kindly helped her off the bus. There was
certainly no question of a secret fancy for
Miss Grey as, although she was certainly
lovely, she was also in her nineties and
had spent 60 of those years happily com-
panioned with the charming Miss Hali-
ford. Something untoward was definite-
ly afoot.
It was Brian the postman who took it
upon himself to investigate the matter
further. He lingered a little longer than
was necessary on his rounds and man-
aged to catch Patrick as he was leaving
his cottage for his usual morning stroll
around the town.
“Morning, Patrick,” Brian said.
“Morning, Brian,” Patrick replied.
“How are we today?”
“Well, I’m fine,” Patrick said with a
smile, “but I’m afraid I have no idea how
you are.”
“Ha ha. Very funny. I’m fine too.”
“Good. Pleased to hear it.”
“Any news then?”
“The runner beans are doing rather
well. Not much else going on.”
“Nothing?” asked Brian.
“Like what?” said Patrick.
“Well... I don’t know.”
“Well, neither do I. Have a good day,
Brian, and maybe a lie-down when
you’ve finished your deliveries. Running
a little late, aren’t you?”
And with that Patrick resumed his
walk, leaving a bemused Brian with no
more information and nothing to report
when he returned to the post office.
The following week Johnny Moles-
worth was both astounded and delight-
ed to find a pair of brand-new soccer
boots, his size and the latest design, left
on his doorstep. He’d been selected for
the district schools team and his mom
had been telling Emily in the library how
much difference new boots would make,
but she just couldn’t make the money
stretch, not since Johnny’s dad had left.
Emily had felt bad that she hadn’t been
able to chat for longer, but a queue was
beginning to build. A queue with Patrick
in it.
A
ND so it continued. A small
gesture here, an anony-
mous present there. Every-
one knew it was Patrick,
even when he hadn’t hand-
ed the gift over in person.
People were worried. Emily wondered if
perhaps he was ill and, having no family,
was using this last chance to spend his
savings before his time was up. Brian
wondered if he’d been left an inheritance
and, unused as he was to spending mon-
ey on himself, couldn’t think what else to
do with it.
Miss Grey was delegated to enquire
further as, given her age and gentle na-
ture, she was less likely to cause offence
than anyone else. She took her opportu-
nity the next time Patrick helped her
home with her shopping, having decided
a direct approach was the only way.
“Are you ill, Patrick?” she asked.
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Why do you
ask?”
Miss Grey ignored the question.
“Have you been left an inheritance?”
“No. I–”
“Horses then? Lottery win? Roman
treasure buried in the garden? Antiques
discovered in the loft?”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re
getting at.”
“Of course you do,” Miss Grey said.
“The gifts. Emily’s flowers. The donation
to the Scout hut. My chocolates.”
“A h .”
“Yes, ‘ah’ indeed. It’s just not like you,
Patrick. What’s going on? We’rerather
worried.”
Patrick smiled.
“I’m touched at your con-
cern,” he said. “But there’s re-
ally nothing to worry about.”
“Then why?”
Patrick hesitated.
“You won’t tell anyone, will
you?” he said.
“Me? Of course not,” Miss
Grey assured him.
“I had a revelation,” Patricksaid.
“A revelation? A religious revelation?”
“No,” Patrick said. “Not religious.Justa
revelation.”
And despite Miss Grey’s protestations
he’d say no more.T
HE residents of UpperCam-
brig were now morecon-
fused than ever. Patrickwas
a down-to-earth sortofchap,
not the type onewouldex-
pect to be prone toanygreat
imaginings. What could’ve happenedto
produce such an extraordinaryeffecton
such an ordinary man?
They were, however, delightedtosee
that Miss Grey’s enquirieshaddone
nothing to dampen Patrick’s enthusiasm
for his acts of spontaneous generosity- new books for the children’ssectionof
the library, a dozen rose bushes for the
mini-roundabout, a bottle of whisky for
Brian’s birthday.
Patrick seemed happy; his friends were
happy. If he wanted to keep his revela-
tion to himself then where was the
harm? They let the matter drop and car-
ried on with their lives, a little brighter of
spirit than before.P
ATRICK sat in his garden
and surveyed his vegetable
patch, his toes wiggling in
the soft earth. The runners
had been great this year and
the brassicas were doing
well too. It must have been all that heavy
rain earlier in the year.
He remembered well the day of the big
storm, looking out to his garden and see-
ing the battering his plants were taking.
He’d rushed outside in his pyjamas and
bare feet, tying up shoots, putting protec-
tive sheeting over his tender seedlings,
mindless of the rain and the howling
wind. He’d felt the mud between his toes
and the cool wet grass under his feet and
it was lovely. Just lovely. He’d felt free and
aliveandhappy.
Ithadmadehimthinkof
socks,andwhypeoplewore
them,thenofotherthings
thatwereboughtoutofhab-
it.Patrickdidn’tneedthem.
Whatheneededwastofeel
likethismoreoften– uncon-
strained,liberated,notso
cautious.Andhewantedhis
friendstoshareit.
Itoccurredtohimhowtheconcern
he’dpaidtohisfinanceshadn’textended
enoughtothethingsthatreallymattered- havinga littleextramoneyinthebank
wasfarlessimportantthanputting
smilesonpeople’sfaces.Hecouldafford
tobea littlelesscareful,especiallygiven
themoneyhe’dbesavingfromthethings
henowknewhedidn’tneedafterall.And
it wouldbegoodforhimtoo.Maybeto -
daywastherainydayhe’dbeensaving
for.
Onlya smallrevelationmaybe,butthe
resultshadbeenevenmorepleasing
thanhe’dexpected.
Whatsurprisedhimmostwasthat,de-
spitetheirvigorousinvestigationsinto
hischangeofcharacter,notoneofhis
friendshadnoticedthat,sincethedayof
thestorm,hehadn’tworna singlepairof
socks.S
©BERNADETTEJAMES
The first
sign that
something
was amiss
was the bunch
of flowers for
the librarianyou.co.za 8 AUGUST 2019 | (^63)