Squeeze

Once, he swallowed a lemon whole.

Well, alright, that's not exactly true. What he actually did was to
compress the juice out of the lemon by first puncturing it with his
incisors (these being the only two top set teeth which, by then, he
possessed), and then chewing it, flesh and rind and all, into a pulp.
But mark my words, there was a lot of pulp, and he swallowed all of
that, in one gulp.

I remember that his lips twisted around those lonely teeth and that his
eyes squinted through his eyelids and that he looked for all the world
like a beakless owl. I remember that the saloon bar was in uproar, that
people were slapping him on the back.

I thought him brave at the time, and I bought him a pint myself. Only
one had been riding on the bet. I didn't think it was enough.

Sadly, I suppose that the incident was the closest that he ever came to
being accepted by any of us.

*****

Before the cancer struck, he was generally regarded as a bit of an
irritant. He had a bray of a laugh which he exercised at the most
inappropriate times. He would attach himself to groups of men whom he
knew only vaguely and would remain in their company for an entire
evening without saying a word. He would crack his knuckles repeatedly,
careless of the cringing of those in his vicinity.

He was never a joiner, and he was never a talker. He did have a sense
of humour, but unfortunately this was no redeeming feature, because the
way in which this manifested itself was that he would repeat over and
over again the punchlines of jokes told by others, usually accompanying
the repetition with that awful laugh and a sharp jab in the ribs. Even
the joketeller wasn't immune to such assaults.

These were his least endearing traits.

Occasionally, he would buy a round of drinks. This was never welcomed,
and the gesture was rarely returned. From me, it always was. It's the
only claim of moral superiority that I can make over my friends. I'm
glad that I have that claim, but I don't suppose that I'll ever have
need to use it. These days, he never crops up in conversation.

No-one hated him, back then. We simply preferred it if he wasn't
around. He embarrassed us, if truth be known. He aggravated us. Now and
then, he would exasperate us. Importantly, he wasn't one of us, and
worse still, he didn't seem to want to be. He just liked to be in
company, when it suited him.

His name was Alfred, or at least that's what he told us. His father had
died many years previously, and although he never spoke of his mother,
I presumed that she was dead too. He made no reference at any time to
brothers and sisters, or to children.

On the few occasions that he entered my mind, his apparent isolation
was the train of thought that I rode. There had to be someone who held
concern for him, I would suppose. It made sense that everyone had
someone.

On one lazy summer evening, he chased beer with whisky and revealed
that he'd once been married. "It never worked out, lad", was his sole
observation on the fate of that relationship, an observation presented
to me with his usual lugubrious nonchalance. I never chased the point,
then or subsequently. I don't know if he'd wanted me to, but I didn't.
Things simply were not that way between us.

He lived, I knew, in one of a series of black brick cottages half a
mile from the pub. These had once been tied to a cotton mill, but the
mill had been demolished to facilitate the eccentric windings of a
bypass. That half mile was a short walk for a healthy man, but of
course it was a very long way for a man being eaten alive by cancer.
Consequently, I rarely saw him in the last few weeks of his life.

I say rarely, because he did make the occasional visit to the pub, but
he was never alone. Every so often a tall bespectacled woman would lead
him into the bar. She would find him a stool, and she would keep him
company over a couple of glasses of beer. He never seemed to enjoy the
experience much, but he never left her, even for a minute, to speak
with any of us. In turn and unforgiveably, happy that his days of
lurking were over, we did not disturb him. I occasionally looked in his
direction, and noted that the conversation between the pair was
continuous. Continuous but desultory.

There were perhaps four visits like that, and those were the only times
that I ever saw the woman. She didn't attend the cremation, and I never
learned what her relationship to Alfred was. If I'm honest, the sad
fact is, the woman aside, that I never learned any more about Alfred
himself than I've detailed above.

I can make some guesses, of course. For example, although he didn't
work when I knew him, it's reasonable to believe that he had done so in
the past. Possibly he had served the mill in some capacity, which might
account for his setting up home in the town. And before that? Well, I
thought once, but do not think now, that he seemed old enough to have
served in the forces, perhaps in World War Two, perhaps as a conscript
some time later. I didn't know then exactly how old he was. Now I do.
When a small notice appeared in the newspaper following his death, I
discovered that I'd miscalculated his age, on the high side, by ten
years.

The last time that I saw him, it took me a moment before I recognised
him. He was sitting in his garden as I strolled past, and for a moment
I thought that some aged friend had called to visit. White skin hung
loosely, sucked free of fat. A healthy, slightly overweight man had
been reduced to a ragbag of bones in a matter of months. Only the
missing teeth convinced me of his identity.

I raised a hand in greeting as I neared his gate, but he didn't
acknowledge me. I suspect that he didn't see me, even though I passed
right in front of him. I suspect that by then his mind was losing
strength as quickly as his body was.

Days later, he died in that garden. In retrospect, the location of his
ending was probably a good thing, because if he'd been inside his house
then it might have been some time before anyone found him. However,
when I was first told where the body had been found, I was disturbed. I
wondered whether I should have stopped to talk with him that day,
whether I should have broken my walk. Of course I could not have helped
him. Of course I could not by a mere gesture of concern have added a
single extra day to his life. But my conscience told me otherwise,
then, and for months afterwards. Well, that's the way consciences are,
I suppose.

*****

The facts. His empty shell was recognised as such by a passer by, and
help was summoned. The news reached me a day later.

No-one knew what religion he held, if any, because no-one had ever
asked him. Death, though, makes such things important, so briefly he
was the subject of conversation amongst us as we considered ways in
which we might establish his place of origin. The idea was that we
might advertise in that other locality, perhaps find someone who knew
him better than we did. But his accent had not been strong, and there
were no other clues. Consequently, interest waned.

I attended the cremation, where an Anglican priest gave Alfred the
benefit of the doubt and said a few words. Whether the occasional lady
companion had intervened to secure the cleric's services was something
that I never discovered.

The priest's words were, as might have been expected, sparse. Well
known in the locality. A good man. Good company.

I recall being sad that, even in so general a eulogy, there was a need
for lies.

Only four mourners were present - myself, a couple who I knew to be
neighbours, and a young woman who said that she worked for the social
services. In view of that small attendance, it was rather odd that the
priest should choose to ask whether any friends of the deceased would
like to contribute. It was more than odd, actually. It seemed
cruel.

I was struggling at that moment to come up with a reason why I was
there in the first place, and had guessed at guilt. Even now, though, I
can't explain what drove me to stand up. The embarrassed silence had
something to do with it, I think, as did my own admittedly opaque
religious beliefs. Guilt again, of course, glued as I was into
remembering those times when I had shied away from his company. I like
to think that I stood because he had once shared a confidence with me,
the one confidence which, to my knowledge, he shared with any of his
drinking acquaintances. I like to think that despite it all, that
confidence created a special relationship. In more dour moments,
though, I always doubt that Alfred ever saw things that way.

So I was standing, and it was too late to sit again. The priest
beckoned me forward.

Alfred's coffin was closed, which was a relief to me. I stared at the
burnished wood, seeking inspiration, but found none.

Let me be clear about how I was starting to feel. I was no longer
self-conscious, and having presented myself, I didn't want to withdraw.
I wanted to speak for this lonely man, and of the value that any human
being brought to the world. But I knew so little about Alfred, and I
was no orator.

My three observers shuffled in their seats. I worried that I might be
asked to sit back down.

And then, at last, I found within myself the memory that I was looking
for. An essence of Alfred, or at least a thing which was him, and only
him. An image for the angels, if they were there, to carry as a short
reference for Alfred; to present in the afterlife, if any, to which
Alfred had been despatched.

I coughed, partly to clear my throat, partly to demand full attention.
And when I had that attention, I told my story.

"Once", I began, "he swallowed a lemon. Whole."