Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker was a career Christian; he lived in the hope of a quick death and then the everlasting joy and paradise that would follow. His mother was an optimistic Christian until her mental faculties deteriorated and in her senile thought-hope-some-less she became a tea drinking Jehovah's Witness; Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker had come to understand that all female Jehovah's Witnesses were tea drinking randomly smiling 60 something's. He lived in a small respectable house in a neat comfortable street on the edge of the city; he never wore brown shoes and always combed his blonde hair to the left. His neighbours were widowed, polite and courteous and no one ever caused a fuss. Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker was not called Eric and he was of average height, especially poor at lawn tennis and harboured a deep bitter resentment for the theatre and necessarily all things theatrical; he never ate breakfast and would never venture outside if the sun shone too brightly or if the clouds loomed too menacingly; he often as a guilty pleasure wold bite his own toe nails in the morgue of a quite night. He had had two white Tom cats; the first named Calais who had been a lazy, relatively ineffectual cat and the second called Dover who was a fat but deadly hunter. However Calais had passed away recently which only left Dover, who although a fierce hunter when the mood took him was also an obese sleepy cat, more often than not slept upon the next door neighbours red shed roof basking in the sun licking his paws after a meal. His neighbour never complained about Dover and Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker never complained about his neighbours Oak tree which would often sprinkle its delicate leaves over the fence upon Sebastian Randolph Clement-Walkers neat lawn; which had a tennis net strung across it. The tennis net sagged in the middle with the white court markings obscured by the recent rains and what appeared to be signs of recent vigorous usage; all in all the lawn looked neat but thoroughly exhausted. However Mr Hellington-Brimely-Walsh who owned the she shed upon which Dover slept and who had planted the Oak tree which shed its leaves did not complain about Sebastian Randolph Clement-Walkers unsightly tennis court; for it was Mr Hellington-Brimley-Walsh who had recently thrashed his neighbour in the semi-finals of the local amateur tennis tournament organised by the parish priest who came an indecent 1st. The little neighbourhood on the fringes of the city slept drowsily regardless of rain, sun or wind.
Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker stood peering out of his porch, his slippers were neat and plain and his dressing gown was plain and neat. With cautious eyes and a deep suspicious of the nimbus formations over toward the near by town of Gone Walking; which happened to have a splendid church that was a fine example of Norman masonry; a delightful Indian restaurant and a very reasonably priced retirement home. Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker knew these thing because he often visited the priest, he often ate out and because he had put his mother in it not three weeks previously. He could drive but preferred not to, for driving reminded him of his days courting Patricia Janice Jackson; racing happily caring not for the long night ahead, giggling and talking through the quiet retreating roads of night in his mother's car. Driving had become agonising to him, and his mother proved a dangerous chauffeur. In times of need Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker walked, in times of desperation he stoically waited for the bus. Belly warming thoughts of Patricia Janice Jackson's kisses settled easily and to his liking upon his mind; so that not quite suddenly, so as to startle his neighbour yet with the immediate ease of fog; Mr Hellington-Brimley-Walsh appeared in a pair of red slippers and a yellow dressing gown. The two men stood silently brooding watching the sky with nothing close to interpolation and not too little interest.
- Do you see it Mr Hellington, that cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?
- By Jove and it is: camel like, indeed. Replied Mr Hellington-Brimley-Walsh smartly.
- I think it is like a weasel. Continued Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker curiously his eyes steadfast upon the approaching white implausible sky weasel.
- It is backed like a weasel. Agreed Mr Hellington-Brimley-Walsh happily, pointing with his hand as he did so; in a jesture to confirm they were both indeed looking at the same cloud.
- Or like a whale. Offered Sebastian Randolph Clements Walker.
- Very like a whale.
The two men stood silently once more, as little ringlets of rain began to fall into Mr Hellington-Brimley-Walsh's pond; which he had installed not three weeks previously, he had had six beautiful plump gold fish in it. However not long after its installation Mr Hellington- Brimely-Walsh noted with some dismay that the pool only contained three had mysteriously vanished. The two men had involuntarily been drawn to the dark pool, as the rain fell at ever increasing rapidity upon its rumbling service; slowly they peered suspiciously toward each other. Over the neat white fence they spied eye to eye, each knowing something and the other smiling mindlessly. Mr Hellington-Brimely-Walsh nodded politely then retreated indoors. Sebastian Randolph Clements- Walker stood momentarily in deep thought then he too plodded back indoors away from the terrible rain.
Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker stood silently in his neat kitchen, he stood facing the window, his hands resting upon the shining steel sink, a mug he had used that morning stood lonely looking inside the basin, it was a comic mug for tea; coloured like a giraffe with the handle shaped like a giraffes neck; he glanced down at it and smiled sadly. He turned his head, and from where he stood, he could see through the kitchen into the hall and the front door. He could see the banister grey through the opaque lightless hallway and he knew that opposite the stairs were two neat little rooms; lifeless now without hordes of tea drinking Jehovah's Witnesses muttering madness and handing out scones. Upon the wall hung a long mirror which his mother used to prime and primp her attire of a Saturday morning before dashing mad women like to knock on doors and pass out 'Watchtower' leaflets to unsuspecting hangover students in the town. She dashed to bingo (Which was technically against the rules ' but his mother had said the essence of her knew faith was secrecy) she dashed loudly to Kingdom Hall and other unremarkable places; but more often than not to an unsuspecting elderly friend who had remained a Christian and thus become the sole subject of his mothers new found religious fervour. In front of that mirror he saw ghosts.
-Eric I am going out, do not forget to brush the cats teeth!
-Yes mother.
-You should come tonight; the talk is on 'Sod Pleasing Myself, Am I Pleasing Jehovah' you would like it.
-No I would hate it, hate it bitterly; I shall stay here and brush the cat's teeth.
-That's the spirit; (She would say whilst feebly trying to punch the air triumphantly) I shall wait, hurry up, put on your coat then, and hurry along now Eric.
Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker did not miss his mother at all in truth. For in truth she was a feral nuisance; however he did miss sitting in his room growling under his breathe as she pottered about picking and putting back again, then in the days of his loneliness and her mad ramblings he sat wishing for the day when he could get rid of her and then miss her appropriately. However once a long desired act has been accomplished one invariably finds that on the silent end of endeavour yawns a gulf of nothingness. Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker knew this gulf well; it had been his home for three weeks. Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker was a simple man of simple tastes, and he had a few friends of which he cared little and a great many for which he cared nothing. Often found looking as appose to commentating he was easily missed and swiftly forgotten. His job brought him no pain nor joy, he had enjoyed it once he was sure, yet the last three years had passed inconsequentially; he rarely wanted time off and he rarely got it, Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker was an uninspired, mediocre and utterly without spontaneity as all librarians inevitably are. He glanced back toward and through the window, rain and lawn. His sad tired tennis net drooping ever more grey, his life became serious in half hinted reflections of light under the strain of wind and drizzling ever wet world before him He turned and rested his back upon the sink counter; it was dark in the kitchen. The light switch was near the back door and he had little enthusiasm for it. The kitchen was a dull putty colour, like damp concrete; he spied his mother's kitchen with mild hilarity in his eyes. It was a reasonably sized oblong kitchen with the back door leading out into a side alley which in turn leads either down into the garden or up to the driveway and the road. With a window at the far end above the sink his mother's tastes in Kitchen décor were still evident and Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker was not inclined to alter them. Along one side ran a clean, white and bare work top, with clean white cupboards above. Along the other side of the kitchen ran an identical set of cupboards and more clean work tops. To the left was the fridge and the washing machine tucked neatly way, under the sink was a neat dish washer and to the right was the cooker and a fold out cupboard which his mother had kept her spices and pasta in. All in all it was a neat functional kitchen and Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker hated to use it. Sebastian sighed mournfully as the rain fell heavily outside, his next door neighbours shed roof was deserted and the cat flap remained silent, all in all Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker felt deeply ill at ease.
The evening came on in shades of damp burning stratus. He had closed the curtains in his living room, spent a few moments finding his favourite classical music radio show and sat upon his mother's old rocking chair in the serene healthy bulb glow of a lampshade. In his hand he held a giraffe full of steaming hot chocolate. Whilst plotting his departed mother's demise he had furtively coveted the rocking chair; secretly in his dreams he had taken an axe to it. For his mother would often doze fitfully whilst watching some inane video given her by some equally banal Jehovah's Witness well wishers; the actors always with appalling American accents the dialogue and plot always aimed at innocent five year old children or mad sixty something's. Even in his room with his door shut firm. He would hear the restless creak, groan and timber shambles of the madwoman snoring whilst Habakkuk drawled on about how there was no Trinity. However the day he signed over the internment papers, avoiding his mother's savage glare and cheerless pitiful capitulating posture; walking without word or touch out of the foul smelling nursing home, swift to the bus stop through the rainfalls cumulus gatherings he had returned home straight into the rocking chair and dozed childishly for hours in the opened curtain gloom of the early evening cerulean melancholy.
The radio cackled out its melodies and Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker began reading the sixth chapter of Oswald Spengler's 'Decline of the West ' Volume One' he had wanted it bitterly for years, however when his mother purchased it for him as a surprise 45th birthday present, he had hidden it under his bed in a shoe box with the express intention of never reading it; however one quiet afternoon the day before last he had found it and began reading in earnest. His mother had been good to him, and suddenly he felt deeply ashamed at his treatment of her. He missed her sense of humour, for despite her madness she could always tell a ripping joke, and no one made him laugh like his mother. He also missed her stews; for although he ate well and happily, his mother's stews were always of particular delight to him. He resolved suddenly to rescue his mother the very next day; he beamed internally at his own magnanimity. He could hear the organ being played next door; he sighed and glanced at the clock upon the wall. The very same clock his father had made in long dismantled shed, it was 8 0'clock exactly, and he knew that the dirge would grind on until 9 0'clock exactly; his neighbour was the local parish organ player; Mr Hellington was not an exceptional musician in Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker's eyes. Indeed it suddenly occurred to Sebastian Randolph Clements-Walker that he hated his neighbour and that he would rescue his mother and with those delicious thought he dozed thoughtlessly through the serene evening.
