OLD MR JONES

By Bob French

I smile as my husband, Jim, cradles me from behind as I stare out over the countryside.  It’s three days before Christmas and for the first time in ages, he hasn’t had to go into work.  I feel so happy and content as I stand, feeling him holding me, smelling him, knowing I have him for a whole week.  I hear him chuckle and turn to look up into his hazel coloured eyes.

          “What is it?”

          He nods to the windows and beyond and smiles. “It’s snowing.  We are going to have a white Christmas after all.”

          We stand there in silence just watching the landscape slowly change before our eyes.

          “Who’s that?” and my eyes are drawn to the drive way down our street.  There wrapped in a high-viz jacket is old Mr. Jones.  His face is pinched with the cold and his hair is slowly turning white as the snow starts to lay on his exposed head.“

          “Good heavens, it’s old Mr. Jones. He’s a member of our writing group.”

          Jim quietly says that he’ll catch the death of a cold if he doesn’t wrap up properly.  Without thinking, I ease myself out of Jim’s embrace and move to the cloak-room.

          “What are you doing love?” he calls after me, but all he hears is the click of our front door. Then laughs as he realises that I’m in my soft furry slippers and a cotton skirt and blouse slipping and sliding down the lane towards Old Mr. Jones.

          “Hello Mr. Jones.  What are you doing out in this weather?  You’ll catch a death of a cold if you don’t dress properly.”  I scold him like a young child who has disobeyed me.

          “Hello Frances.”  A smile crept across his ice-cold face.  “I’m doing my community service.  I couldn’t pay my car parking fine so the council took me to court and I was awarded fifteen hours community service.”

          “That’s terrible.  Who were you up in front of?”

          “I’ve no idea.  A woman.  I had forgotten my glasses, so I couldn’t recognize her even if she walked up to me in the street.”  He laughed.

          “Well, here, please put these on,” as I hand him a pair of bright pink gloves and a reindeer bobble hat which brough a smile to his face, then drops his black plastic sack and litter claw and slips on the gloves, then looks at the bobble hat and grins.

          “Thank you so much Frances, that’s very thoughtful of you.” 

          My Christmas spirit kicks in and I invite him in for a hot drink or something, but he declines.

“The quicker this job is done, the quicker I can go home.”

As I stand and admire his dedication and the new look Mr. Jones, the cold air finally reaches my bones and I shiver.  Time to get out of the cold I think.

          “Well take care then.” And I beat a hasty retreat, noting that my foot prints are nearly covered by a new layer of snow.

Jim opens the front door to me as I hurry through it, then collapse onto the hall way carpet shivering. 

“Cold out there then love?”

I take a few deep breaths, sucking in the warmth of the house then look up at him as he gently slips off my wet furry slippers and brushes the snow from my hair and shoulders.  I hold his gaze then he gently lifts me from the floor and holds me.  I melt into his arms as the warmth of my body slowly starts to kick in and he kisses me.

Go into the sitting room and I’ll bring you a drink.”

The heat of the open fire makes me relax as I hear Christmas Carols on the radio and I close my eyes.

“Take this love, mind its hot.”  I slowly open my eyes and grin.  He hands me a hot chocolate in a Santa Mug. Our eyes meet and I thank him with a grin as I notice he’s added marshmallows to the rich, sweet drink.

“Jim Burton, I love you.”

That evening after washing up the dishes, Jim, the number one dryer-upper in Essex asks if the old chap picking up litter in the snow is spending Christmas with his family. 

“Don’t know.  I’m not really sure he has any family to be honest.”

“Then let’s invite him to Christmas lunch.”

I stare at my husband. A man who approaches everything with thoughtful planning and precision, being an engineer. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, why not. I assume you can get his address from the local council.”

The snow has laid and It’s two days before Christmas. I cross my fingers, hoping that the council offices are open. I wait, listening to the ringing tone, then suddenly, there is a voice.  I ask if they could tell me the address of a Mr. Jones who is currently doing community service.  There’s silence as I am put through to another voice.  I explain my request and why I want to contact him, but the woman states in no uncertain terms that it is council policy not to give out addresses.  But just as she was about to put the phone down, she quickly and quietly says that if I wanted to speak to the gentleman, I could try 28 Connaught Road, then the phone went dead.

          Within minutes of the phone call, I am driving my battered old VW through the snow towards a row of old cottages on the edge of town.

          I note as I stop outside number 28; the place is in darkness and I glance at my watch.  It’s ten thirty.  Maybe he’s out shopping, or gone to family for Christmas.

          Suddenly his front door opens and Old Mr. Jones slowly lifts the lid to his black bin and empties his waste paper basket into it. 

Without thinking, I hurry out of my car and stride across the snow-covered path. “Good morning Mr. Jones.”  I see the smile creep across his face and with out thinking, he invites me in.

The cottage is cold and gloomy, as though happiness and life had passed it by.  There were no Christmas Decorations or a Christmas Tree.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” he askes and I shudder at the chill in his kitchen.

“That’s very kind of you, but no.  I can’t stop.” I see the loneliness creep into his eyes as he puts down the tea pot.  “The reason I popped over was to invite you to Christmas dinner?”

I could see the confusion creep across his face.  “Jim and I are inviting to you to come over to our place, say around eleven, and stay for Christmas lunch, then leave after tea time or whenever, if that’s alright?  I’ll pick you up and drop you off if you like.”

I arrive home to find Jim whistling ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’ so I know somethings up.  After quickly looking around and under the tree, I find nothing that looks out of place.

“Alright, what is it?”

He grins. You know my boss Gerald; well he’s taking his family off to Barbados for Christmas and leaving his mother behind.  She doesn’t like flying, so I invited her to Christmas lunch as well.  Thought it might cheer up Mr. Jones.”

I look at Jim thinking how thoughtful he is and I nod my agreement. “What a wonderful idea, bless you darling.”

“I’m picking Mr. Jones up around eleven, so you want me to pick up the mother?”

“No, I’ll take care of that.  She lives the other side of town.”

“Oh, I thought she lived with her son and family.”

“No, I think she doesn’t get on with Gerald’s wife, Lucinda. Or Lucinda doesn’t get on with mother-in-law.  Not sure.”

I slowly open my eyes to the smell of roast turkey wafting from the kitchen and realise it’s Christmas Day.  Jim backs into the bedroom with a tray with breakfast on it.  “Come on lazy bones, turkey’s in the oven and the potatoes have been boiled and flaked.”

 Note to self, add Best darn cook in Essex to the list of things that he excels at.

I’m late back from picking up Mr. Jones and I notice that Jim’s car is already in the drive.  A quick glance through the front windows tells me that the Christmas Tree lights are on.  I turn to Mr. Jones who is now a little apprehensive as we approach the front door.  “It will be alright, I promise.”

Jim opens the door and greets us both with a hearty ‘Merry Christmas,’ and leads us into the sitting room.

Darling, may I introduce Jillian, Gerald’s mother.  Jillian, Frances my wife and Mr. Jones a friend of ours who we’ve invited to join us for Christmas lunch.  As we get to know each other, Jim appears and offers a Bristols cream sherry to everyone.

I leave to deposit my coat in the cloak room followed by Mr. Jones.  When we are out of earshot of Jim and Jillian, I ask Mr. Jones what’s his Christian name.

“Gareth.” He says with a smile, and I take his arm and lead him back into the warm conversation of the sitting room.

I take Jim’s arm and thank Jim with my eyes for a beautifully cooked Christmas dinner as we all retire to the sitting room.  Jillian asks me what occupies my time and I tell her that I’m a writer, though yet to be published.  Smiles and I see a hundred questions coming my way. Jim saves the day and as he fills Gareth’s glass, he asks what he does in retirement besides picking up the litter in a snow storm.

He laughs, I help deliver food to the old people’s homes in the mornings and in the afternoon’s I teach chess to St Johns school.”

“What about family?  Any children?”  We all see his crest fallen face slowly take shape.

“Mildred passed away eight years ago and my two children have grown up and moved away.  We don’t keep in tough I’m afraid.”

I sip my glass then ask Jillian what she does.

“I’m a Justice of the Peace.  It keeps me busy most days of the week I’m afraid. I do miss having friends and socialising.  It seems all work and no play.” I see behind her eyes that she too is lonely.

Jim, who has had a sherry too many, suddenly sits up and I see what is on his mind.

“In your capacity as a JP what do you think of an old man picking up litter in a snow storm because he failed to pay his car parking fine?”  It’s too late. It’s out and there is a stunned silence in the room.

Following the tried and tested formula of ages gone by of awkward situations, I stand.  “Coffee anyone?”  and quietly leave the room, giving one of my deadly stares as I pass Jim.

I can hear the mumble of conversation in the kitchen and think the worst, but to my surprise, when I return, Jillian is sitting next to Gareth all smiles and in deep conversation.  They appear to be getting on like long lost friends.  I glance across at Jim and flash my eyes as though demanding an explanation.

He smiles at me.  “It would appear that Jillian and Gareth went to school together not far from here.  They were good friends until they left school and went their own way.”

I turn around and see that Gareth is gently holding Jillian’s hand.  His face is a picture of happiness and there is a sparkle in his eyes.

The Christmas celebrations continued well into the night with hilarious rounds of charades and festive spirit until it was time to go home.

It was the second week of January and I was on my way to my Zumba Class when who should I see crossing the road, but Garth.

“Happy New Year Gareth.  How have you been.”  Before he answered me, he leant forward and gently kissed me on my cheek.

“Frances, I’ve been meaning to give you a call.  Jillian and I have decided to sell out properties and buy a little cottage not far from you.”

I smile and hug him back. “Gareth, that’s wonderful news.  What’s Jillian think of it all.”  This brings a huge smile on his face.

“Well we’re off on a Caribbean cruise at the end of the month.  Be away for a couple of months, but I just wanted thank you for inviting me to Christmas dinner.”

I feel happy for the two lonely people who found a spark of happiness at Christmas.  We hug each other one more time then part.

“You look after yourself and give out love to Jillian please.”  How nice it is to be kind to someone, especially at Christmas. You never know what lies in store when you do.

Copyright Bob French