Desperation

Desperation

It’s freezing cold, my hands are numb, my fingers claw-like and we’re still a long way from home,  actually, we could be anywhere in this pea-souper.  You splutter and cough, and we struggle on for a few more yards. Your eyes, usually so bright and lively, seem dim and cloudy as they try, in vain, to penetrate this damp grey gloom. Then you stop, you grind to a sad, juddery halt.  Fearfully I dismount and look at your face. I feel a lump in my throat as I witness the light in your eyes as it fades, then finally disappears. The fog has won the battle and now envelops us triumphantly.

I drag you along,  my muscles are screaming and I shout, “Come on, Vernon. We can make it, side by side. United we stand and divided we fall and all that.” When you lurch, drunkenly to one side, I nearly give up and, to my eternal shame, abandon you. As I hesitate  and battle with my conscience,  I see it, a rusty nail has impaled itself in your rear end. It’s as flat as a pancake. I take a deep breath and wrench it out.  Although I fancy I can hear your sigh of relief, I fear it’s just your suspension drawing its last breath.

Then I listen, hardly daring to breathe. It’s there, the unmistakeable sound of church bells. “Come on, Vernon, come on!” You’re  immoveable, stubborn as ever, so, with the strength of a man possessed, I haul you over my shoulder and stumble, knees buckling towards the peel of bells. I’m just starting to sing, ‘You ain’t heavy, you’re my Vernon’, when I see it, oh joy and oh bliss, St Martin’s illuminated notice-board. And what luck. It’s Vespers!  I lift my head and shout to the heavens, “Thank you God. Thank you.”

As we stagger to a pew, saintly sniggers echo around the church. I glance at the vicar and stifle a smirk at the comedic frown on his face. He looks so stern as he clocks my poor dead Vespa scooter languishing in the aisle. What the hell I think, this is meant to be Vespers, isn’t it?

Shirley McIntyre

September 2016