They Thought I Was Asleep
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: He's a gentleman of the road, but you don't want to tangle with him!
_____________________________________________________________________
With the sun setting fast on another beautiful, autumnal day, Granville Ptarmigan-Rhodes adopted the foetal position and soon found himself dreaming of a past life; a life of privilege, of wanting for nothing, from boarding school through university to a commission in the army.
A light sleeper of some note, he became aware of the hushed whispers, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, then, something else. What was it? Petrol, he was on his feet as the head of the matchstick scratched along the sandpaper and throwing a ferocious right hook at the head of the owner of the matchbox.
Too late, his jacket sleeves were on fire, a fact he ignored as he watched the youth fall backwards in slow motion.
Through the flames he noticed the departure of the other youth and gave chase, his Oxford Blue for rugby coming into play as he ankle tapped the runner to the ground. Unfortunately, the guy wriggled free but not before he too had caught fire.
Ptarmigan-Rhodes stripped what was left of his jacket from his wiry frame and smiled to himself as the boy yelped and screeched his way to the duck pond at the edge of the park, immersing himself in the water to dowse the flames.
Believing he had seen the last of them, Ptarmigan-Rhodes gathered up what remained of his Daily Telegraph, covered himself as best he could and settled once more into the bench which served as his bed.
He heard the dogs and reckoned it must be morning, early walkers.
In actual fact a mere fifty-five minutes had passed, enough time for the hospital staff to contact the police after treating his assailants and hearing how a tramp had attacked them as they innocently strolled through the park.
Four dogs with handlers, to his mind, seemed a little over the top.
Ptarmigan-Rhodes didn't argue with them, didn't put up anything of a fight, allowing them to bundle him into the back of the meat wagon and deliver him to the cells.
At trial, Ptarmigan-Rhodes elected to defend himself, this he did by saying absolutely nothing bar to verify his name and that he was of no fixed abode.
Owing to the severity of the youth's injuries, the judge explained he had no alternative but to hand down a custodial sentence of six months, to be spent at Her Majesty's pleasure, a strange choice of words by any stretch of the imagination.
On asking once more if Ptarmigan-Rhodes had anything to say, the tramp rose to his feet and stated simply, "They thought I was asleep."
He quickly settled into prison life, taking to it almost immediately, he felt somehow at home what with the uniform and the strict rules and regulations. The prison barber trimmed his singed beard and hair, rendering him almost presentable.
He missed the army, having been dishonourably discharged some three years earlier for striking a superior officer. The court martial didn't seem to want to listen to his version of events leading up to the incident, that the officer had been bullying junior ranks and abusing his position.
From there, a series of dead end jobs, a feeling of helplessness culminating in the loss of all his worldly possessions, and, with no family to speak of, no option but to take up a life as a gentleman of the road, a tramp.
A teetotaller and a non-smoker, if he managed to bum the price of a cup of tea, that's exactly what he would purchase. He instinctively knew who to ask and he knew exactly how to ask.
Prison life suited him, three meals per day, a warm bed, he would keep his head down as advised, stay out of trouble and see out his time.
For one reason or another, two of the warders, screws, took a dislike to him but he managed to ignore their efforts to incite some sort of a rise out of him. The only person he bothered with was Banjo, a wizened, institutionalised old lag. Banjo sat by the chess board at recreation break and eventually invited Ptarmigan-Rhodes to play. Their only conversation concerned chess moves, yet the more they learned of each other's strategies, the less they had to say.
Three and a half months into his sentence, Ptarmigan-Rhodes was invited to the governor's office and advised he would be paroled in two weeks time for good behaviour.
He didn't let the governor see he was upset at this news, instead, he retired to his cell and weighed up his options.
Two weeks time would make it the end of January, the winter had been particularly harsh with no signs of letting up, perhaps the governor would allow him to see out his sentence in the comfort he had become accustomed to.
Banjo advised against asking, he would be ridiculed or worse, the old man had more to say in this one address than he had over the previous three and a half months, all of it negative.
Rather despondently, Ptarmigan-Rhodes retired once again to his cell and tuned the radio, bequeathed him by a cell mate who had been released, to Radio Four. He flopped onto the bed, turned to the wall and settled down to listen to a play.
Halfway through said play the two screws who had taken a dislike to him decided to toss his cell in search of contraband. Mistake, big mistake, Ptarmigan-Rhodes leapt from the bed, kicked the cell door closed and laid into the two officers. He was sitting calmly on the bed when the alarm was raised and allowed himself to be frogmarched to the governor's office.
On being asked if he had anything to say in his defence, Ptarmigan-Rhodes simply stated, "They thought I was asleep."
He managed to conceal his absolute joy when his recently awarded parole was revoked. Spring would be an ideal time to take to the road again.
Swearwords: None.
Description: He's a gentleman of the road, but you don't want to tangle with him!
_____________________________________________________________________
With the sun setting fast on another beautiful, autumnal day, Granville Ptarmigan-Rhodes adopted the foetal position and soon found himself dreaming of a past life; a life of privilege, of wanting for nothing, from boarding school through university to a commission in the army.
A light sleeper of some note, he became aware of the hushed whispers, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke, then, something else. What was it? Petrol, he was on his feet as the head of the matchstick scratched along the sandpaper and throwing a ferocious right hook at the head of the owner of the matchbox.
Too late, his jacket sleeves were on fire, a fact he ignored as he watched the youth fall backwards in slow motion.
Through the flames he noticed the departure of the other youth and gave chase, his Oxford Blue for rugby coming into play as he ankle tapped the runner to the ground. Unfortunately, the guy wriggled free but not before he too had caught fire.
Ptarmigan-Rhodes stripped what was left of his jacket from his wiry frame and smiled to himself as the boy yelped and screeched his way to the duck pond at the edge of the park, immersing himself in the water to dowse the flames.
Believing he had seen the last of them, Ptarmigan-Rhodes gathered up what remained of his Daily Telegraph, covered himself as best he could and settled once more into the bench which served as his bed.
He heard the dogs and reckoned it must be morning, early walkers.
In actual fact a mere fifty-five minutes had passed, enough time for the hospital staff to contact the police after treating his assailants and hearing how a tramp had attacked them as they innocently strolled through the park.
Four dogs with handlers, to his mind, seemed a little over the top.
Ptarmigan-Rhodes didn't argue with them, didn't put up anything of a fight, allowing them to bundle him into the back of the meat wagon and deliver him to the cells.
At trial, Ptarmigan-Rhodes elected to defend himself, this he did by saying absolutely nothing bar to verify his name and that he was of no fixed abode.
Owing to the severity of the youth's injuries, the judge explained he had no alternative but to hand down a custodial sentence of six months, to be spent at Her Majesty's pleasure, a strange choice of words by any stretch of the imagination.
On asking once more if Ptarmigan-Rhodes had anything to say, the tramp rose to his feet and stated simply, "They thought I was asleep."
He quickly settled into prison life, taking to it almost immediately, he felt somehow at home what with the uniform and the strict rules and regulations. The prison barber trimmed his singed beard and hair, rendering him almost presentable.
He missed the army, having been dishonourably discharged some three years earlier for striking a superior officer. The court martial didn't seem to want to listen to his version of events leading up to the incident, that the officer had been bullying junior ranks and abusing his position.
From there, a series of dead end jobs, a feeling of helplessness culminating in the loss of all his worldly possessions, and, with no family to speak of, no option but to take up a life as a gentleman of the road, a tramp.
A teetotaller and a non-smoker, if he managed to bum the price of a cup of tea, that's exactly what he would purchase. He instinctively knew who to ask and he knew exactly how to ask.
Prison life suited him, three meals per day, a warm bed, he would keep his head down as advised, stay out of trouble and see out his time.
For one reason or another, two of the warders, screws, took a dislike to him but he managed to ignore their efforts to incite some sort of a rise out of him. The only person he bothered with was Banjo, a wizened, institutionalised old lag. Banjo sat by the chess board at recreation break and eventually invited Ptarmigan-Rhodes to play. Their only conversation concerned chess moves, yet the more they learned of each other's strategies, the less they had to say.
Three and a half months into his sentence, Ptarmigan-Rhodes was invited to the governor's office and advised he would be paroled in two weeks time for good behaviour.
He didn't let the governor see he was upset at this news, instead, he retired to his cell and weighed up his options.
Two weeks time would make it the end of January, the winter had been particularly harsh with no signs of letting up, perhaps the governor would allow him to see out his sentence in the comfort he had become accustomed to.
Banjo advised against asking, he would be ridiculed or worse, the old man had more to say in this one address than he had over the previous three and a half months, all of it negative.
Rather despondently, Ptarmigan-Rhodes retired once again to his cell and tuned the radio, bequeathed him by a cell mate who had been released, to Radio Four. He flopped onto the bed, turned to the wall and settled down to listen to a play.
Halfway through said play the two screws who had taken a dislike to him decided to toss his cell in search of contraband. Mistake, big mistake, Ptarmigan-Rhodes leapt from the bed, kicked the cell door closed and laid into the two officers. He was sitting calmly on the bed when the alarm was raised and allowed himself to be frogmarched to the governor's office.
On being asked if he had anything to say in his defence, Ptarmigan-Rhodes simply stated, "They thought I was asleep."
He managed to conceal his absolute joy when his recently awarded parole was revoked. Spring would be an ideal time to take to the road again.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in his 50s, an ex seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in sunny Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He is inspired by the Ayrshire coast and likes what he calls ‘real music’. He also enjoys pool, snooker and is a big fan of rugby league side, Wigan Warriors. He has written several novels and one poetry collection and says that writing gives him ‘endless pleasure’. His two ebooks can be viewed by clicking on the images below.