TO ABSENT FRIENDS
By Bob French
Jim
smiled as he heard his name called out by the club secretary. He had
been selected to participate in the Essex Christmas Race; an annual race from
the council buildings in Rochford to Webster's car park in Rayleigh, 'in aide of
The Homeless'. The way things were going, he thought, he and his family would
soon be homeless. Then he heard Malcolm Withers name called out and
inwardly groaned.
Malcolm wasn’t an outstanding runner, he wasn’t even good, but he held a
position of authority in council as the Town Planning Officer of Rochford
District Council and was instrumental in granting permission for the club house
to be built. This favour allowed him to run in some of the important
races.
The club coach raised his hands.
“This year the race will take place on the 20th December
and we have five other local running clubs competing in the race, so I will
expect those whose names I have called out, to start to beef up their evening
runs, and on that note, I must warn you all to be especially aware of running
in the dark.” This was followed by cheers as everyone raised their
glasses to big Frank, who had got lost out on one of the country roads and
become entangled in some barbed wire and wasn’t found until the following
morning.
As everyone started to relax at the bar, Jim eased himself down next to
Jean, one of the clubs Triathlon stars.
“Hi Jean. What time do you think you’ll complete the course this year?”
Before she could reply, Malcolm slumped down next to her with a large whiskey.
“Hi Jean. Fancy doing a couple of evening runs with me?”
Jean smiled. “OK, but I’ll have to give you a couple of hours
start.”
We both laughed, but Malcolm frowned. “I’m not that bad. At
least I beat Frank back last year.”
Jean smiled, caught the eye of one of the triathlon team,
made her excuses and left Malcolm staring at me.
“Whilst we are here Malcolm, any news on my neighbour Shawn’s
application to build his extension?”
He stared at me and I could see the hatred in his eyes for my laughing at him.
“Not a chance.”
“Why? Could you tell me what is holding it up, so I can tell
him?”
Malcolm pulled a face, stood up and went off to the bar without a word.
That night I told Shawn of the conversation, at which point he swore in
his broad Irish accent.
“God, I’ll give anyone five thousand pounds to get rid of that waste of
space.”
I stared at him. “Are you sure mate. That’s a lot of money.
Do you mean it?”
“Sure thing. He is costing me money by holding things up. No,
five thousand pounds to anyone who can rid me of this person.”
That night I sat looking at a blank TV screen thinking how I could do
away with Malcolm. Five thousand pounds would keep the banks off my back and
before Christmas too, Jill and the children would be so pleased. The
chimes on my old carriage clock reminded me it was time for my bed.
The training started in earnest in the middle of November, time enough
for everyone to become accustomed to the route, which was basically the B1013
from Rochford to Rayleigh with the exception of a few short detours to make up
the five miles distance. But so far, Malcolm had not been seen on the course.
Then one evening the coach called me over and asked if I would take
Malcolm around the course so he knew the route.
“Alright, I’ll take it really slow.”
The coach smiled and nodded his head. “He’s getting changed.
Try to be back by midnight.” He laughed, turned, and vanished into the dark.
Malcolm appeared and without a word we started to jog back to Rayleigh.
As we approached each of the small detours, I warned him that we had to take
these detours because it helped to make up the five miles, but more importantly
if we stayed on the road at these places, it became too dangerous, especially
in the dark.
When we finished, he seemed relaxed. “Fancy doing it on Wednesday?”
Malcolm nodded. “A little faster this time if you like.”
Sure enough we made it back by ten thirty and both the coach and I were
secretly impressed.
The following week Malcolm met me at the club house. “Let’s make a race
of it this time.” I stared at him, then nodded.
“You sure Malcolm?”
“Yes. Let’s start at seven. First back buys the
first round.”
As I was getting changed, I casually told the coach that Malcolm had
just challenged me to a race.
The coach grinned, shrugged his shoulders and wished me luck.
We started slow, but soon I picked up the pace and left him in my
wake. To my surprise, he was stretching out against a wall as I came
into the car park. He had beaten me by five minutes and I couldn’t believe it,
“What kept you, slow coach?”
After buying him a whiskey, I went off and sulked in the corner by
myself. As I was contemplating my failure, the coach came and sat
down beside me. He took a drink of his pint then turned and faced me with his
back to the bar and spoke quietly.
“I followed you two after you left. Then saw him cut down the track
after the farm. That’s where he made about 20 minutes on
you. Just thought you ought to know. Mum’s the word.”
Two days later, Malcolm challenged Big Frank to a race and beat him by
fifteen minutes. Then it came to me.
That night, I spoke to Shawn and explained that Malcolm was cheating
when he was training for the big race. Shawn looked at me with a
frown.
“About a quarter way along the course, there is a narrow track that
leads down to a field. If you follow it, it takes about a mile off
the course.”
Shawn grinned and asked me if I could show him where this track was, so
the next day we drove out there and he had a really good look around the place.
The evening of Saturday, the 20th December came and
runners from the six running clubs were assembled outside the council building,
eager to start.
A huge cheer went up when the starting pistol went off and everyone
started to race down towards the T junction and out into the dark countryside.
Malcolm’s boss realised that his town planning officer had not turned up
for work on Monday and had probably decided to leave early to go on his
Christmas holiday out to Cyprus for two weeks and would probably not appear
until the end of the first week of January.
On Tuesday afternoon, I met Shawn sitting outside Costa Coffee in the
High Street. He called me over.
“Hay Jim. Tis good to see you. I’ve just had a
call from the council offices. They have granted permission for me
to build my extension, would you believe that.”
“That’s good. I am happy for you mate.”
Then he very discretely slid a used newspaper across the table. “If you
pop across to the bank, you may catch them before they close.”
I stared at him, then slowly picked up the newspaper and without saying
a word, strolled across to the bank.
I was met by one of the staff. “Hello Mr. Wilson, how can I
help you?”
I quickly opened the newspaper and took out the envelope and seeing the
wodge of fifty-pound notes, told the young lady that I wanted to settle my
mortgage account.
On Christmas day Jill and the children had a fabulous time; my worries
were over. On Boxing Day, I invited Shawn and his family over for
lunch. As we stepped outside for a cigarette, I asked Shawn why the
council had changed their mind.
“Well, to be honest, it would appear that Mr. Malcolm Withers didn’t
turn up for work on Monday, so someone else dealt with my account and seeing no
problems, granted me permission.
“I grinned at him.” Now tell me what happened.”
He smiled. “Well, I had a good look around the track, and worked out
that I could load one of my mini-diggers on a trailer and drive it out to the
field. I knew the race would start at seven, and it would be pitch
dark by the time yer man would arrive, so I dug a nice big deep hole, about ten
yards into the track, and waited. Sure enough, Malcolm came racing
down the path and fell right into the hole.” He
smiled. “I gave him an 8 out of 10 for style, then filled the hole in,
made sure the track looked undisturbed then left. I was home by
eight thirty.”
At that moment Jill called out to us that she was serving
up. Shaw and I raised a glass. “To absent friends.”
Names and places in this story are purely
coincidental.
Copyright
Bob French
