It was one of those warm summers long past, when I was walking home in the evening after netball practice. Along the pavement, I noticed an elderly gentleman who had taken a tumble onto the tarmac and simply couldn’t stand up. Passers-by gave him a wide berth, glancing over warily, some muttering under their breaths that he must be drunk. The old man could only mumble incoherently, reaching out to folk as they hurried along, uninterested.
My mother had always instilled in me the importance of helping others, to do what one can. Guided by her lessons, I approached him and asked, Shall I help you, sir? He made no clear reply, only continued his garbled mumbling and stretched his hands out towards me.
A woman passing by scolded me, Leave him be, cant you see hes had too much to drink? Catch your death of something off him, dirty as he is! She wrinkled her nose in disgust. Looking closer, I saw that the old man’s hands were covered in blood. A wave of horror swept over me, all childish worries banished by a sudden seriousness. When I tried to ask him what had happened, he could do nothing but groan, helplessly raising a battered carrier bag that lay beside him. Peering inside, I saw it contained broken lager bottles. The old man picked up more glass shards, adding them to his collection. That, then, was why his hands were bloody.
I took out some wet wipes and cleaned his hands as best I could; honestly, the thought of getting blood on my clothes rather put me off helping otherwise. Once Id finished, I helped him up. He couldnt tell me his address, only mumbled and gestured vaguely. As I tried to interpret his meaning, he pointed down the lane, and so I led himstep by patient steptowards a block of flats nearby.
He gestured at the entry phone and indicated two numbers with his fingers. Understanding, I pressed the corresponding flat number. From the intercom burst a worried womans voice. The old man mumbled again, and within seconds a woman and a man rushed outside to us. They immediately fussed over the elderly gentleman, checking him anxiously for injuries. Once reassured, the man thanked me earnestly, scooped the old fellow into his arms, and carried him indoors. The woman lingered, insisting on knowing how she might thank me. I declined politely and turned to go, but she suddenly asked me to wait a moment, as if struck by a memory. She dashed inside and returned carrying an enormous basket of raspberries.
Theyre from our own garden, she boasted with pride. I thanked her, but tried to refuse, though she pressed them into my hands. Please, do take them! We nearly lost our minds when we got back from the country and saw Grandad wasnt home.
She then told me what the others had perhaps not noticed. Many years ago, her father had been captured during the war by the Germans. Hed held a high rank and, not wanting to risk giving anything away, had injured his tongue so he couldn’t speak clearly. Out in the camps, there wasnt a thought for hygiene; infection set in and half his tongue had to be removed. Since then, he could barely form wordsno more than unintelligible sounds.
Of late, a group of teenagers had taken to drinking beer on the play park in our blocks courtyard at night, leaving smashed bottles all over. The family had already complained to the police, hoping someone would see sense. Children would pick up the glass, or worse, slice their feet or hands. After her own daughter, Lily, cut her leg, the old man took it upon himself to gather up the glass, wanting to protect the youngsters from harm. He could barely walk, but went out regardless, stubborn as ever even when his family tried to hide his keys. Once before, hed fallen and lain on the cold pavement for five hours whilst she was at work, and no one helped.
We were beside ourselves, just about to go search for him, when the bell rang, she told me, her eyes shining with gratitude. Thank you so much.
I found myself speechless from her tale. She pressed the basket into my arms, and, unable to speak, I simply bowedyes, truly bowedbefore I trudged home. Halfway, the tears caught up with me. Why is it, I wondered, that in our country people so often think only of themselves? Why do we pass by others in need, leaping to harsh and hasty conclusions?
If you see someone fallen and struggling, dont just assume the worst. Offer your help; you never know how dearly it might be needed. I’m especially hopeful that young people won’t forget: we are human beings, not beasts.
