Stay back! Take your hands off me! Help! Someone, please! a young woman shrieked, her voice tearing through the damp air.
Emily rushed forward, but the slick mud gave way beneath her feet, twisting her ankle and nearly sending her sprawling. By the time she steadied herself, the girl had already fled. Brushing the mudspattered beige coat from her shoulders, Emily glanced up and saw an elderly gentleman sprawled in the road, halfburied in muck, his hands slick with blood as he struggled to rise. It was he who had frightened the screaming girl. The sky was a mournful grey, the rain having left the lane a soggy mess, and dusk was beginning to settle over the countryside.
The old man muttered unintelligibly, his bloodstained hands reaching toward Emily, and a cold shiver ran down her spine.
Hes drunk, you fool! Get away from him! roared a woman passing by, brandishing a folded umbrella like a shield. She stepped back a few paces, then turned her fierce gaze on Emily.
What are you standing there for? Got a problem, you fool? Drunk ready to do anything for a bottle, thats what you are, she spat, before hurrying toward the row of terraced houses where the street lamps burned brighter.
Behind the fallen man and the bewildered Emily lay an abandoned plot, fenced off with a concrete wall topped with razor wire. Emily knew the factory grounds stretched beyond that barrier. Tall, ancient poplars swayed in the wind, their branches scratching at the gloom as night deepened.
Mmm mmm the old fellow continued his guttural moan.
Are you alright? Should I call a doctor? Emily asked timidly, hesitant to step closer. The man shook his head, persisted in his low grunts, and gestured frantically toward a crumpled sack lying beside him. He was slight, almost frail, his years evident in every line of his face.
Emily felt a pang of pity. She recalled her late grandmother, who had always taught her never to walk past another’s misfortune. Yet, just before she passed away, when Emily was already grown, finished school, university, and settled into work, her grandmother warned her that times had changed. If you meddle with a strangers injury, you could be sued youre no doctor, shed said. Better call an ambulance, or dont get involved at all. Scammers often lure the vulnerable. Emily, however, held a different conviction.
She stepped resolutely toward the old man, leaning over him. He let out a stronger groan and thrust his bloodstained hands toward her, clutching in his right palm the jagged shards of a broken bottle. Tears welled in Emilys eyes. She rummaged in her bag for a packet of wet wipes, discarded the glass shards into a nearby bin, and gently cleaned his wounded hands. Then, with a determined pull, she helped him to his feeta task far from easy, but one she succeeded in.
Thank heavens my arms are still strong, Emily muttered to herself, wiping sweat from her brow. Where do you live? Where can we get you home?
The old man gave another low moan, his legs wobbling beneath him. Emily wondered whether he truly was drunk, as the woman had claimed, or merely unable to speak. But Ill help you anyway, she thought. The cold will freeze him through if we leave him here.
She asked again, Where do you live?
The man gestured weakly toward a cluster of lit windows down the lane, their warm glow a stark contrast to the dim, muddy road. He shuffled slowly, his back hunched, each step a struggle.
Emily noticed the sack the man clutched; within, glass bottles clinked faintly with each of his halting steps. Probably meant to recycle them, and they broke when he fell, she mused, supporting his arm. Thats how he got cut.
They reached the nearest house, its front door framed by a brass knocker and a modest intercom panel.
Intercom Emily said, puzzled. I dont know the code. Is this the right entrance?
The old man lifted a trembling finger, tapping three, then one, then three again. Thirtyone? Thirteen? Emily hesitated, then entered the numbers. A startled female voice answered on the other side.
This is Emily began, unsure what to say, her throat dry.
A hurried voice shouted, Im coming down! Minutes ticked by as the old man muttered something and shook his sack, the bottle shards jingling. The door swung open to reveal a woman in her thirties, her hair pulled back in a tidy bun, and a man of similar age standing beside her.
Granddad! the woman cried, embracing the frail elder. Thank you! Thank you so much!
She turned to Emily, gratitude shining in her eyes, while the man gently took the old gentlemans arm and led him inside.
One moment, please, the woman said, holding the stairwell door ajar. Stay right there.
Emily lingered, taking in the courtyard she had never before seen. Rows of tidy terraces and two little corner shops flanked the lane places she had often passed on evening runs to the local gym, never noticing them up close.
The woman returned with a small bundle.
Here, some apples. The best sort, sweet and fragrant. My grandfather planted the orchard long ago.
Emily shook her head, feeling a twinge of embarrassment. No need, really. Your grandfather should have his wounds cleaned properly, perhaps a visit to the surgery who knows if hell need stitches? I only offered a small help.
The woman sighed. Im Grace, and this is my husband, James. The old man is Arthur Whitaker, a veteran of the Great War. Do you have a moment? Ill tell you why were so grateful.
Emily nodded, settling herself to listen.
Arthur just celebrated his hundredth birthday, Grace said proudly. He fought on the Western Front and, when captured, deliberately injured his own tongue to keep silent. After he escaped, an infection left him mostly speechless, and the surgeons removed much of his tongue. Thats why he sounds like a mute.
Emily stared, swallowing the shock.
He never drinks at all, Grace continued. People assume hes drunk because of his strange speech. Once, in winter, he fell on the road and lay there for hours because no one would help. He caught a severe chill and took weeks to recover.
Why do you leave him alone? Emily blurted.
We dont. He insists on going out on his own. We try to persuade him, but he wont listen Hes my grandfather, my mothers father. James and I live in his flat; he let us stay when we married. We look after him, and we have a little daughter, Lucy, who once tripped on a bottle shard and badly cut her leg. Since then, Arthur has taken to roaming the streets, picking up broken glass and bottles, hoping no one else gets hurt. He does it every day, rain or shine, without a break.
Listening, Emily thought of her own grandfather, a former soldier who had marched all the way to Berlin. In his old age a stroke stole half his speech and left one side of his body weak. Yet he managed to tend his garden with his left hand, fix the roof of the shed alone, and even earned a fierce scolding from her grandmother for daring to work on a ladder while she was away.
She remembered his halting words spoon becoming spoon, rain turning into rainy while his curses, oddly articulate, still managed to make the house shake with their force. Her grandmother would wave a wet cloth at him, shouting, Mind your tongue, youre setting an example for the children!
Emily walked home, the bundle of apples cradled in her arms, feeling the warm glow of those memories. It struck her how comforting it was when loved ones cared for each other, how a drunk, muddy old man could be a beloved grandfather awaiting his familys return. Kindness, she realized, must be more common and our eyes more open.
