Dandruff Hits The Turtleneck Read online

  Chapter Thirty Six

  A Soul for Sale

  Immersed, as he was, in so much reflection, Arnold Matson’s winter had melted and merged into the optimism of early spring as though the transition of the seasons had taken pity on his emotions and paved the way especially for him. The transparently blatant commerciality of the festive season hadn’t been as painful as he had envisaged and Matson had somewhat taken himself by surprise by keeping the pub open for the locals to drop in as and when they pleased. Harold Garstang needed no second invitation to such generosity but Arnold was grateful of the old man’s ramblings and idiosyncrasies as he resumed his rightful position on a stool at the bar; the twin companions of his brimming tankard and his faithful three-legged cocker spaniel dozing at his feet amply fulfilling the simple requirements of his disposition and bailiwick.

  The sad news of the passing of the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf had, at first, filtered among the inhabitants before spreading like the proverbial forest fire, but the way in which the news had reached the vicar’s natural mother, Edith Moseley, had not only taken Arnold Matson so completely by surprise, it had the incredible double effect of restoring his lapsed faith and mending his grieving heart at the same time.

  On the afternoon he had returned from the fateful fishing trip which claimed the life of her orphaned son, Arnold did little else other than fret and ruminate long into the evening as to how he was going to break the awful news to Miss Moseley the following morning. He had eaten a light supper and wisely opted for a relatively early night to properly prepare both mind and body for the duty of messenger boy once the sun had risen on a new day.

  Fortified by a decent breakfast and strong coffee, he was absentmindedly rinsing one or two things in the kitchen sink as he plucked up the courage to call at Miss Moseley’s bungalow and inform her of the tragic events, when the old lady’s face suddenly appeared on the other side of his kitchen window. Matson was so startled by the vision that he immediately leaped and fumbled and managed to break a dinner plate as it collided with the underside of the hot tap. Edith Moseley remained perfectly motionless before methodically raising her right hand and pointing her index finger towards Matson’s back door. As soon as she had beckoned the motion, she moved slowly out of vision and headed for the entrance.

  Arnold hurriedly wiped his hands on a tea towel and went to let her in.

  His hands were noticeably shaking as he fumbled with the various bolts and locks and every one of the comforting anecdotes he had prepared deserted him as he struggled to get the door open. He unfastened an awkward last bolt, took a deep breath and prepared to welcome the old lady on his door step.

  ‘Edith, lovely to see you. Come in, come in,’ he managed.

  Dressed in a smart black outfit, she stood stock-still in vivid winter sunshine for a few moments before composedly thanking Arnold and stepping into the hallway. Still feeling curiously nervous, Matson led the way up to his living room and by way of a diversion, tossed in a couple of bits of small talk about the weather, which were met by monosyllabic, though not unfriendly, responses from Edith Moseley. While he was tackling the fourteen stairs which lead to his cosy living quarters, Arnold had been frantically choosing his opening narrative which would break the awful news he possessed.

  He was just about to take a seat and had invited the old lady to do the same and make herself comfortable, when he felt Miss Moseley’s hands clasp him just above his elbows. The action caused Arnold to stop in his tracks and he slowly turned to face her. She now held him surprisingly tightly at the top of his forearms and stared directly into his eyes.

  The few moments of silence and understanding were so incredibly powerful and bonding that Matson felt tears beginning to well up until they became pools in his eyes which the next single blink would automatically set free to roll down his cheeks.

  Edith Moseley continued to hold the man and stare into the face of the heartbroken soul she had come to visit and from whom she was about to relieve of his burden.

  The words, when they arrived, were delivered with such a loving quality and intonation that not only did Arnold Matson realise this is where his broken heart no longer remains a secret, he also recognised that he is in the presence of a remarkable old lady who is blessed with extraordinary preternatural strengths and energies. Every apprehension he had stored up were simply removed from the situation as she spoke.

  ‘I know,’ she whispered, as she moved closer to Matson, ‘you don’t have to say anything, Arnold,’ she comforted, ‘because I already know.’

  Matson’s tears finally arrived and no more words were necessary.

  He clung on like a sobbing statue, as though Edith’s tiny but deceptively strong frame was the only rock which could save him from being swept back into an ocean he was so afraid to return to.

  In the space of a minute, Edith Moseley’s undoubted spiritual understanding and reassurance had transformed Arnold Matson’s hurt and disillusionment into one of an unstated but unmistakeable connection with something so magnificent and incredible, and something which had been missing in his life for way too long.

  Chapter Thirty Seven

  The Simplest Horizon

  Immoveable lifestyles and immoveable objects have, as far as Arnold Matson can ever remember, always amounted to the same thing. In much the same way as you can try and convince yourself that you are happy in a job which you know you frankly hate, you can also choose to knock a brick wall down with your head. The bottom line is there will only be one winner. As his fifty-second birthday was fast approaching and threatening to charge, Arnold recognised the fact that a total U-turn in his lifestyle would be more than a little irresponsible, for he was no spring chicken. Conversely, he was not yet ready to be put out to pasture and he was certainly no fool.

  With his deep love of nature, Arnold Matson is no stranger to theology, but the revelation, not to say epiphany which had transformed his whole spirit regarding the passing of his friend, the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf, now had the effect of a sort of armour of comfort and confidence as his spiritual batteries finally connected with the engine of his very being.

  It was difficult to comprehend that the void in his personality and the uncertainties in his character had been soothed and alleviated by an early morning visit from an old lady who is in-tune with a greater being, but as far as Arnold Matson is concerned, these are the facts of the matter, and what is more, he was there to witness it. This was no story which had been watered down and distorted through the grapevine; it had unfolded before his very eyes. The Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf’s natural mother had held Matson in her arms and told him that she knew her son was dead, and she had dispensed the sentence in such an assured, loving whisper that Arnold felt as though he had received the news from an angel on earth.

  Springtime this year would not only be observed as a new beginning by Arnold Matson, it would also be lived as a fresh start in life. However, this is one pub landlord who is not delusional enough to think that as soon as he drives away from the village this time, the world and its everyday confusions suddenly becomes his own personal nirvana.

  Indeed, he still doesn’t have the confidence to embrace the wilderness for more than a month’s sabbatical, after which he will return to his hostelry, problems and all, and make a decision regarding the bigger picture.

  He may decide to sell, he may decide to stay. The way he feels at this moment in time he may well decide not to decide anything at all, for surely it is fate which brought him to this backwater in the first place and his sense of connection and enlightenment right now convinces Arnold Matson beyond a shadow of a doubt, that fate will have a say in his, and all of our futures.

  Climbing aboard a vehicle he acquired through the most tragic of circumstances, Arnold refuses to allow his heart to be overrun by sadness at this fiercely poignant moment and instead, gently pats the empty passenger seat with one hand as he simultaneously winks at the sky.

  He slowly pulls out of the p
ub car park and two minutes later he is passing the churchyard which contains a headstone in memory of the Reverend Colin Wheatsheaf. Arnold Matson acknowledges the black, marble monument as he drives past and is not the least bit surprised when a beam of sunlight is reflected and winks back from the head of the grave.

  The road map which currently rests in the centre of his steering wheel is placed to one side and Arnold Matson makes a silent request to the open road to take him where it will.

  Copyright

  John Mayfield

  2011