Sullivan
He was late, and that wasn’t usual. Normally, he was pretty punctual. Maybe he had overslept and another lad had taken his round, someone who didn’t know it quite so well.
The wooden chair beneath him protested audibly as he shifted his weight slightly, wrapping his thin dressing gown tighter around his slight frame in a spirited but ultimately futile attempt to defy the draught that whistled relentlessly beneath the front door. The garment was of little use in that department; years of wear and tear leaving it threadbare and tatty, but it just about succeeded in keeping him decent. That would have to do. His meagre pension wouldn’t stretch that far.
This morning, like most mornings, he had risen early, roused as usual by the pair of woodpigeons that roosted in the sycamore tree just outside his bedroom window. Columba palumbus, to give them their proper, Latinate name. Each morning, they would issue their distinctive cry with the first rays of morning sun, before flapping away, all urgency and indignance, when he opened the curtains to greet the new day himself.
Waking so early gave him a head start over the rest of the population, and he always did his best to make the most of these precious few hours. He would wake, shave and wash, before heading downstairs to prepare breakfast. A bowl of porridge, with milk and no sugar, followed by a single poached egg on toasted granary, cut from the loaf. The whole meal was then washed down with a cup of strong tea, the first of many.
Breakfast completed, he would wash up the plates and saucepans at the kitchen sink, staring out of the window at the garden that lay beyond. He had never been much of a gardener, his horticultural activity limited only to the occasional mowing of the lawn, and the sporadic, brutal pruning of the rosebush which seemed to have taken over the eastern corner of the garden. Now, an unforgiving combination of stiffening joints and chronic apathy had meant that even these, basic chores had been forgotten, and the garden had blossomed into a regular urban jungle, wild and overgrown.
On more than one occasion, his next door neighbour, a rather unassuming man in his mid-forties, had offered to mow his lawn or prune back some of the sprawling bushes and shrubs. The old man had always declined, politely but firmly. He wouldn’t have virtual strangers wandering around, poking their noses into his business.
In truth, far from being a source of irritation, the current state of the garden was welcomed by the old man, as it provided a rich habitat for a whole plethora of birds, bugs and beasts, and he would spend many a happy hour watching them from behind his dusty windows. He was not alone in this regard either, as his pet cat positively relished the garden, and could often be found sprawled out in a pool of warm sunlight, or else stalking through the long grass by the fence, seeking out the many butterflies he had little chance of catching.
He glanced up at the Westminster clock mounted on the wall of the draughty hallway. 8:03 already. For whatever reason, the paperboy was definitely late. It was odd, as he was ordinarily dependable, and on the few occasions that he had needed to knock on the door to deliver the bulky, supplement-rich Sunday editions directly to his hand, he had been both courteous and polite. The old man had even rewarded the youngster with a healthy Christmas bonus, to ensure that he knew his exertions had not gone unnoticed. Four whole pounds. He only hoped his faith had not been misplaced. He didn’t want to have to go to the newsagents to sort it out.
He tended to venture outside just once a week, early every Tuesday morning, when he collected his pension from the post office, in cash. He then bought the few essentials needed to sustain himself through the following week. He tended to frequent the smaller, independent shops, shunning the large supermarket on the outskirts of the town. There was little question that it was more convenient, but bustling crowds and ever changing layouts always persuaded him to stick to what he knew.
His pension safely installed in his inside jacket pocket, his arms laden down with canvas bags of groceries, the old man’s last job before returning to the comfort of home was to visit the local bakery. They kindly kept a bag or two of stale rolls and pastries under the counter for him, leftovers from the day before. They never asked for any kind of recompense, assuring him that they would only be thrown away, but he didn’t like charity, and always left a few coins on the countertop as he left.
On his return home, the groceries would be carefully unpacked and sorted, each individual item stored away in its proper place. The remainder of his pension was then carefully counted, and stored in an old biscuit tin tucked neatly under his bed. The stale bread and cakes were not for his own consumption. Each morning, he would crumble them up, and throw them out for the birds, watching with amusement as a whole host of his feathered friends descended upon the garden, a seething, jostling blanket of feathers, claws and beaks. Bickering, squabbling hordes of Sturnus vulgaris strutted about, their jet black, beady eyes meticulously scanning the ground for any stray morsels, while the occasional, Passer domesticus hopped gamely in and out of the brown-flecked melee, hoping to stake a claim to a meagre crumb or two before being mobbed by their boisterous cousins.
His garden played host to more individual guests though. The Turdus philomelos, with its speckled breast and familiar song, scouring the garden for foolish snails brought out of hiding by the morning dew. (He was becoming a rare sight these days though.) The colourful Parus caeruleus , hanging precariously but expertly from the bird feeder he had hung in the branches of the sycamore.
However, it was with the familiar Turdus merula that he had struck up a particular friendship. The fellow who visited his garden was distinctive by its stunted, stumpy tail, presumably forfeited through a close encounter with a predator or rival. This disability didn’t seem to hold him back in any way, but he had developed an affinity with the animal, and would watch with undisguised delight when it did put in an appearance, hopping across the lawn in its resplendent black livery, teasing out any worms or grubs unfortunate enough to stray too close to the surface.
He had even taken to holding back a little something for this particular guest. When it appeared, the old man would gently throw small crumbs in its direction, hoping to coax the animal closer towards him. He would watch with unbridled delight and fascination as the creature hopped cautiously forward, spearing and swallowing each morsel with one smooth, well-rehearsed action. It would then look up, regarding its elderly benefactor with guarded inquisitiveness, its silken head cocked to one side, the bright yellow rings of its eyes trained fastidiously upon him. Progress was slow, but over many weeks and months, the bird had grown in confidence, and would now venture within a few, short feet of the back door, if a sufficient quantity of food was provided. However, if the old man made any sudden movement, or edged that little bit too close for the bird’s comfort, he would send the animal dashing for cover, its peculiar, crouching sprint propelling it into the safety of the undergrowth, all the while issuing its piercing, clipped call of surprise and alarm.
He heard the distinctive rattle of the catch on the front gate, and tensed up a little at the noise. A few seconds later, the letterbox flipped open, and a newspaper began to nose its way through the gap, rattling the door in its frame slightly as it completed its journey, falling from the door and splaying itself out awkwardly on the doormat.
Witnessing the arrival of the paper, he relaxed a little, relieved that his wait was over for another morning. Rising stiffly from his seat, reaching behind him and trusting in the durability of the rickety chair to help him attain the vertical, he shuffled forward a few feet before stooping down to gather up the scattered newsprint. He did his best to reorder it into its former, pristine state, before tucking it under his arm. He turned and picked up the chair he had been sitting on, placing it back first against the door, so it obstructed the letterbox. He had no need or want for free newspapers and circulars, and this little arrangement ensured that he rarely received them. It also curtailed any potential mischief from the hordes of unruly schoolchildren who streamed past his house every weekday morning.
Suitably satisfied, he now headed for the living room. Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped in, taking care to avoid the small portion of rucked-up carpet he had been intending to do something about for several months.
The room was spartan and old-fashioned in design, populated by a shabby sideboard, a number of distinctly uneasy looking chairs, a small side table, and a coffee table, basking in the few rays of sunlight that had managed to evade the heavy, moth-eaten curtains. The only other item of furniture in the room was a bulky, domineering bookcase which took up most of one wall, its overworked shelves groaning and sagging under a copious quantity of dusty, long-abandoned tomes.
He picked his way amongst the assorted furniture, heading for the ancient, saggy armchair in the corner of the room, the most comfortable chair in the place, and the most frequent receptacle for the old man’s posterior. He sunk into it heavily, emitting a large, audible sigh as he extricated the newspaper from under his arm, and smoothed it out over his lap. Plucking his spectacles from the breast pocket of his gown, he began to peruse the paper through the scratched lenses. He flicked through the paper page by page, carefully removing any extraneous items that he had no interest in. The sports pages, the television and radio listings, the arts reviews and theatre guides, the job pages, property listings and classifieds, the obituaries and public notices, they were all carefully removed, and placed in an ever-growing pile by the side of the chair, until he was left with just a fraction of the newsprint that he had started with. Absent-mindedly licking his index finger, he began to rifle through the remainder, scanning each sprawling page for any story that caught his eye. ‘Teenager stabbed five times for mobile phone’. ‘Middle East conflict rages on as peace talks collapse’.
From outside, he could hear the first wave of schoolchildren making their way to school, their exuberant shouts and cries sprinting down the street in front of them like over-eager puppies. Clearing his throat nervously, he gave the paper a brief shake, and immersed himself within it once more. ‘Police no nearer arrest for lake murders’. ‘Fourteen year-old girl latest ecstasy victim’. ‘Pensioner mugged for £4.20’.
He sighed heavily, and dropped the newspaper, which draped itself pathetically over his lap. It was always the same. The bored young children, trooping disconsolately to school, the occasional slam of a car door as one of his neighbours began their daily commute, the distant hum of the traffic in the early morning rush hour. They all signified the commencement of a brand new day, and so much more.
He glanced briefly at his wristwatch. The daily crossword was awaiting his attention, but it was also time for Sullivan’s breakfast, and if he wasn’t fed now he would slope off and sulk for the rest of the day. Leaning heavily on the worn arms of the armchair, he prised himself out of his seat, pausing for a moment to allow his legs to assume full responsibility for the rest of his body. He headed down the corridor towards the kitchen. Once here, he unbolted and unlocked the back door.
He peered out at first, uncertain, before growing a little bolder, half opening the door and craning his neck around the tight angle. Of the cat there was no sign, but sitting squarely in the centre of the doormat outside the door was Turdus merula, closer to the door than it had ever been before, broken and wretched. The characteristic sheen of its plumage was gone; one of its wings splayed out at an impossible angle, its stunted tail fanned out behind it. Its beak was half-open, unable to complete its warning cry, and the perfect yellow circle of its glassy, lifeless eye stared up at him intensely, its redundant feathers quavering in the crisp spring breeze.
Copyright Phil Hudson 2003
Photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/ferrucciozanone/14156857293/">Ferruccio Zanone</a> / <a href="http://iwoman.com/">IWoman</a> / <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">CC BY-SA</a>
He was late, and that wasn’t usual. Normally, he was pretty punctual. Maybe he had overslept and another lad had taken his round, someone who didn’t know it quite so well.
The wooden chair beneath him protested audibly as he shifted his weight slightly, wrapping his thin dressing gown tighter around his slight frame in a spirited but ultimately futile attempt to defy the draught that whistled relentlessly beneath the front door. The garment was of little use in that department; years of wear and tear leaving it threadbare and tatty, but it just about succeeded in keeping him decent. That would have to do. His meagre pension wouldn’t stretch that far.
This morning, like most mornings, he had risen early, roused as usual by the pair of woodpigeons that roosted in the sycamore tree just outside his bedroom window. Columba palumbus, to give them their proper, Latinate name. Each morning, they would issue their distinctive cry with the first rays of morning sun, before flapping away, all urgency and indignance, when he opened the curtains to greet the new day himself.
Waking so early gave him a head start over the rest of the population, and he always did his best to make the most of these precious few hours. He would wake, shave and wash, before heading downstairs to prepare breakfast. A bowl of porridge, with milk and no sugar, followed by a single poached egg on toasted granary, cut from the loaf. The whole meal was then washed down with a cup of strong tea, the first of many.
Breakfast completed, he would wash up the plates and saucepans at the kitchen sink, staring out of the window at the garden that lay beyond. He had never been much of a gardener, his horticultural activity limited only to the occasional mowing of the lawn, and the sporadic, brutal pruning of the rosebush which seemed to have taken over the eastern corner of the garden. Now, an unforgiving combination of stiffening joints and chronic apathy had meant that even these, basic chores had been forgotten, and the garden had blossomed into a regular urban jungle, wild and overgrown.
On more than one occasion, his next door neighbour, a rather unassuming man in his mid-forties, had offered to mow his lawn or prune back some of the sprawling bushes and shrubs. The old man had always declined, politely but firmly. He wouldn’t have virtual strangers wandering around, poking their noses into his business.
In truth, far from being a source of irritation, the current state of the garden was welcomed by the old man, as it provided a rich habitat for a whole plethora of birds, bugs and beasts, and he would spend many a happy hour watching them from behind his dusty windows. He was not alone in this regard either, as his pet cat positively relished the garden, and could often be found sprawled out in a pool of warm sunlight, or else stalking through the long grass by the fence, seeking out the many butterflies he had little chance of catching.
He glanced up at the Westminster clock mounted on the wall of the draughty hallway. 8:03 already. For whatever reason, the paperboy was definitely late. It was odd, as he was ordinarily dependable, and on the few occasions that he had needed to knock on the door to deliver the bulky, supplement-rich Sunday editions directly to his hand, he had been both courteous and polite. The old man had even rewarded the youngster with a healthy Christmas bonus, to ensure that he knew his exertions had not gone unnoticed. Four whole pounds. He only hoped his faith had not been misplaced. He didn’t want to have to go to the newsagents to sort it out.
He tended to venture outside just once a week, early every Tuesday morning, when he collected his pension from the post office, in cash. He then bought the few essentials needed to sustain himself through the following week. He tended to frequent the smaller, independent shops, shunning the large supermarket on the outskirts of the town. There was little question that it was more convenient, but bustling crowds and ever changing layouts always persuaded him to stick to what he knew.
His pension safely installed in his inside jacket pocket, his arms laden down with canvas bags of groceries, the old man’s last job before returning to the comfort of home was to visit the local bakery. They kindly kept a bag or two of stale rolls and pastries under the counter for him, leftovers from the day before. They never asked for any kind of recompense, assuring him that they would only be thrown away, but he didn’t like charity, and always left a few coins on the countertop as he left.
On his return home, the groceries would be carefully unpacked and sorted, each individual item stored away in its proper place. The remainder of his pension was then carefully counted, and stored in an old biscuit tin tucked neatly under his bed. The stale bread and cakes were not for his own consumption. Each morning, he would crumble them up, and throw them out for the birds, watching with amusement as a whole host of his feathered friends descended upon the garden, a seething, jostling blanket of feathers, claws and beaks. Bickering, squabbling hordes of Sturnus vulgaris strutted about, their jet black, beady eyes meticulously scanning the ground for any stray morsels, while the occasional, Passer domesticus hopped gamely in and out of the brown-flecked melee, hoping to stake a claim to a meagre crumb or two before being mobbed by their boisterous cousins.
His garden played host to more individual guests though. The Turdus philomelos, with its speckled breast and familiar song, scouring the garden for foolish snails brought out of hiding by the morning dew. (He was becoming a rare sight these days though.) The colourful Parus caeruleus , hanging precariously but expertly from the bird feeder he had hung in the branches of the sycamore.
However, it was with the familiar Turdus merula that he had struck up a particular friendship. The fellow who visited his garden was distinctive by its stunted, stumpy tail, presumably forfeited through a close encounter with a predator or rival. This disability didn’t seem to hold him back in any way, but he had developed an affinity with the animal, and would watch with undisguised delight when it did put in an appearance, hopping across the lawn in its resplendent black livery, teasing out any worms or grubs unfortunate enough to stray too close to the surface.
He had even taken to holding back a little something for this particular guest. When it appeared, the old man would gently throw small crumbs in its direction, hoping to coax the animal closer towards him. He would watch with unbridled delight and fascination as the creature hopped cautiously forward, spearing and swallowing each morsel with one smooth, well-rehearsed action. It would then look up, regarding its elderly benefactor with guarded inquisitiveness, its silken head cocked to one side, the bright yellow rings of its eyes trained fastidiously upon him. Progress was slow, but over many weeks and months, the bird had grown in confidence, and would now venture within a few, short feet of the back door, if a sufficient quantity of food was provided. However, if the old man made any sudden movement, or edged that little bit too close for the bird’s comfort, he would send the animal dashing for cover, its peculiar, crouching sprint propelling it into the safety of the undergrowth, all the while issuing its piercing, clipped call of surprise and alarm.
He heard the distinctive rattle of the catch on the front gate, and tensed up a little at the noise. A few seconds later, the letterbox flipped open, and a newspaper began to nose its way through the gap, rattling the door in its frame slightly as it completed its journey, falling from the door and splaying itself out awkwardly on the doormat.
Witnessing the arrival of the paper, he relaxed a little, relieved that his wait was over for another morning. Rising stiffly from his seat, reaching behind him and trusting in the durability of the rickety chair to help him attain the vertical, he shuffled forward a few feet before stooping down to gather up the scattered newsprint. He did his best to reorder it into its former, pristine state, before tucking it under his arm. He turned and picked up the chair he had been sitting on, placing it back first against the door, so it obstructed the letterbox. He had no need or want for free newspapers and circulars, and this little arrangement ensured that he rarely received them. It also curtailed any potential mischief from the hordes of unruly schoolchildren who streamed past his house every weekday morning.
Suitably satisfied, he now headed for the living room. Pushing open the heavy door, he stepped in, taking care to avoid the small portion of rucked-up carpet he had been intending to do something about for several months.
The room was spartan and old-fashioned in design, populated by a shabby sideboard, a number of distinctly uneasy looking chairs, a small side table, and a coffee table, basking in the few rays of sunlight that had managed to evade the heavy, moth-eaten curtains. The only other item of furniture in the room was a bulky, domineering bookcase which took up most of one wall, its overworked shelves groaning and sagging under a copious quantity of dusty, long-abandoned tomes.
He picked his way amongst the assorted furniture, heading for the ancient, saggy armchair in the corner of the room, the most comfortable chair in the place, and the most frequent receptacle for the old man’s posterior. He sunk into it heavily, emitting a large, audible sigh as he extricated the newspaper from under his arm, and smoothed it out over his lap. Plucking his spectacles from the breast pocket of his gown, he began to peruse the paper through the scratched lenses. He flicked through the paper page by page, carefully removing any extraneous items that he had no interest in. The sports pages, the television and radio listings, the arts reviews and theatre guides, the job pages, property listings and classifieds, the obituaries and public notices, they were all carefully removed, and placed in an ever-growing pile by the side of the chair, until he was left with just a fraction of the newsprint that he had started with. Absent-mindedly licking his index finger, he began to rifle through the remainder, scanning each sprawling page for any story that caught his eye. ‘Teenager stabbed five times for mobile phone’. ‘Middle East conflict rages on as peace talks collapse’.
From outside, he could hear the first wave of schoolchildren making their way to school, their exuberant shouts and cries sprinting down the street in front of them like over-eager puppies. Clearing his throat nervously, he gave the paper a brief shake, and immersed himself within it once more. ‘Police no nearer arrest for lake murders’. ‘Fourteen year-old girl latest ecstasy victim’. ‘Pensioner mugged for £4.20’.
He sighed heavily, and dropped the newspaper, which draped itself pathetically over his lap. It was always the same. The bored young children, trooping disconsolately to school, the occasional slam of a car door as one of his neighbours began their daily commute, the distant hum of the traffic in the early morning rush hour. They all signified the commencement of a brand new day, and so much more.
He glanced briefly at his wristwatch. The daily crossword was awaiting his attention, but it was also time for Sullivan’s breakfast, and if he wasn’t fed now he would slope off and sulk for the rest of the day. Leaning heavily on the worn arms of the armchair, he prised himself out of his seat, pausing for a moment to allow his legs to assume full responsibility for the rest of his body. He headed down the corridor towards the kitchen. Once here, he unbolted and unlocked the back door.
He peered out at first, uncertain, before growing a little bolder, half opening the door and craning his neck around the tight angle. Of the cat there was no sign, but sitting squarely in the centre of the doormat outside the door was Turdus merula, closer to the door than it had ever been before, broken and wretched. The characteristic sheen of its plumage was gone; one of its wings splayed out at an impossible angle, its stunted tail fanned out behind it. Its beak was half-open, unable to complete its warning cry, and the perfect yellow circle of its glassy, lifeless eye stared up at him intensely, its redundant feathers quavering in the crisp spring breeze.
Copyright Phil Hudson 2003
Photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/ferrucciozanone/14156857293/">Ferruccio Zanone</a> / <a href="http://iwoman.com/">IWoman</a> / <a href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">CC BY-SA</a>