Chinese Turn Away
Agitated phone call from daughter, eight o’clock Sunday evening. Buzz of voices in the background. On the train home or in a shop, I thought at the time.
“Where are you?”
“Chinese take away, in the queue, we won three nil. Dog’s limping, got something in his paw. Gotta go! Call you later.”
I said “Take care”, but she had already hung up. She sounded upset, spoke quickly, in whispers. I put it down to exhaustion after the football match, and worry about the dog. Or maybe it was her turn to order Chow Mein.
Monday lunchtime she phoned again, from work. She had calmed down, sounded tired.
“Hi. Recovered from last night?”
“Yees. Got a kick on my knee in the match, big bruise. Dog’s still limping, probably have to take him to the vet.
“Sounded lively at the take away yesterday.”
“You don’t know half of it.”
“When I phoned you I was standing in the queue to order. Felt someone standing close behind me. Turned round. Big bloke with blood running down his face, from a head wound. Staring at me phoning. Probably thought I was calling the police. Turned away. He made for the washroom. Looked around. Nobody reacted. He came back and looked around, face and hair wet, blood on his shirt. The people waiting turned away, and those behind the counter behaved as though everything was quite normal. Heard police sirens outside. Didn’t dare get my phone out and call them, he’d see me. Got my Chow Mein, paid and left as quick as I could, ran all the way home, made the knee worse. It was really scary. He was hiding from somebody, and nobody dared do anything.”
“Feel better now?”
“Should have phoned, just hoped someone else would do it so I didn’t have to.”
“Probably what all the others thought too. Scary place. Good you survived. How was the Chow Mein?”
“That’s not funny Dad” she said and cut me off.
One Lost Elk
On Tuesday morning we took the car to visit our eldest daughter’s workplace, a local ecological farm. It’s usually only about fifteen minutes away, but diversions due to road works for a new by-pass slowed us down. The diversion took us through a mixed residential and industrial area, split by a four-lane road with lots of commercial traffic.
On the way home there was a bit of a tail back, so we were chugging along at thirty km/hr. The driver in front of us seemed confused by the diversion. We groaned, then sighed with relief when he turned off at the next junction. Now I could put my foot down, it was a seventy road. Suddenly a dark shape emerged from between two of the office blocks which lined the road. Instinctively I must have let up on the gas as I focussed on a large elk calf trotting across the road about ten yards in front of us, head held high like an elegant ballet dancer. The car overtaking me in the outer lane just missed the elk, which jumped nonchalantly over the three foot high concrete barrier into the opposite lane. Unfortunately it skidded on the asphalt, but the driver of a large, blue petrol tanker slowed down in time to let the elk regain its balance and trot across the final lane, looking rather confused. Safely on the other side of the road, it was faced with a choice of Burger King, a filling station or a car park.
We looked at each other with relief at our near miss. No horns blasting, no squealing tyres. An everyday thing this time of year, when elk cows chase away last year’s offspring to make room for new young ones.
Parking the car in our garage after the day’s excitement, I noticed a disturbingly large patch of fresh oil on the concrete floor. Phoned Carl at my local garage, (official name Reliable Car Repairs), reminded him that he had fixed an oil leak only two weeks ago. He was obliging with a time the next morning, seven o’clock sharp.
Loo for Two
It is a twenty-minute walk from Carl’s workshop to our house. He is a very talkative mechanic so it was seven–thirty when I got away. The walk took me between office blocks housing our local Silicon Valley companies, through a large mall, across a stony square and finally an area of apartment blocks and terraced houses.
At this time of the morning the shops in the mall were closed except for coffee shops and cafes catering to commuters who had missed breakfast. Two herds of people through the mall met in a scrum outside the underground station. Every five minutes a train deposited a load of youngish ITK-people heading for their computers. They stampeded through the mall, most half-running while skillfully balancing cellphone and take-away coffee. I sheltered in the doorway of an optician until the coast was clear. Walking briskly, I passed the entrance to the station, intent on making it into the square before the next stampede. Unfortunately there was another herd of people forcing their way through the glass doors to get to the station. I was trapped. This time I had to take refuge in the doorway of a British style pub. I held my breath to avoid the sickly odour of yesterday’s beer and fags. A sudden lull in the flow of people enabled me to squeeze through the double-doors, shoulder down as in my rugby-playing days. Safely out into the square, I leant against the nearest shop front to breathe some fresh air. It was the local dry cleaner and tailor. By now it was almost eight o’clock, and the people rushing to the station had a look of desperation in their eyes, cell phones glued to their ears. They were late for work.
I looked round the square in the way that a stranger might do. Along one side was a red-brick and concrete 1970’s church with clock tower and church rooms. Yellow-brick buildings closed two sides of the square, on one side a school, the other a former public library and meeting hall converted into a mosque and people’s high school for Koran studies.
I noticed that the small, discrete police station next to the dry cleaners had changed opening hours. A small typed notice informed presumptive callers that passports were not issued here but you could find the police there between one and three o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays, public holidays excepted.
As usual the large fountain between the church and high school was out of order, now serving as a giant litter bin. My eyes came to rest on the latest addition to the facilities provided in the square, a small building adorned with the sign “WC” together with symbols for men, women and wheelchairs. Sensitively erected outside the large windows of the church hall, the toilet block has a modern upside-down U-shaped profile, with a green/black mottled pattern designed to dissuade local graffiti artists.
It is a modern construction, all stainless steel fittings, serviced by a man in a white van who regularly hoses the place down, before putting red CLOSED stickers on the two entrances. The toilets are mainly used by the Arabic-speaking men who sell flowers, fruit and vegetables from a large stall on the square, below the steps leading up to the mosque, and the beggars who sit outside the mall entrance with their paper cups. The stall-holders have a key, which they lend to the beggars. For others it costs five crowns.
A couple of men hanging around outside the toilets caught my attention. They were definitely not commuters; tall, longish hair, skinny, washed-out jeans, stooped and a jerky way of walking were the give-away signs of junkies. They were arguing about something, gesticulating towards the toilets. Digging in jeans pockets, one of them eventually found a coin which fitted the slot in the door, and entered quickly carrying a plastic bag. For some reason, the second junkie held the door open. Was he checking out the square? No police around. The commuters were in too much of a hurry to care. After a minute or so he slipped inside to join his companion. No one in the square reacted by calling the police, or at least no police turned up, possibly because it was not between one and three on a Tuesday or Thursday.
After about ten minutes the toilet door slowly opened and the two men staggered out, vigorously rubbing upper arms and seeming less agitated.
Hurried home for an early breakfast, wondering what the service man found when he opened the toilet doors, hosepipe at the ready.
Friday morning I took the train into the city for my quarterly visit to the chiropractor. I’d been going there for years, sometimes more often when the old back was playing up. The clinic was in an old basement apartment; small kitchen, bathroom, two treatment rooms, waiting room and a cloakroom. He shared the clinic with a female colleague.
I was ten minutes early, so I settled down in the waiting room with a magazine, “The Big Issue”. There were two other people there, patients, also reading. One a slim, middle-aged woman, tall, blonde, sunburnt, wearing running tights, orange sneakers and two shocking pink tops, apparently just come in from her morning run. She was reading a magazine called “Healthy Living”. Across from her sat a youngish man, overweight, pasty-looking. He was reading “Scientific News”. There was soft music in the background and the walls had arty, black and white photographs of a man in a white coat manipulating the well- limbs of a half-naked patient.
No one spoke, it was an anonymous place. No reception, no names, no complaints. We just sat there silently hiding behind magazines, nursing our own personal aches and pains. Suddenly a loud wail – “AAAAAArrrrrrggggg!” – split the silence. It came from the direction of the female chiropractor’s treatment room. Then again a female voice cried: “No No No more, it hurts, stop, stop!!”
In the waiting room it was impossible to avoid hearing these cries, but the only reaction was to sink deeper down behind our magazines. Of course, it was not the done thing to cry out in pain on the treatment table. Never heard it before in all my years of visits to chiropractors.
I soon expected to hear the reluctant patient running down the corridor, escaping from the pain of the treatment table. But no, all was silent except for the faint scrape as magazine pages were flipped and the creak of upholstered chairs. In the distance a door opened and a weak voice cried: “Mummy, you can come now”. There was only one possible mummy in the room, the jogging lady. She sighed, made a show of finishing the article she was reading, picked up her bag and marched off along the corridor with a deliberate stride. Unfortunately I missed the finale, the reunion of mother and daughter, it being my turn to enter the torture chamber.
That was the week that was!