THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN

 

 THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 

 By John Abbott

Note to reader:

Regular readers will recall the short flash entitled ‘S’.  But I did not post the full story so, for those who read ‘S’ it is repeated in pink, you can glance over it to refresh your memory or ignore it as you please…  ENJOY!

 

S

The old man was dressed in a dark, threadbare suit, which, like it's owner, had seen better days. He was standing, trying not to look too dis-spirited about his plight. His battered, old cap was upturned on the ground with numerous shiny coins within.

London's pedestrians passed to and fro, some cast only glances, whilst others, on occasion stopped.

The little girl was dragging slightly behind her mother, who was gently tugging her left arm to persuade her into more ardent forward motion.

“ Mummy, mummy, can we give the man some money ? “ The mother accepted the inevitable without repining.

“ O.K., O.K., yes. “ as she delved into her handbag.

Releasing her young off-springs hand for a moment, she dipped into her purse. “ Stay there, Trudi. “

She found a small golden coin and passed it to her daughter.

“ Give the man the pound, Trudi. “ she said as she bent her knees to move closer to young Trudi.

Trudi carefully placed the pound coin into the old man's cap. The old man gave his usual response.

“ Thank you and may God bless you. “

 

He smiled at the little girl, knowing that this universal gesture would achieve the necessary effect. The girl with her blonde pony-tail smiled a friendly, toothy grin back. This old man had seen it all. Hell and heaven, life and death ... and still he found the gift of a smile.

 

 

    THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN 

A huge tapestry of past events flooded his mind. When he had been very young, his dreams seemed very straightforward. His original choice of vocation turned out to be an unfortunate one.

 

He had always wanted to be a soldier, and when the opportunity arose in his late teens, he had jumped at the chance. It all seemed a long time ago, when as a fledgling soldier, he was to visit a small group of islands, not greatly dissimilar to Dartmoor or Wales. After a few weeks of hard, damp warfare, he came to realise what life was really about. On a chill, May morning, cloaked in mist, he had carried a wounded friend out of a firefight, and down the side of a wet, grassy hill. His burden was treated by a medical team and managed to survive the war. So did he, but not without another traumatic experience. Two days later, a small band of his comrades were blown to pieces in an enemy mortar attack. Luckily, John was only to receive minor shrapnel wounds. Minor they might have been, but, they effectively ended his career within the military.

 

His last real job was as a financial assistant for the BBC. He couldn't quite remember where the roller-coaster really began, but his memory somehow sucked the details together. A renowned television presenter had got involved with a child-abuse case on her live TV show, resulting in a small group being formed to find some way to help the victims of these heinous crimes. He submitted the idea of a free telephone helpline, with sympathetic listeners on the other end, who could offer helpful advice whilst maintaining confidentiality. He involved himself heavily in the setup of the service and managed to make it a national helpline service. Alas, all this detracted enormously from his normal employment. His employers, with all their usual benevolent wisdom, decided that they could not financially support a man who no longer carried out the duties for which he was originally employed.

Hence, the joys of unemployment were to follow.

Some weeks later, he was employed to do some relatively ordinary tasks for the local council. One particular occurrence from a sunny morning last July, sprang to mind.

 

The road-sweeper, in his gaudy costume of green trousers and yellow polo-shirt was vigorously pushing his large, wide broom along the litter-strewn gutter. Approaching him, a young mother and her very young son walked happily in the opposite direction along the pavement. The young boy, who was certainly not more than four or five years old, relinquished his grip on his mothers hand, and facing the road-sweeper, stopped. He began to grin and wave wildly at him, whilst calling out, “ Hello! Hello!"

The road-sweeper glanced up and instead of simply ignoring the boy and continuing with his mundane duties, he also stopped. He returned the boy's waves with his own exaggerated and extravagant hand gesticulations. His deep voice raised itself a couple of octaves and he cheerfully said “Hello” as well. This appeared to delight the young lad immensely, and the mother’s reaction was a gleeful smile. She thought it wonderful that someone should take the trouble simply to give joy where it was possible. In fact, to her, at that moment and for a couple of hours afterwards, the whole world seemed a much more cheerful place as the sun's rays warmed her heart. It had renewed her faith in the goodness of humanity.

 

Unfortunately, spending cuts in the Council's budgetary plans were soon announced, and everyone knew the old rule ... ‘Last in, first out.'

He also remembered an occurrence on a rain-soaked Monday morning. It was early, sometime before six. The stark, rain-filled outlook from the bridge was heightened only by the splash of obscene, reflective colour on the young man's rainwear. The shabby-looking, stubblefaced youngster was standing on the thin wall of the bridge, blankly looking out east across the dismal grey sky towards the dome of St Paul's. He was hurting bad, despairing of this short span that most would refer to as his life. The rain was not heavy, but its damp crawl still gripped his consciousness. His wish was very simple, he wanted to end the misery, all the mental anguish, and most of all, he wanted to stop the hatred, with which he had tainted so much. All that was now required was that final act of courage, to condemn himself to a dank and watery grave.

“Matthew, do not do it." A voice said suddenly from behind him.

He turned his head and looked behind him to the right. He saw a well-dressed man in a dark suit and tie, his hair cropped short and slowly getting wet, yet the man was smiling.

“ Matthew. What a waste, don't do it,” he pleaded.

Matthew was perturbed by two things. The first was, why on earth would this gent want to spare any thought for me? The second came as a shock; how on earth did he know my name?

“ Who are you? Leave me alone, will ya!" shouted Matthew.

The gently smiling man ignored this request and approached Matthew calmly. Matthew became agitated and shouted again.

“Look! Sod off! Leave me alone!"

The man in the suit simply leant on the wall, next to Matthew.

“ Matthew, why do this? Nothing is quite this bad, surely?“  He introduced himself as he offered his hand in a gesture of friendship. “My name is John. “

 

Matthew suddenly, without thinking, made a show of attempting to throw himself off the bridge, but instead found himself sitting bestride the wall facing John. He gazed at the sombre suit and began to explain.

“ Well ... “ He never got the opportunity to even get into the first sentence, when the man called John interrupted him.

“ Matthew ... I care not for your problems, I only want you to live, maybe even to smile occasionally, that might help. “ John continued on, “ I will not preach to you. I feel certain that your problems are many and have an infinite variety, but think of how those problems will be multiplied if you were to thrust yourself into this venerable, old river. You would hurt a lot of people ... In fact, all who know you would feel the weight of the burden, regardless of their feelings for you. So do not commit this act. Come down, what do you say? “

Laugh if you will, but Matthew felt cleansed, he swung his left leg over to the pavement and stood on the bridge itself.

“ Come Matthew, let me buy you a cup of tea. “ said John. “ Who knows, the sun may even come out later? “

The two men, distinctly different, one shabby, one smart, one old, one young, strolled off south down the bridge, chatting happily, leaving the bleakness of the Thames behind them.

*                                            *                                            *

With her small hand still firmly pressed in her mothers grip, Trudi looked up and appealed to her mother.

“ Mummy, mummy, look. That nice man is floating on air. “

 

“ Yes, yes dear. C'mon, hurry up, we've got to get home.“ replied her mother, inattentively.

 

Carefully he shrouded the brilliance of his light that he might not blind her; and calmly placing his feet upon the ground, entered once more, for a little while, into the habitation of man again.

Copyright John Abbo