform our lives. All the
love we talk about is useless unless we let it in. All the religion in the world will do us no good if
we only pay lip service to it. We have to get it inside us – even a sock full will make a mighty
difference. I know – It did to my washing machine. Even Jesus can’t help us unless we let him
in.
Finally, I learned that it’s no use calling the appliance repairman to fix a damaged soul. Only
Jesus can reach down inside us and pull out what’s hurting us. We just have to let him in.
Behold I stand at the door and knock.

If any man will hear my voice and open the door
I will come in to him.

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THE VISITOR
When I was thirteen or fourteen, I gained an unusual friend, at whose house I was always
welcomed and received as an honoured guest. A young man started to attend Spring Grove
School. He was not in my class, for he was a year or so younger than me.
His name was Vaikai Kaye-Brown. He was the son of Doctor Brown, a black American
businessman and Mrs Kaye-Brown, a well-known Huddersfield mill owner. She had inherited
Kings Mill from her family, married Doctor Brown, and had two children. Vaikai was the eldest
and he had a sister whose name I did not learn, but whom he called ‘Hitler.’
Mrs Kaye-Brown was a lady in every sense of the word. Strikingly beautiful, immaculately
groomed, her greying hair swept into a bun, and with a poise and elegance that was at once regal
and remote, yet intuitive and warm, she was a woman to admire, even for a scruffy, ill-kempt, and
insecure working-class lad.
Because I was friendly towards the handsome American boy, I was regularly invited to visit their
palatial home in New North Road, where large detached houses stood as monuments of Victorian
wealth, confidence, and ostentation – so very different from my own home in my Nana’s
Fitzwilliam Street lodging house. I had never seen such luxury. However, for all the wealth and
refinement of her home, in contrast to my social awkwardness and frequent fauxes paux, I was
treated with profound and touching respect.
I often wished my family could see me swallowed up by one of the sumptuous leather easy chairs,
taking tea with her and Vaikai from delicate bone china cups with matching saucers!
A girl who worked in the mill office used to take Vaikai and I to the pictures, especially if the
film was located in Africa – Sanders of the River, for example. Mrs Kaye-Brown was very
sensitive to her son’s feelings, and black people were not then known in Huddersfield. She had
the girl go with us to protect him from the sort of unkindness or hostility that had been directed
towards the family when they lived in America’s Cotton Belt.
We relaxed in the elegant sitting room of her house, playing card games with conch shells for
cash. I remember saying on one occasion as Mrs Kaye-Brown demurred as I settled my debt in
shells at the end of a game; “Debts of honour must be paid.” Many years later I learned that
Socrates spoke these words as he arranged for a friend to settle his debt with Asclepius shortly
before he drank the cup of hemlock. I have no idea where I heard them, but I am sure that I had
not read Plato at that time. As far as I was aware, I was the only friend Vaikai had during his stay
in his mother’s ancestral home.
I often wondered as I ate pretty sandwiches and drank tea from precious cups, what a scruffy,
rough boy was doing there. Eventually, it dawned on me, and it was quite simple: I was kind to
her son. Nothing hard about that, for he was likeable, and I only treated him as I wished others

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would treat me. I can still recall the gorgeous aroma of the soap he used, so unlike the tangy
carbolic soap then in vogue for the poor. He was a very happy, animated boy, unusually
handsome, with a generous smile, a ready laugh, and eyes that sparkled as he spoke, and, although
he was possessed of a sharp wit and a well-developed sense of humour, his humour was gentle
and he was kind. He was always good company, even though we were the unlikeliest
companions.
After about a year, Vaikai and his mother returned to the United States, and my visits to the lady
in her castle ended as abruptly as they had begun.
It was back to the lodging house where I took my unfiltered tea in a white-glazed pint pot, sat on a
heavy wooden kitchen chair at the scrubbed wooden dining table in the basement, and ate from a
thick hotel plate with a well-worn iron knife and fork, pondering what I had briefly enjoyed. Now
there was no elegance, no gentleness of manners, no prescriptive courtesy, no kindness, and no
condescending deference to one whose sudden and impromptu elevation to the status of one
recognised and valued had been just as swiftly withdrawn.
Like the Old Woman Who Lived in a Vinegar Bottle, I was back where I started. But, whereas her
demotion was due to her being never satisfied, my relegation was due to the departure of my
benefactress and her beloved son.
As Job had exercised patience and trust in God during the most bitter of his experiences, I learned
that good things come and good things go, but life goes on, and dreaming of past splendour is the
pastime of idlers and dreamers. Truly, the LORD giveth and the LORD taketh away. Blessed be the
name of the LORD.
In my mature years, I have used Mrs Kaye-Brown as an example of how to treat those who need a
helping hand. I have seen frogs turned into princes, and grimy Cinderellas transformed into
princesses by small acts of recognition, kind words, and honest praise for things attempted. The
transforming power of kindness and love can not be overestimated whatever motivates us to
extend it in the first place.
Riddle of destiny, who can show

What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?
Charles Lamb

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BY ANY OTHER NAME …

It could not be called a garden. At least, not to my way of thinking. A few rocks forming a small,
untidy, walled enclosure with no more than a few buckets full of red earth by the door of the
trailer. The little scrubby flowers struggled for their share of moisture in the hot sun of my first
Montana summer. Most blooms were failing in their struggle. Yet, one plant grew tall and
sturdy; it’s rabble of roseate blossom challenging my conviction of what ought not to grow in a
garden.
Being a gardener, I have a ‘thing’ about weeds: they have to die! My garden is not always
weedless, but as soon as I see one, its fate is sealed. It is a conditioned response, and that’s why,
as I grasped the Rose Bay Willow Herb by the throat, I was surprised to hear Andy plead for its
life.
It was only the second time I had seen Andy since I gave her a tearful goodbye hug outside
Kinson Road Sunday School in Bournemouth. She was eleven at the time.
The letter had whispered through my letterbox and dropped onto the doormat. It said
“Having heard from the Respondent, the Court orders

that [my daughter, Andrea, could] be permanently taken
out of the jurisdiction of the court.”
Her mother had said nothing about plans to emigrate and remarry. It was a shock.
When the letter arrived, their departure date was only two weeks away, so I hurried to
Bournemouth to see her for the last time. America is a distant country, too far away to visit. This
was to be ‘goodbye.’ Andy seemed in a hurry to go back inside. I folded my arms around her
and sobbed that I loved her. She was embarrassed and ran indoors.
A new life in a new country held many attractions for a young girl whose recollections of her
father were sketchy. During the separation and following the divorce, it had not been easy to visit
her: it was always “inconvenient,” or “difficult.”
Letters were few after they left. Her mother wrote twice in the next seven years, but only when
she wanted something from me. She told me little about the daughter I adored and missed.
Eventually, resignation overcame me, and I accepted the role of forgotten father, and mentally
relinquished any claim to her. It was as if she had died. Yet, here I was, twenty-five years later,
visiting her home in Western Montana; our hearts re-connected, our souls speaking, and our love
rekindled.

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We had returned home after driving into Libby for groceries. As we neared the trailer door, I
noticed the weed standing among the drooping blooms in Andy’s garden.
Gardens are a passion with the English. Wherever they go they plant gardens. Andy’s garden
was, by all standards, a poor affair, but it was still her garden, her almost unconscious expression
of a lingering Englishness, and she loved it. My free hand reached out and grasped the Rose Bay
Willow Herb.
“Look!” I said, “A weed! I’ll pull it out.”

Andy looked horrified. “No! It’s a flower!”
“It’s a weed.” I insisted.
“It might be a weed, but I like it!” Her voice had a tone that told me diplomatically that the
discussion was at an end.
It was enough. The weed stayed, almost gasping as my hand eased from its throat. It was
reprieved, thanks to the pleading of a gentler, less demanding heart than mine. I learned
something about my daughter that day.
Her life in America had not been easy. Settling into a new home in a new land, and into new
relationships, makes great demands. The little girl had changed into a young woman whom I did
not know. I still have a lot to learn about what went into making Andy the person she is.
As the sun burned its way through the dazzling blue of the endless sky, and an Arizona Kingbird
sang for joy on the power line above the little piece of lawn, where her children frolicked, I stood
back, taking in the scene, pondering what I had understood in our exchange about the weed.
I looked back at Andy’s Rose Bay Willow Herb and remembered how profusely these had grown
on the desolate bombsites of England after the War. Their beauty had transformed the ruins of the
homes of suffering communities, replacing starkness with new life, and signalling hope of
eventually returning to peaceful normality. It all took far too long, but the flowers were beautiful.
I looked at my transplanted English Rose. An Old World child in her New World home. It was
impossible to see the child I had known in the woman she had become. Her long, red hair,
lightened by many days of sunshine, framed her gentle face, as she watched over her children on a
hillside overlooking the Kootenai River, where once the Flathead and Nez Perce had watched
over theirs.
An unexpected sensation surged inside me. How I loved this woman who loved weeds. And how
good it was that something I was ready to cast aside, had a saviour. I realised right then, that
when God looked at some of us he didn’t see weeds. He sees only the splendour that he put into
each of his children.

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The warmth of this revelation made me smile and silently thank my Father in Heaven for still
loving me in spite of what others may sometimes think of me.
I went and touched the weed with a tenderness that I could not have summoned before. Then I
went over and hugged my beautiful daughter. She still does not know why.

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BOY ON A BRIDGE
When the River Colne reaches Huddersfield, it snakes its way through Longroyd Bridge to Folly
Hall at the foot of Chapel Hill, from where it widens and slithers along Damside at Newsome
before heading out of town via Aspley and Colnebridge. The main road is carried across the cast
iron bridge on Newsome Road as it was then. Opposite Zetland Street was an old wooden
footbridge that owed much to practical considerations and more to functionality.
This old wooden footbridge crossed from Colne Road at the town side over to the foot of the steps
leading to Pip Hill, as Primrose Hill was known. To stand on this bridge was to enter a different
world. Damside, Newsome, and Primrose Hill were outlands that had characters different from
the parts of town with which I was most familiar. It was a passage of escape from the world and
its hostility to places that did not know me and, therefore, had no hold on me.
My Auntie Nora lived at 3 Riley Street, Damside, with Uncle Will Stead and their four children,
Brian, Shirley, Audrey, and Keith. This had been my stepfather, Tommy Scott’s, house before he
married my mother. A visit to their house, though infrequent, was also a release. Their home had
different rules, a family configuration that was not confusing, and was a place of lightness and
cheeriness that elevated my spirit. My sister Rene and I loved to visit them.
We walked down the ancient grassed roadway, Carriage Drive, from Water Street near Spring
Grove school, or skipped down Springwood Street and East Parade as far as Queen Street South,
down Zetland Street and across the wooden bridge, never crossing the bridge all at once. We
always stopped in the middle to stare down into the murky waters. When crossing by myself, I
always did the same. As much as an hour could be lost gazing into the stream while considering
the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.
In time, the old bridge died and was laid to rest. Were I to cross the ugly new iron and concrete
footbridge, I still could not make it across in a single journey. Even now, I would be compelled to
take my customary pause and see if ancient questions and their solutions were revived in my
memory.
On neither one bank nor the other, it offered new perspectives on old problems. Invariably, my
most pressing enigma was “What am I doing here, and how do I get out of it?” Life held few
agreeable things for me – an awkward, shy, and uncertain young boy who felt that he did not
belong.
Being in the middle of the bridge seemed to remove me from the arena of conflict and life’s
unending pain. My folded arms and my chest, plonked on the flimsy handrail, would take the
weight off my body and my legs would be freed from the earth. I did not reach up as far as
heaven but I was suspended from the earth and its sullen concerns, at least for a time.

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The gloomy waters swirled below. With a little application, it could seem as if I was moving
backwards, and the river standing still. Had I invented time travel? The coloration of the water
was remarkable; several mills along that stretch poured out their effluent openly, untrammelled by
environmental concerns.
Dye works, plentiful then in the West Riding, transformed common cloth pieces into bright hues
of exotic imagination, and unconsciously lent otherworldly shades to the foul water. It was
beautiful to dream above such brilliance and splendour, but bad news for the fish that occasionally
tried to establish themselves where their ancestors had splashed and played in the clear waters of
pre-industrial times.
What had life been like? This had always been one of my common musings. Who had lived in
those houses years ago? What were they like and, were they happy? Imagining that everyone
else’s life was a perfect heaven of happiness and pleasure, I transported myself into their lives,
escaping the unacceptable reality of my own life. It worked for as long as the sun shone, the rain
stayed away, or my arms and chest began to hurt from holding me up. One needs fair weather and
rigour to dream well. To escape, one needs miracles.
Wandering across the other half of the bridge, the dreaming over, and the pedestrian hurting world
back on top, I pondered how I could escape. With no sense of dying and no thoughts of running
away entering my mind, I looked for an answer that never came. At least, not during my
childhood.
There are other bridges. During my passage over the bridge from childhood to manhood, I
discovered God and religion. Two young ministers taught me such things that made me marvel,
and my spirit was deeply touched. Then began the transformation of my life, the secret of a
happy life was not to escape, but to walk a different road.
The answer to my predicament was not to be found by gazing aimlessly into polluted waters,
however attractive they are made to appear. Truth and release are obtained in the clear light of
heaven and the goodness of God and his Son.
Humanity stands suspended between truth and error, between imprisonment and freedom,
between light and darkness, heaven and earth, life and death: looking in the wrong direction,
expecting magic from impotence, and miracles from empty hands, whilst the greatest liberating
power in the universe waits to bless us if we will but turn our eyes to him. Still stands the bridge
from God to man. Still stands the ancient promise:
Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall set you free

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AAA White Robed Angel &amp; Other Stories

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WHITE ROBED ANGEL & OTHER STORIES

WHITE ROBED ANGEL

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

COME BACK DEREK HARROWBY,

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See that ye do not judge wrongfully

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BRAINS VERSUS BRAWN

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Because thine heart was tender …

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MAD DOGS AND SINGAPOREANS

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In nothing doth man offend God,

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Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing:

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

‘At Christmas, God sent His Son to bring Peace

“I have never seen such a change in a human being!”

‘To understand all is to forgive all.’

Now abideth Faith, Hope, and Charity

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Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

A simple adjustment of my scarf prevented further self-deception, and I completed my journey in

As my old granny used to say,

None so blind as those who will not see.

Or, as another ancient wrote,

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Woe unto the blind that will not see.

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I SHALL NOT LOOK

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Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Look not on his countenance,

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THE DAY MUSHROOMS FLEW

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“Yes,” answered the puzzled and unsuspecting executive.

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Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

ONE MISERABLE SATURDAY

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Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

INASMUCH AS YE DO IT UNTO THE

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

When I found my voice, I said simply,

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die…”

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

“That was a new pair,” I said with manifest mortification.

“Forty two pounds,” he grinned. Why did he have to enjoy it so much?

Copyright © Ronnie Bray 2000

AAA White Robed Angel & Other Stories

AAA White Robed Angel & Other Stories