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The Alphabet Traveller (Short Story)

by Graeme Fielden

I would like to tell you of something quite strange that occurred when Mother and I were out last weekend but first I should tell you that I am twelve and a half years old and I am a girl. My mother is thirty-eight and people say that we look very much alike except that our hair is different because Mother’s hair is curly and light brown, whilst mine is black and straight like Father’s. Although I am only twelve and a half I am already a full quarter of an inch taller than Mother and Grandma says that I will grow to be almost as tall as Father who is one of the tallest people that I know.

We were shopping in Waitrose and carried four large shopping bags along the High Street when Mother suggested that we sit down in Cissaro’s, a fancy cafe that sells delicious French pastries. Mother ordered a double espresso and I had a banana smoothie and a chocolate eclair from which Mother cut a section and nibbled at it as though she were a squirrel. We were seated outside, watching people walking by on a busy Saturday morning in the spring.

This is one of my favourite pastimes, "People Theatre", as Mother describes it and she often talks of it with her friends. "The people theatre was magnificent…Oh! What a scene it was today!" is often the beginning to her conversation with her friends at the tennis club.

Today the people theatre was busier than ever. A removal lorry was parked close by the café and busy burly men carried chairs and desks to and from an office, forcing pedestrians through a thin barricade that funnelled them like a drain pipe to a narrow piece of footpath close by the cafe. Amid the bustle an old gentleman with big white hair and whiskers’ walked slowly along the footpath. He grasped a sheet of paper in his hands then held it to his chest, continuing his slow priestly walk as he seemed to talk, addressing nobody in particular except a vacant space some four inches in front of his face.

I noticed him particularly because he walked very slowly - causing something of a jam about him on the footpath. Pedestrians pushed at him impatiently, sidestepping or elbowing him roughly when he failed to change his course. I pointed him to Mother.

"Silly old fool!" she scoffed.

Mother can be very harsh. I felt instant sympathy for the old man who reminded me of my Grandpa, who had died when I was very young.

"He’s not a fool," I said defensively. "He’s a gentleman!"

"And how do you know that he’s a gentleman?" Mother asked, throwing me one of her hardest stares – the one that always makes Father quiet like a mouse.

"He’s a gentleman!" I insisted. "In fact I’m certain that he’s a Professor or even a Doctor" - for he looked distinguished, slightly eccentric in that cultured way that one normally associates with a country gentleman or a university don.

His hair was wild and white and it ran thickly past his cheeks into jolly mutton chop sideburns that joined into a thin white moustache. He wore a three-piece tweed suit with a fob watch with a chain that glistened in the sun. I imagined that he would smell of roast dinner with Yorkshire pudding and that he was the type of man that would tell amusing stories around warm fires at gentlemen’s clubs that allowed grandchildren to visit their dining room’s at the weekend, like my Grandpa used to do.

"In fact I’m certain he’s a Lord or at least a Sir"

"Rubbish!", Mother scoffed as she turned her head to stare toward the strange little man who continued to walk along the street blissfully oblivious to the mayhem that he caused.

"Look at him," said Mother. "I expect that he’s drunk…look at the way that he walks!"

His walk was erratic. It followed little shifting movements so that his whole body would follow each leg as though he stood on stilts. From time to time he would stop, read from the paper then hold it to his chest whilst mouthing mutely as he stared toward the sky.

"He’s drunk," said Mother, shaking her head.

I studied his movements - he would read the paper as he walked along. Next he’d hold it to his chest - seemingly testing himself as though he was learning lines.

"Oh no he’s not! He’s an actor like Sir John Gielgaud or Sir Lawrence Olivier" I insisted. "I expect that he’s walking toward the West End where he will star in a Shakespeare play like the one that you made me watch last summer".

Mother stared down her nose with the secret stare that told me to be quiet. She gave it whenever she wanted to tell me to shut up, but could not make a scene in public.

The man walked slowly, approaching the removal men who stopped to allow his blind passage through their work site as though it was a zebra crossing. Mother pressed her finger to her lips then stared searchingly toward the old man as he passed. "Shhh…" she said, pointing her ears toward the man, like a cat hunting for prey.

"…A…W…Z…O…L…P…U…T…" he said lightly to himself, oblivious to his newfound audience.

Mother and I looked at each other with amazement as he paused less than six feet from our table. He gave a little jump, then a skip as he held the sheet to his chest, smiling blissfully and shaking his head. Mother looked toward me, raising her finger to her lips…

"…A…W…Z…O…L…P…U…T…" he repeated as he pressed the page firmly to his chest.

He stared blindly into space as he walked past our table, pausing briefly like a palace guard changing direction. Directly in-front he gave a little jump, then he seemed to giggle as he set off for a little skip. He did not see the shopping bag that poked from beneath our table and it caught in his finely polished boot causing him to come crashing down before us where he lay like a dying fly upon the footpath.

Mother was upon him like a shot.

"You silly old man" she said firmly, looking upon him like a policeman - snatching the paper from his hand as the removal men arrived to help him to his feet. He looked upwards, dazed and confused as though wakened from a trance. Mother read the page, tilting it toward me with a look of self-righteous glee she mouthed "Hardly a script!" as I read the page.

It was covered in neat copper plate writing (just like my Grandpa used to write) but it was most strange as it repeated over and over the same strange letters… "…A…W…Z…O…L…P…U…T…"

Mother and I exchanged curious glances as the removal men helped him to his feet and were brushed down his suit.

"Oh, I am a silly old man", he said apologetically to Mother before looking toward me with the kindest eyes and the warmest smile that I have ever seen.

"Indeed you are" said Mother sternly.

I looked toward her with razor eyes. I could not believe how she could be so nasty to this lovely old gentleman who reminded me of Grandpa!

"I get so caught up with what I am doing that I forget everything that is going on about me. Please forgive a foolish old man this indiscretion" he said with innocent eyes that blinked from behind wire glasses so thick that it made his pupils appear minuscule.

He saw the paper in mother’s hand.

"Ah…thank you so much" he said reaching for the page from Mother’s hand.

Mother pulled the page closely to her chest - reading it carefully she eyed him suspiciously "What is this?" she said - giving him her schoolmistress glare so cruelly that I wanted to shout out "Stop it Mother. You’re being cruel to the old gentleman!"

He retained his composure like a priest, smiling warmly at Mother.

"Madam, it is merely something to help a dithering old man remember something quite simple but private to my own affairs" he said with solemnity. "I pray that you shall never have to rely upon such a device when you reach my age".

"Mother give it back to him!" I said.

He looked down at with a broad smile and a wink as he patted my forehead.

"Well just be more careful in future" said Mother sternly and he tipped his forehead toward us, wishing us good day.

"I told you that he was a gentleman" I said to Mother. "You were so nasty to him and he was so lovely!"

I could tell that Mother’s mind was ticking over, she stood silently on the footpath. Thinking, thinking, thinking…"He’s up to something" she said suspiciously.

"Mother you’re terrible!"

She grabbed my hand and before I knew it we were following the old man slowly down the street. We ducked from doorway to doorway, staying a sufficient distance so that he would not notice our pursuit.

"Mother" I cried again in protest. However I knew that my protests were in vain for she had that look in her eyes that told me that she was not going to listen to anything – the one that knits her eyebrows into a neat V and places stern lines into her brow.

To pay Mother her dues, she has a sixth sense when it comes to sensing trouble. Whenever I to do anything at all she will appear unexpectedly, giving me that look that says "Don’t even think about it!"

"Look", she said pointing down the road, "He’s gone into that shop" We could see him from the shopfront as we pressed our noses against the glass. He was in a large line waiting before a bureaucratic desk where a lady in thick glasses processed each applicant with the cold air of public service. As he approached the front of the queue and Mother and I slipped inside, moving toward the front so that we could witness the scene as he sat before the cold looking woman who looked at him over half moon spectacles.

He pulled a pile of papers from beneath his jacket, which she examined, holding each two inches from her nose, stamping it loudly then laying it to rest into a deep drawer that sat to her right. Next, they rose from the desk - moving to a cubicle at the side.

"Finally please begin the chart at the bottom left hand corner and read upward", she said…

"…A…W…Z…O…L…P…U…T…" he said with confidence.

Mother and I looked toward each other with knowing smiles as the woman stamped the final form, passing it over to the old man who seemed to burst with happiness.

"Congratulations Mr. Throckmorton. You’ve passed your license test".

"I told you that he was up to something!" smiled Mother. "Mother’s know these things…You remember that!" she said sternly as she grabbed my hand, walking proudly like a Siamese cat toward the lady at the counter…<%2

07/22/2003

Posted on 07/22/2003
Copyright © 2024 Graeme Fielden

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Max Bouillet on 07/22/03 at 06:09 PM

Beautifully written, sir. I must admit the scene depiction was extremely detailed and the characterization did not suffer from your greater attention to plot. A minor grammar point (like I'm one to talk) in line "...when it cam to sensing trouble. Whenever I tried..." I believe you mean came instead of cam. Great story development. It kept my attention well through the entire piece.

Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 07/23/03 at 02:08 AM

Plot is clear enough! But the characterization is excellent! Timely story for the States as driving of the aged has come into close scrutiny after the elderly gentleman ran into a crowd in a mrket and killed ten people.

Posted by Anne Engelen on 07/23/03 at 10:23 AM

This was a perfect read. I so much enjoyed the "people's theatre" So much is said in this about people's behaviour, their prejudices, their way of judging otheres...absolutely love this story! Well done :)

Posted by Jeanne Marie Hoffman on 07/25/03 at 06:23 AM

The very beginning felt like a twelve year old saying it, even if you didn't emphasize characterisation. Towards the middle of the story, though, there's a few setences that I couldn't really see a twelve year old saying, but I have to admit, I almost was looking for them. (because I noticed the beginning fit a 12 year old so well)

Posted by Alex Smyth on 07/26/03 at 07:19 AM

Held my interest from the start! Great character portrayal, each stayed true to his or her personality. And I disagree with Rae, I think the ending is exactly how that kind of Mother would react! Some Mothers ARE always right:O)

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