Lifelines

Lifelines

by Mick Stringer

Len. Daft Len. Loopy Len. Monkey-brain. Flat-head.
We called him all these. Crueller words too. We whispered them amongst
ourselves
and sometimes we yelled them at him. They didn't seem to affect him
much, but the intention
was there - the desire to hurt. Because he was different.
Len was our road sweeper in the days before it all became mechanised
and you needed
an NVQ in community hygiene or whatever to operate those whirring
lawnmowers they use
now to spread the cigarette packets and Macdonald's' packaging around
the pavements. The
tools of his trade were a huge broom with bristles the colours of a
tabby cat, a spade as big as
an estate agent's board, and a battered metal barrow, with a lid,
hinged in the middle so that he
could open it at either end. I think he used to deposit leaves, twigs
and papers in one half, and
bottles and drink cartons in the other, but I suppose they all got
muddled up again as he rattled
the thing across the cobbles.
Grown-ups said Len was "slow". Dad, who seemed to know about most
things, tapped
his forehead and whispered, "lobotomy". I thought it must be some sort
of horrible insect that
had gnawed its way into his brain. Not that it mattered what it was
called, or what had caused
it. To us he was just Loopy Len, who smiled at our insults and muttered
"Good Morning" at
unusual times of day and night.
I was maybe nine or ten when he had his accident. Perhaps he'd tripped
over a broken
kerbstone, or slipped on a wet fish-and-chip wrapping. Not impossible
that someone had
chucked a stone at him. Anyway, I was trotting home from school one
afternoon - late,
because I'd been kept in for some misdemeanour - when I found him,
lying in the road, his
broom and shovel making a cross on the pavement, blood pouring from his
head.
There was something in the way he looked up at me, with a helpless sort
of question in
his eyes, that compelled me to help. I gave him my handkerchief - grey
and crumpled, but
what else was there? - to hold against the wound and asked him what I
should do.
"Go home for a wash," he said, pointing to a broken-down old terrace
cottage at the
corner of the cemetery wall. I'd never thought of Len having a home. I
suppose I assumed he
slept in his barrow.
His mother, or grandmother - her age seemed appropriate for either -
took him in and I
waited while she cleaned him up. It was a tidy little house, whose
every surface was piled up
with brasses and porcelain . The room in which they left me had darkly
flowered walls, and
rugs and lino on the floor. Along a windowless wall stood a small
sideboard with
photographs in silver frames. From one of these, a young Len smiled
out. He wore a black
cloak with a sort of furry collar and a flat hat with a tassel. Hanging
on the wall above it were
two framed certificates, with illuminated crests and elaborate, curvy
writing.
They returned and interrupted my examination.
"Nice, aren't they? said the old lady. "They're Lennie's life-lines."
She smiled at him.
"All done now. Back to work."
He took my hand and I led him back to his barrow.
"Good Morning," he grinned, as I waved him good-bye.

When I told Askie, he said, "Flat-head, you see. I suppose the
certificates were from the
loony-bin."
"Something like that," I mumbled. "His life-lines, you know."