Past, Present and Future

He only wanted a pint of milk.  But he could see them waiting, hooded and hunched, leaning against the wall where they could be found for most of the day.  Six youths – probably aged about fifteen or so – laughing, smoking, pushing one another around.

Had George ever had time in his life just to ‘hang around’?  At fifteen he had tried to sign up for the army, desperate to do his bit.  There had never been any talk of bravery.  Everyone knew what was expected of them.

He recalled his sixteenth birthday and the pride he felt when his signature had been accepted.  He remembered his mother’s face as he returned with the news.  She had looked at her youngest son with pride, whilst he knew she felt a mother’s fear.

By seventeen he had watched men die, face down in some foreign land.  He had seen misery and poverty unimaginable today.  For two long years he had struggled each night to sleep, as the world around him seemed full of explosions, and the nightmares in his head were even more dreadful than the reality to which he awoke. 

By his eighteenth birthday he had returned home.  His mother seemed to have aged incredibly.

Now he was looking through the smallest of gaps between the net-curtains at a group of young men with nowhere to go and nothing to do.  He wanted to tell them about decency, loyalty and dedication but it would take all the courage he had just to pass them standing there, so that he could go to the shop for a pint of milk. 

When had he become so fearful? 

When had his mind and body become those of an old man?

Michael was bored.  He pulled his hood down across his forehead as the cold wind that rushed between the tower-blocks hit him hard.  He had spent so many hours leaning against the same wall, listening to Ricky drone on about the latest tunes or the fittest girl at school.

Michael was dreaming of bigger things.  Mr Brown had told him that he expected him to get a C-grade for English.  No-one had ever expected anything positive from him before.  They expected him to get into trouble, expected him not to care, even expected him to stop turning up at all.  But that wasn’t what he felt inside.  He was going to leave the estate, make something of himself.  More than anything he wanted to tell Ricky and the others about his plans to become a teacher.  But that would take courage.

He could see the old man staring at them from behind his net-curtains, no doubt thinking of calling the police, thinking they were up to no good.  This pissed Michael off more than anything.  He couldn’t help being fifteen.  He couldn’t help having been born into this shit-hole.  He couldn’t help the fact that he had nothing better to do.  Not yet anyway.

George put his coat on.  Maybe they would go home soon; even hoodies must have mothers who would have dinner ready for them occasionally.  He was furious with himself for waiting.  Why should an old man be afraid to step out of his own front door?  Jean would have pushed him outside.  But Jean wasn’t there.  Had it really been seventeen years?  He would have given anything to have just five minutes with her again, to listen to her talking about Margaret’s new carpet, or describing what she loved about Rhododendrons, even to hear her whispered voice during those last painful days when they had laughed and cried and said goodbye.

He had had to be brave.  He couldn’t walk away, even though there had been times when he felt he couldn’t go on.  Those years together had filled him with the capacity to cope with the pain at the end.  Even then she had laughed at him, as she always did, lovingly.  He had tried so hard to say what she already knew he felt about her.

Yes.  She would have laughed at him, kissed him on the cheek and opened the front door.

Michael knew that his mother had done everything she could for him.  He knew she hated her job, hated the estate, and hated being single.  It had all been for him, the relentless hours at the supermarket, the jumble-sale cardigans she wore, and the holidays she had never taken.  But he still felt like a kid, her kid.  More than anything he wanted to make her proud.  He wanted to prove to her that everything she had worked for had been worthwhile.  He wanted her to keep believing so that when he left home and made something of himself, his sister would feel that she could do the same.  When they were both out in the big, wide world, his mother would be free.  Maybe she would leave the estate.  Maybe she would travel the world.

But he was just a kid, with dreams and anger in equal measure.  Where could he find the strength to succeed?  Ricky and the others seemed perfectly happy hanging around in the street, talking about girls and nodding to music that only they could hear.

He looked again at the old man behind the net-curtains.  He saw the old man as a failure, living alone in this sad place.  Michael wasn’t going to end up like that, having done nothing with his life.

George closed the curtains.  He walked to the door and stood with his eyes closed, one hand on the door handle.  He let Jean’s image come into his head and imagined her kissing his cheek.  He opened the door and strode purposefully out.  He wanted a pint of milk.

Michael watched as the door opened and the old man stepped outside.

“Look out Granddad,” shouted Ricky, “there’s some nasty folk about.”

Michel thought Ricky was a pratt.  He thought the old man must be scared.  He wasn’t going to end up like that.

“Shut up Ricky,” he said.

George continued on his way to the shop.  He didn’t look towards the youths but simply passed them by. 

Michael walked away from Ricky and the others.  He removed his hood and ran his fingers through his hair. 

Michael’s footsteps were young and quick.  George’s feet shuffled slowly but purposefully.  So it wasn’t long before Michael was overtaking George.

Michael glanced across at the wrinkled face with its glassy eyes.  ‘I’m never ending up like that,’ he thought.

George didn’t want to make eye contact with the youth as he sped by with his hands in his pockets, his shoulders drooping forwards.  ‘I was never like that,’ he thought.

It was then that George slipped, falling on to his side with his left leg tucked underneath him.

Instinctively Michael turned to help him up.

“You alright old man?”

‘Old man?’ thought George, ‘A stupid, old man.”

Holding on to Michael’s outstretched arms, he got to his feet.  His left knee was so painful that he simply gritted his teeth and failed to respond.

“Let’s get you inside,” said Michael.  He gestured to the café just a few yards away, standing next to the shop where George was going to buy a pint of milk.

*******************************************************

Michael brought two mugs of tea over to the table.  The old man looked up at him warmly, the shock of the fall beginning to disappear from his face.

“I’m Michael.”

“George,” said the old man reaching out a cold, wrinkled hand to shake the warm, smooth-skinned hand belonging to Michael. “Not staying with your friends then?”

“No,” answered Michael.

After a pause George said, “thanks.”

“No problem old man.”

“Less of the ‘old’,” replied George with a smile.

There was silence before Michael said, “I’ve seen you, watching us through the curtains.”

“And I’ve seen you,” said George, “just ‘hanging around’.”

“What’s your plan old man?  Today I mean.  Where were you going?”

“I just need a pint of milk.” He said slightly apologetically.

“Must be quite a chore,” Michael suggested, “walking at that pace.”

George laughed slightly.  He knew that Michael though old-age was so very far away.  “And you?  Not hanging around with the hoodies?”

It was Michael’s turn to laugh.  This tabloid terminology hardly described Ricky and the others, or any other British teenager.

“I dared to be different,” he said, “I dared to stand up to Ricky.  Not so much a daring thing to do.  More of a bloody stupid thing.”

“Sounds like you were standing up for yourself, saying it how you see it,” Said George.

“Maybe,” mumbled Michael, “I can’t stand it here any longer.  I can feel myself getting older, but nothing changes.  I see the same faces, talk about the same things.”

Michael realised that this boy was wiser than he had thought.

“What are you going to do then?” asked George.

“You really want to know?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m hoping to become a teacher,” Michael realised that this was the first time he had stated it aloud.

“Good for you young man.”

“The problem is…” began Michael.

“Yes?”

“The problem is…it takes guts.  I have to stop coming out each night to see the others.  I have to tell Ricky and the others.  They won’t understand.  Maybe it’s easier to forget about it.”

“My wife died seventeen years ago today.”

“Sorry?”

“My wife,” continued George, “I watched her as she slowly faded away.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“Because,” said George calmly, “I needed a pint of milk but I didn’t dare leave my own home.”  He looked at Michael and winked, “Hoodies everywhere.”  He continued, “You can cope with pain, or loss, or failure.  But you can’t cope with not trying.  Never give up.  That’s what my Jean would have said.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Tell you what,” said George, “I dare you to go back now and tell them.”

“You dare me?” replied Michael, amused at being challenged by the old man.

“Yep,” said Gorge proudly.

Another silence. 

“Ok, but on one condition,” said Michael, I dare you to come with me.”

George considered this for a moment.  He was eighty-one years old.  He’d already lived a long life.  If it ended now at the hands of some hoody then at least he could see Jean sooner than he thought.

“Ok,” he said.

The young man and the old man walked at a snail’s pace back towards the estate.