Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Three

  Arnold’s Reflective Reflection

  It seems to me that the germination for lifelong obsession rarely begins with a fanfare. Many a fixation tends to creep around the nooks and crannies for a few years before gently tapping one over the psyche and whispering, ‘Remember me?’

  Three months of tapioca-textured atmospherics had slithered past in a prolonged and sometimes hiccoughing heartbeat at The Field of Corncrakes, and several grains of doubt unusually preoccupied Arnold Matson as he obliged his gyrating grey matter with a blunderbuss of a nightcap.

  Feeling more drained than deflated, Arnold had scratched and delved for a crumb of comfort to his condition. Another steady, if unspectacular day of trade had passed pleasantly enough and, to a certain extent, Arnold felt his house was in order. But there was something else…it nagged, and it kept on nagging…

  Having successfully ushered out the last two hangers-on of the evening, he ponders once more on his lonesome. He manoeuvres his drink onto an irascible bar towel, draws up a devoted high-stool, and awkwardly plants and nestles his weary frame. Semi-stifling a yawn, he absentmindedly runs a hand over a day’s fretful chin stubble…

  Accepting the view from a customer’s perspective, Arnold gazes at his reflection in the unforgiving bar room mirror. The landlord and its replica raise a glass to one another, quaff heartily in tandem, and try, once and for all, to dislodge a packet of cheese and onion crisps that are resisting courageously in a cardigan pocket before finally conceding to half-hearted exertion.

  Could this listless shadow possibly be the same Arnold Matson that had arrived so enthusiastically a mere twelve weeks ago? Can life’s fizz and effervescence be hijacked and replaced by a sack-full of soul searching in a mere ninety days…?

  A tired mind and an over active imagination are more than capable of mixing and producing a lethal cocktail, and it could easily be argued that an early night is what was called for; there are times when one has to simply draw the veil. Arnold sipped on and abstinence was never an option…

  Every passing second, thinly resonated by the wall clock, gave the impression it was being accompanied by a relentless, pounding bass drum, whose crippling decibels showed no sign of abating. Arnold Matson covered his eyes and gingerly massaged the temples on his throbbing cranium…

  ‘What is it you’re after, Arnold?’ echoed something ethereal.

  Matson slowly removed the hand that momentarily protected him from the outside world and gradually raised his line of vision towards the bar room mirror…Apart from the actual frame, the mirror had vanished.

  His reflection no longer existed.

  As Arnold questioned his own sanity through bleary eyes, he began to configure a new vision that was emerging, as though through a sea mist, on the back wall. It took a few more seconds to unravel and become fully apparent, but there was no escaping the sepia evidence as it steadily unfolded…

  Terraced houses choc-a-bloc with gossip, parochial cars waiting for the soapy lather of Sunday attention, a bus driver and his conductor in no hurry at the terminus, the tiny patch of mud and grass that doubled-up for kiss-catch and the cup final, the mongrel dog that flecked for fleas, ignored affection and witnessed everything…Unmistakably, this was the street where Matson had grown-up as a child. With crystal lucidity, he recognizes himself leaning against his parents garden railings. He is eight-years-old.

  How, you may ask, can a man of some fifty summers be so sure of his age in a time-lapsed delusion? The answer lay on a simple platter…

  What Matson is about to witness, albeit, on this occasion, in a tired man’s hallucination, can comprehensively be described as his defining moment. Over the subsequent years, he has dreamt it ten-fold, he has mulled over and re-examined his adolescent stupidity; he has even begged forgiveness from the almighty…

  The song thrush which landed at the top of the garden was a juvenile of perhaps, one month. It foraged and hopped as greedily and cautiously as all young birds do. Unusually, for an adrenalin-charged youngster, Arnold Matson was simultaneously leaning against aforementioned railings. As ever, he was in a world of his own. A couple of his closest friends were away on the family sabbatical and the young mite was biding his time as to what particular piece of mischief he would like to exploit next. Peripheral vision made the decision for him…

  Arnold turned his head, caught sight of the creature and remained quite still.

  The bird seemed anything but fastidious and was clearly finding an abundance of nourishment to command its attention. Whenever the bird hopped and revealed its back, Matson crouched an inch, and then another, until he came to rest on his haunches. The stone he intended to launch as a weapon now lay within arm’s reach. The bird continued feeding…

  In one astonishingly quick and agile movement, the lad grabbed the stone and dispatched it towards the harmless creature. The shriek of laughter which emanated and accompanied the missile should be enough to convince you the jury, that Arnold Matson never dreamed in a million years his projectile would connect with its target. This was harmless fun, borne out of juvenile boredom.

  In the commotion, the chick had indeed tried to make its escape. When it was barely two feet in the air, the stone struck and the thrush fell to the ground. Abhorrence grabs Matson as he rockets towards the catastrophe.

  He arrives in horror to find the bird helpless, lying on its back. It shudders twice before life is finally extinguished.

  Matson dropped to his knees beside the creature and wept as he watched tiny speckled breast-feathers flutter in the afternoon breeze. Miraculously, by the birds head, there was some movement…A solitary caterpillar inched steadily on its way, oblivious to the whole disastrous incident. From such juxtaposition of fragility and heartbreak, Arnold Matson’s appreciation and love of nature were born…Some forty-two years later, Matson weeps on a bar stool. His reflection has returned to the mirror opposite and it was time he got some sleep…

  When a generous portion of a farmyard hits the digestive system, the world takes on an altogether different glow, and last night’s mental derailment had simply evaporated as Arnold expertly prepared and bulldozed his gargantuan fry-up. Four rashers or five was about as taxing as it got, and as Arnold unbuckled his trousers, burped contentedly and poured more beverage, not even the sycophantic ramblings of the twin presenters on his battered radio could extinguish the new found spark. Arnold was back; and life’s precarious seesaw once more had bells on. A shave, a shower and something for the seagulls and Matson was ready for his morning constitutional…

  There’s an altogether different air about a public park in midweek. Even the leaves which blow across the apocalyptic sports ground appear to enjoy more freedom; trees seem to sway with a sigh of relief, knowing they are safe for another few days before some sprog decides to deface or clumsily clamber up them; birds actually emerge as opposed to making a run for it…

  Arnold was at one as he whistled his way through an impressive medley of unforgettable prehistoric melodies that all merged and congealed as soon as they left his lips. He cared not a jot. His extensive repertoire had just inexplicably amalgamated Peggy Lee with Mario Lanza, when something stopped his gallop.

  On passing the peace gardens, Arnold did a double take; for there, on a graffiti-blistered bench, resplendent in full regalia and exhausted bicycle clips, completely disheveled and unquestionably sobbing, perched the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf. He was absentmindedly tossing peanuts to a small group of pigeons while simultaneously remonstrating with himself and shaking his overheated noodle. Arnold observed, cogitated and decided he must do something…

  ‘Vicar?’ Arnold tried his utmost so as not to startle. More peanuts, more pigeons.

  ‘Vicar?’ A tad higher ratio.

  ‘Arnold.’

  No head movement but at least an acknowledgement.

  Tears were indeed free-flowing and Arnold weighed-up awkward options.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’
He simply had to say it. More peanuts for the gathered throng; the bag is then proffered to Matson. The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf continues to stare vacantly and does not see Arnold decline. He softly edges himself beside the distraught clergyman. Silence, as an eternity passes…

  ‘Birds know,’ sniffled Wheatsheaf, eventually.

  ‘So do insects,’ comforted Matson. An agitated breeze adds to the conversation…

  ‘Oh, of course, you and your insects.’ Arnold half-smiles and shrugs. The silence is deafening, save for the squabbling cooing at their feet. Matson lets contemplation run its course…

  ‘Shall I tell you what ruined my marriage, Arnold?’ Matson’s hush merely opens the floodgates.

  ‘Shall I tell you?’ For the first time there is eye contact and the clergyman’s pressure valve erupts with an unexpected hiss…

  ‘Words.’ Wheatsheaf’s admission had icicles on it.

  ‘Can you believe that, Arnold? Language ruined my life.’ Matson’s raised eyebrow gives Wheatsheaf the right of way and he wastes no time in pressing the accelerator. ‘Three days I’d been married…three days! Oh, we were only kids and it was a long time ago but…’ Arnold pops in a solitary peanut and tags along. ‘Martha was all I wanted…we didn’t need anything or anybody…just each other…simple people, simple jobs…simple…and what does she go and do? Have you any idea, Arnold?’ Matson’s bewildered blink contained the expectancy of a drum roll. ‘She went and joined the local library!’ exclaimed Wheatsheaf.

  Three or four frowns of various degrees of puzzlement were now etched upon Arnold Matson’s normally placid brow line, and it took him a moment or two to come to terms with the absolute lack of sensationalism that had emanated in the vicar’s crescendo. Arnold’s initial train of thought had been more along the lines of Martha pulling off a bullion raid: or, on a slightly less preposterous scale, some fairly vivid imagery involving Wheatsheaf returning early to the matrimonial homestead, only to discover his newly-baked bride in a bubble-bath with the milkman. He plucked up the necessary to ask the obvious. ‘The er…local library, vicar?’ The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf dislodged his venom in a single word that wouldn’t have sounded out of place in one of Poe’s worst nightmares…

  ‘Poetry.’

  The effect was that of a boa constrictor hissing through a cheese grater.

  ‘Books…took over her entire life…’ He petered out.

  I’m never quite sure how much nature reads into the human condition but, in this instance, the pigeons that had previously been contentedly pecking in and around Wheatsheaf’s scuffed leather sandals, hadn’t hung around to find out.

  Thin drizzle brought the curtain down, and the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf had been through enough for one morning. Arnold’s whispered proposal of a hot toddy back at the pub was both bashfully and gratefully accepted…

  The thirty-minute transformation of a depressed clergyman to glowing comet simply had to be witnessed to be believed. The combination of two hot toddies and a new found confidant had elevated the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf into something verging on a sky rocket; give or take an ounce of cumbersome insecurity as he scrutinized his first pickled egg.

  It shouldn’t be overlooked that the vicar’s ears had changed colour; radiant pink satellites vibrating either side of a contented head coupled with mini hot-air balloons masquerading as facial cheeks. Whiskey and warmth had completely transformed his barometer.

  For his part, and to illustrate in racing parlance, Arnold Matson had stumbled across an early faller, helped him remount, steered him towards the gallops and let him off the bridle, possibly for the first time in the whole of Wheatsheaf’s bamboozling steeplechase. Tiny nodules of egg flecked the holy man’s chin and cassock as he imbibed once more on fine malt and a drop from the kettle. Contented effervescence personified.

  Matson’s simple question popped in like a baby’s comforter.

  ‘How’s the world now, vicar?’ No words were necessary.

  Arnold Matson systematically begins cleaning bottles and optics to remove dust that scarcely exists.

  The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf mulls over memories that will never go away.

  The wall clock continues to bear witness and divide the day…

  A single shaft of sunlight provides its own miracle through a side window.

  ‘So, why religion?’ muses Arnold Matson, as he wipes and absentmindedly polishes the bar room mirror.

  The clergyman thanks Matson for everything, finishes his drink and gets up to leave.

  ‘So, why insects?’ wonders the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf…

  Outside, it is autumn.