The Old Man
by Jack O'Donnell
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: Sometimes kindness can be blind.
_____________________________________________________________________
I heard the muffled toot, toot, of the van horn. I was still half asleep, but my feet knew the way. I skipped down the stairs two at a time, bouncing off the railings at each tenement landing and rushed outside our close. The milk float made a single set of tracks in the snow, which helped to mark the road from the pavement, stretching all the way down Dumbarton Road. It was dark, yet, for a still moment, my eyes refracted and held the Christmas card beauty of the unmarred snow light, but the engine was running.
Ped, the driver, was from a different era. He spilled over the dilapidated driver’s seat onto our side of the van. The passenger seat was empty, which meant that George wouldnae be turning up for work again. He had a fear of dentists, or any other form of hygiene and thought that smoking, or snout, as he liked to call it, was good for you, or at least didn’t do any harm. He argued that most smokers and drinkers he had known lived into their sixties and sometimes even their seventies. Ped meant to go the same way. I half listened, with all the right noises, as he dissected in pathological detail how he had gone for a five-dart finish, in the pub, the night before. He liked to spice up these kinds of stories, by good naturedly chuckling aloud, letting you know in advance that he was going to let rip, with the churned gaseous contents of last night’s pints and curries. Ped found it even more hilarious that I preferred being shuttled from side to side in the back of the van, with the crates, rather than sitting in the front with him.
Running with my head down, heavy squalls fought and battered me from one side of the street to another. My hands felt like unresponsive metal claws, as I shifted them from crate, to bottle, to doorstep. The denim blue of my Wrangler jacket began to leach into the green of my Bay City Roller jumper and through my T- shirt. My Levi denims were glued to my cobalt blue knees by the freezing rain, and my plastered down hair made a Jewish skullcap for my face. I knew every short-cut, through every bush, over every fence and wall in the scheme. As the snow on the ground turned to slush, the smooth leather soles of my Weegin shoes slid in an extra step, but it still wasn’t enough, we were still running late.
I asked Ped to drop me off close to home. Usually, Ped would have told me to go and take a flying fuck to myself, but that morning, he agreed. But I didn’t kid myself this was a sudden growth of altruism. He was worried that I wouldn’t turn up the next morning. It was twenty to nine. If I hurried I could get my stuff and make school on time.
I ran up the stairs and jiggled my key into the lock. I realized that this was one of the few times that I had our house to myself. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed the stale smell of fag smoke that hung in the air too long. In four adult steps, I bounded up the hall in anticipation of catching one of my brothers or sisters.
‘Dad?’ The low hum of Radio Athlone was coming from the radio. I didn’t know how I had hadn’t heard the false bonhomie of Farming News. I hated all that endless Irish crap, but knew better than to say so. He had never been near a farm in his life. He lived in the shipyards or pubs and just slept in our house.
My dad stood in front of the electric fire, moving from one foot to another. He had the nervous energy of an ex-boxer, that didn’t know what to do with his hands and arms. And I didn’t want to find out. He had one bar of the fire on, which surprised me, as he was impervious to the cold. Putting two bars on, at any time-apart from when we had visitors- was heretical.
As I trudged into the living room, my head went down that bit lower and I became aware of how wet I looked. My shoes, in particular, made squelching noises that spoke of marshes and not city streets. There was a hole in one of the soles and the toe of the left was coming apart from playing football, even although I had been told not to.
Dad pulled mum’s chair closer to the fire and patted it, inviting me to sit down. He pushed the button, so that the second bar of the fire came on. Steam and stale sweat radiated off me. As I eased myself down into mum’s chair I wriggled like Houdini out of my jacket and let is squelch onto the floor. He picked it up, and carefully avoiding my eyes like a trained cloakroom attendant, hung it on the back of a stool facing the fire. But he hadn’t finished. He knelt down, put my feet in his lap and gently pulled off my shoes, fastidiously packing each one with an old copy of The Daily Record and carefully placing them in front of the fire. My red football socks had a gaping hole in each toe. I waited for the usual lecture, starting with responsibility and ending with how I should darn my socks, to keep them good, like him. But he just peeled them off and started massaging my feet.
‘How d’s that feel?’ he said.
It felt great. I wasn’t used to my dad talking much to me, about anything more than football scores. And unless he was clattering us, he rarely touched any of us.
‘Wait and I’ll get you a clean pair of socks.’
While I stretched in front of the fire he went into the other room. He came back with a pair of his pure wool socks.
He massaged my feet a bit more, going right in between each toe. He helped me put on his socks, as if I was a small boy again and had to be taught how do it, putting one carefully on one foot, pulling it right up my leg. He did the same with the other.
‘How d’s that feel now?’ he said.
‘Brilliant.’ I stood up. It felt as if my whole body had been towel dried.
He had another surprise for me.
‘You can’t wear those to school,’ he said, pointing to my shoes.
We both looked at them, in acknowledgement that they were soaked through.
He had another pair. Again he helped me to put them on. I was already late, but I didn’t care. My feet were toasted, as dad would say.
I put some green jotters for Maths, with blue jotters for everything else in my bag and clicked the front door shut behind me. Dad didn’t understand it was against the rules to wear your mum’s zip up green wellies. I couldn’t go to school.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Sometimes kindness can be blind.
_____________________________________________________________________
I heard the muffled toot, toot, of the van horn. I was still half asleep, but my feet knew the way. I skipped down the stairs two at a time, bouncing off the railings at each tenement landing and rushed outside our close. The milk float made a single set of tracks in the snow, which helped to mark the road from the pavement, stretching all the way down Dumbarton Road. It was dark, yet, for a still moment, my eyes refracted and held the Christmas card beauty of the unmarred snow light, but the engine was running.
Ped, the driver, was from a different era. He spilled over the dilapidated driver’s seat onto our side of the van. The passenger seat was empty, which meant that George wouldnae be turning up for work again. He had a fear of dentists, or any other form of hygiene and thought that smoking, or snout, as he liked to call it, was good for you, or at least didn’t do any harm. He argued that most smokers and drinkers he had known lived into their sixties and sometimes even their seventies. Ped meant to go the same way. I half listened, with all the right noises, as he dissected in pathological detail how he had gone for a five-dart finish, in the pub, the night before. He liked to spice up these kinds of stories, by good naturedly chuckling aloud, letting you know in advance that he was going to let rip, with the churned gaseous contents of last night’s pints and curries. Ped found it even more hilarious that I preferred being shuttled from side to side in the back of the van, with the crates, rather than sitting in the front with him.
Running with my head down, heavy squalls fought and battered me from one side of the street to another. My hands felt like unresponsive metal claws, as I shifted them from crate, to bottle, to doorstep. The denim blue of my Wrangler jacket began to leach into the green of my Bay City Roller jumper and through my T- shirt. My Levi denims were glued to my cobalt blue knees by the freezing rain, and my plastered down hair made a Jewish skullcap for my face. I knew every short-cut, through every bush, over every fence and wall in the scheme. As the snow on the ground turned to slush, the smooth leather soles of my Weegin shoes slid in an extra step, but it still wasn’t enough, we were still running late.
I asked Ped to drop me off close to home. Usually, Ped would have told me to go and take a flying fuck to myself, but that morning, he agreed. But I didn’t kid myself this was a sudden growth of altruism. He was worried that I wouldn’t turn up the next morning. It was twenty to nine. If I hurried I could get my stuff and make school on time.
I ran up the stairs and jiggled my key into the lock. I realized that this was one of the few times that I had our house to myself. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed the stale smell of fag smoke that hung in the air too long. In four adult steps, I bounded up the hall in anticipation of catching one of my brothers or sisters.
‘Dad?’ The low hum of Radio Athlone was coming from the radio. I didn’t know how I had hadn’t heard the false bonhomie of Farming News. I hated all that endless Irish crap, but knew better than to say so. He had never been near a farm in his life. He lived in the shipyards or pubs and just slept in our house.
My dad stood in front of the electric fire, moving from one foot to another. He had the nervous energy of an ex-boxer, that didn’t know what to do with his hands and arms. And I didn’t want to find out. He had one bar of the fire on, which surprised me, as he was impervious to the cold. Putting two bars on, at any time-apart from when we had visitors- was heretical.
As I trudged into the living room, my head went down that bit lower and I became aware of how wet I looked. My shoes, in particular, made squelching noises that spoke of marshes and not city streets. There was a hole in one of the soles and the toe of the left was coming apart from playing football, even although I had been told not to.
Dad pulled mum’s chair closer to the fire and patted it, inviting me to sit down. He pushed the button, so that the second bar of the fire came on. Steam and stale sweat radiated off me. As I eased myself down into mum’s chair I wriggled like Houdini out of my jacket and let is squelch onto the floor. He picked it up, and carefully avoiding my eyes like a trained cloakroom attendant, hung it on the back of a stool facing the fire. But he hadn’t finished. He knelt down, put my feet in his lap and gently pulled off my shoes, fastidiously packing each one with an old copy of The Daily Record and carefully placing them in front of the fire. My red football socks had a gaping hole in each toe. I waited for the usual lecture, starting with responsibility and ending with how I should darn my socks, to keep them good, like him. But he just peeled them off and started massaging my feet.
‘How d’s that feel?’ he said.
It felt great. I wasn’t used to my dad talking much to me, about anything more than football scores. And unless he was clattering us, he rarely touched any of us.
‘Wait and I’ll get you a clean pair of socks.’
While I stretched in front of the fire he went into the other room. He came back with a pair of his pure wool socks.
He massaged my feet a bit more, going right in between each toe. He helped me put on his socks, as if I was a small boy again and had to be taught how do it, putting one carefully on one foot, pulling it right up my leg. He did the same with the other.
‘How d’s that feel now?’ he said.
‘Brilliant.’ I stood up. It felt as if my whole body had been towel dried.
He had another surprise for me.
‘You can’t wear those to school,’ he said, pointing to my shoes.
We both looked at them, in acknowledgement that they were soaked through.
He had another pair. Again he helped me to put them on. I was already late, but I didn’t care. My feet were toasted, as dad would say.
I put some green jotters for Maths, with blue jotters for everything else in my bag and clicked the front door shut behind me. Dad didn’t understand it was against the rules to wear your mum’s zip up green wellies. I couldn’t go to school.
About the Author
Jack O'Donnell was born in Helensburgh and now lives in Clydebank with his partner, Mary. He claims to be fat, balding and middle-aged.
Jack writes for fun and has a blog at http://www.abctales.com/blog/celticman, which he also claims no-one ever reads.
Jack writes for fun and has a blog at http://www.abctales.com/blog/celticman, which he also claims no-one ever reads.