Tag Archives: gratitude

Angels and Drunks

picture1

Dear Friends

This is a thank you letter from me to you. If you are not sure if I mean you personally, then ask yourself “have I laughed/cried/been hugged by or pissed with, this woman on several occasions?” If you can answer yes to at least two of those options, then chances are that yes, I do class you as a friend and therefore, yes, this applies to you, so pay attention.

At the risk of making you feel like inserting your fingers down your throat in disgust at my over sentimentality, I would like to tell you all how much I love you.

We may have known each other since childhood or for only a year or so. We may have shared a house at some point, been on holiday together or merely bonded in the 8 hours a day, 5 days a week proximity of the office. I may have spoken with you yesterday or (and sadly this is more commonly the case) not in the past 18 months. But I truly do love all of you, the old and the new, genuinely and sincerely.  You are, each in your own unique way, very dear to me and I feel lucky to have met you.  You have made my life richer and more enjoyable and whenever I despair of how cruel, heartless and unsympathetic so many people in the world can be, I remind myself that there are good, kind and decent folk still and that you, my friends, are testament to that.

Now that I have nauseated you/completely freaked you out (delete as applicable), I should hasten to add that I am not only sober, but also free from any other mind-altering substances and not in any imminent danger of dying, as far as I can tell.  The fact that this is written in (mostly) coherent sentences and then, glory be, actually posted on the dust bowl that is my blog, will add to the sincerity of my declaration, as you all know,

a) how long it takes me to write anything

b) how infrequently I post my musings and

c) how my usual declarations of affection for you are preceded by us sharing copious amounts of alcohol.

This sudden urge to publicly share my affection has been brought about by many months of musing on the nature of friendship and how blessed I am to know so many lovely people. Ok, I admit that some of you drive me nuts on occasion with your weird likes and dislikes, your stubbornness or irrationality etc. but I know that you must feel exactly the same about my own foibles. Perhaps the ability to cope with occasional mutual irritation without any lessening of fondness and respect is what makes an enduring friendship. And being able to take the piss out of each other, good-humouredly and without malice, is for me, one sign of a healthy relationship.

This is not only a thank you letter but an apology to those of you I rarely contact. I do not invest half as much time in our friendship as I would like and or as much as you deserve (which sounds uncannily like something Bilbo Baggins said to his guests at his birthday party!).  Nevertheless I am constantly amazed at how it is possible to go months or even years without seeing or speaking to some of you and then still be able to jabber away as if it were yesterday, when we finally do catch up. How lovely it is to feel so at ease and comfortable with each other,  to be reminded of that shared sense of humour and affection, and to know that if we needed to, we could share our deepest hopes and fears or our guiltiest secrets, without being judged.

This came to mind a year ago when I met up with my old university housemates for one of our bi-annual reunions. Here was a reasonably diverse group of people thrown together in a student flat in 1982. We all had different personalities and varied tastes and interests but somehow we bonded and became close friends who loved and supported each other.

After graduation we scattered across Britain and indeed, the globe. Nonetheless, in those early years we all kept in touch regularly and met up whenever we could. As mortgages, marriages and children came along, it became increasingly difficult to find the time to sustain the level of intimacy we had once all shared. But we never lost touch and still managed to get together every couple of years to catch up, reminisce and share news.

This particular reunion was especially poignant as we had lost one of our group to ovarian cancer earlier in the year.  Our dear, lovely, kind, intelligent and thoughtful Lizzie was probably the matriarch in our little gang. Indeed she was the first person I met on my very first day at university.  I arrived, scared and overwhelmed, and sat for ages in my breeze blocked, cell-like room crying. When I finally plucked up the courage to go into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, this quietly confident young woman came in, introduced herself in her lovely Yorkshire accent and started chatting. That was the start of our 33 year friendship.

Lizzie had always been the voice of calm and reason and the one who would organise us and gently whip us into shape while the rest of us procrastinated. She was the one to go to in a crisis, the one who shone the light of perspective and good humour. She was an amazing woman and will be sorely missed.

Meeting up with the rest of the gang for the first time since losing Lizzie made me appreciate them all over again. The ease with which we talked and laughed (and cried) was actually profoundly reassuring and filled me with love and gratitude.  I was reminded that although we all have busy and very different lives, we have a bond that will last a lifetime.

lennon-quoteI have close friendships beyond that little clique though. One set of friends (again 30 odd years in the making) are still so very dear to me even though I see them once a year at best these days. I still count them as some of our closest friends and fantasise about retiring next door to them somewhere, or at least holidaying together again as we have done on and off over the years.

But I stress again that I love ALL of you, my friends, in your own way. I have known many of you for my whole adult life and with good reason – you are awesome.

There are newer friendships too, such as those that have developed with the parents of our son’s friends. Our boy is a pretty good judge of character so his close friends, who are the nicest, funniest bunch of young people you could wish to meet, tend to have equally lovely parents, who have become our friends in their own right. These people are no less dear to me.

And of course those of you I met through work have kept me sane over the years. When you spend 8 hours a day, 5 days a week in the same environment with someone you laugh with, discover similar interests and worlds views with, it is almost impossible not to become friends. It is not unusual to spend more waking hours with your colleagues than it is with your family in the average week so workplace friendships are most definitely important to me.  In the enforced intimacy of an office environment, I have met some brilliant, supportive, funny and kind people (and you all know who you are).  I have even managed to sustain friendships with a good number of you when we have both moved on work-wise, assuming you count intermittent emails, messaging and dinner once in a blue moon of course.

So there you have it – my love and gratitude to you all, dear friends. Although Mr Guy Garvey and his colleagues sum it up much more eloquently in one of my favourite Elbow songs (and incidentally one I want playing at my funeral as and when it happens!)

Dear friends
You are angels and drunks
You are magi

Old friends
You stuck a pin in a map I was in
And you are the stars I navigate home by.

Advertisements

The Story of Henry the Third and the Midwinter Miracle in Manchester

HomelessIt was the small dog which first caught her eye that early Tuesday morning in December. Snuggled up next to a homeless person in a grubby blue sleeping bag, sheltering in the doorway of a service entrance to the multi-storey car park. As she approached, quick marching on her way to work, he had raised his grey whiskered chin from his paws to look at her, yawned, sleepily wagged his tail and gave a very quiet, gentle “woof” in greeting.  He had settled back down to rest but maintained eye contact with her as she passed the doorway before cutting diagonally across the road towards the office.

She had noticed him because he reminded her of Harry,  the scruffy little terrier that Dad had brought home the first Christmas after Mum had died. He had  found him  tied to a railing near the canal, shivering and whining and with a message scribbled on a piece of cardboard next to him reading “please take care of me”.  She and her elder brother Mark had adored him from the start and their Dad did not have the heart to take him to the dogs home as he’d originally intended, so Harry became the family pet and lived to a ripe old age. Debbie was convinced that it was Harry’s arrival which had saved her Dad from disintegrating altogether, after months of sadness and the prospect of their first Christmas as a one parent family.

She gave one last look over her shoulder at the stray in the doorway before turning the corner and then suddenly felt guilty that she had barely given a thought to the person in the sleeping bag.  An open umbrella had been positioned in front of their head and shoulders to act as a windbreak against the chill north easterly blowing down the street, and this had hidden any indication of age or gender.  They had been just another anonymous down and out. Debbie had not felt particularly well when she’d woken up that morning but she dismissed her self-pity when she thought of how rough she would really feel after a night on the street.

Working in the city years before, Debbie had gotten used to seeing homeless people in doorways and on street corners, but after fifteen years of commuting to out of town business parks, she had almost forgotten that they existed. They were largely invisible on her occasional shopping trips into town and she had naively thought that it was a problem which was disappearing with the increased prosperity of her home city. When she started her new job back in the centre of Manchester a few weeks before, it had been a shock to realise that  there were still so many people living on the streets. The two recessed doorways next to the multi-storey were obviously a prime location to shelter in, as hardly a morning went by without seeing someone lying there on a pitiful mattress of flattened cardboard. The wooden louvre doors had  “Danger, High Voltage” signs on them and she assumed that perhaps there was some residual heat from a generator escaping through the gaps. She rarely saw the faces of the occupants. This early in the morning they were hunkered down and whenever she had ventured out of the office during the day, or on her journey home in the evenings,  the doorways were empty of people. Often they would leave behind a few paltry possessions, a water bottle, a folded umbrella or a pair of gloves. Whether abandoned or to stake a claim of residency she did not know.

The following morning the same dog and his owner were there again. And again the little dog wagged his tail and woofed “hello”. This time she actually said hello back, out loud, and was rewarded with a raised head and a more enthusiastic tail wag. The body in the sleeping bag stirred a little but Debbie hurried on to work. Both the little terrier and its owner had vanished that evening.

On the third morning the dog was sitting up and looking alert as if waiting for her. She said “good morning” to him and he stood up to wag his tail in greeting. This time, with the umbrella folded up in the corner, the figure in the sleeping bag turned around and peered over their shoulder. It was the face of an aging, world weary woman, wrinkled and grubby with a fringe of charcoal and silver hair escaping her black woollen hat. Large, dark brown eyes stared at her from under the fringe. Debbie smiled shyly but said nothing and marched on by as usual. She was conscious of the woman’s gaze following her as she crossed the street and when she turned the corner out of sight she looked back and saw that, sure enough, the woman was leaning up on her elbows and staring at her.

The next day both dog and owner were sitting on top of the neatly folded sleeping bag and cardboard mattress and facing out onto the street. The woman was sipping what looked like hot chocolate from a steaming paper cup. When Debbie approached,  the little terrier woofed his friendly hello, stood up and took two steps towards her. “Hello doggie” Debbie said, slowing her pace.  The seated woman looked up at her and ruffled the elderly terrier’s ears with her free hand. “Henry likes you, don’tcha Henry?” she said. Debbie stopped and bent down to stroke his head much to his obvious delight. “Well I like him too. He must be good company for you”. It was a statement rather than a question. “Oh he is. Getting on a bit now though en’tcha sweetheart? This one’s Henry the Third. He’s been waiting a long time this one.” Debbie wondered what exactly he had been waiting for, but there was no further elaboration, so she gave Henry the Third  one last chin rub and straightened up to go. She took the opportunity to look more closely at the woman who was still gazing fondly at her pet. Somehow her eyes did not match her face making it difficult to approximate her age. They were dark brown, shining and alert, a young person’s eyes but from the condition of her skin and hair she looked to be in her sixties.  Debbie knew that living rough aged you prematurely and besides, she couldn’t imagine anyone that old living on the streets – weren’t there homes for the elderly that she could have gone to? The woman had a good bone structure and might once have been very attractive, especially with those eyes which were simply mesmerising. When they suddenly flicked up at her, she felt as if they had penetrated her innermost thoughts and she blushed.  “Sorry, I’ve got to go now. Take care of yourself” she said quickly and spun on her heels to cross the road.

She found herself thinking about Henry’s owner later that morning and wondered who she was and how she’d come to live on the streets. What had happened in her life to make sleeping rough her only choice? Aside from Henry’s resemblance to Harry, part of the fascination, she knew, came from the fact that the woman had the same piercing eyes as her Mother. Debbie had been only six at the time that her Mummy had died, just a few short weeks after being diagnosed with a brain tumour. In truth she could barely remember her and had always been a little jealous of Mark who, being three years older than her, was able to recall much more about the beautiful woman with the big brown eyes. Most of her own memories came from family photographs.

That evening at home, Debbie retrieved a large dusty cardboard box from the top of the wardrobe and parked herself on a beanbag in the lounge beside her husband, Jon. She had told him of her encounter and the memories it had stirred and he suggested looking through the old photographs in the box. She enjoyed showing Jon pictures of her Mum and  reminiscing about her childhood.  One of her favourite photographs was of the whole family grinning broadly next to a huge Christmas tree. Her Mum was holding Mark’s hand and resting a chubby baby Debbie, on the other hip. Dad had his arm around her shoulder and they both looked young and happy. Her Mum was very pretty with the same dark, exotic eyes as the homeless woman.

There were lots of Christmas photos in the box, which was no real surprise as Dad modelled himself on Mr Fezziwig each December and their house had always been full of family and friends. The only time there had been a gap in the photographic records of Christmas was that first year without Mum, but thereafter the photos resumed and Harry the rescue dog made several appearances.  These days everyone congregated at Mark and his wife’s and Dad maintained his tradition of photographing the family beside the Christmas tree. It was generally a riotous affair as Mark and Laura had four children under the age of ten. Debbie used to wonder how much more chaotic it would be if she and Jon had been able to have children of their own to include in the fun…

The rest of that weekend was spent in a flurry of preparations for Christmas and Debbie set aside all thoughts of the “dog lady” as Debbie came to refer to her, to focus on wrapping presents and writing the last of the cards. Only when Monday morning came, all too quickly, did she remember Henry the Third and his owner. The weather had become a lot chillier over the weekend and Debbie took a detour on her way down from the station to buy a hot chocolate from Costa Coffee. On impulse she bought two, a large Danish and a sausage roll, intending to provide breakfast to the woman and her dog.  She walked quickly to the car park, wondering how the homeless woman survived outside overnight in the sub-zero temperatures.  When she reached the doorway and found it empty it was almost a relief, hopefully  this meant that the dog lady had found space in a hostel overnight to avoid the worst of the cold. There was someone else in the second doorway just a little further along though, a young man just beginning to stir and pack his things together so Debbie walked over and handed him the spare hot chocolate and the pastries instead. He seemed so grateful and surprised that she actually felt guilty that she was not helping more. “Do you know what happened to the older lady with the dog?” she asked. He shook his head. “Sorry miss I’ve not seen her. Don’t know anyone like that but I’ve only just moved to this patch”.

She wondered what his story was too and how he had ended up sleeping in a doorway in minus 3 degrees. Her feeling of guilt notched up again and she spontaneously opened her shoulder bag to take out her purse. “Here, make sure you get a hot meal down you or try and find a hostel or something” she said handing over a twenty pound note. He beamed at her “Awh thanks miss, you’re an angel! Happy Christmas!”. She watched him as he gathered up his meagre possessions and hurried down to the far end of the street, where a number of cafes and sandwich shops were located.  Just as she was about to cross over to the office she caught a glimpse of the dog lady with Henry the Third at the same T junction, heading in the direction of the city centre. Well at least they are alive and well, she thought and reluctantly made her way to work.

Later that evening, as she was navigating the hordes of commuters and late night Christmas shoppers on the approach to Piccadilly, she saw the woman again. They passed each other going in opposite directions as they crossed the same busy road. Debbie looked over her shoulder to double check it was her but she had disappeared, lost in the scores of people milling along.

She did not find anyone sheltering near the car park the next morning or the morning after but as the week progressed and she was out and about the city centre, she caught sight of the dog lady and Henry several times. They were usually too far away to talk to and if ever Debbie turned to walk in their direction, they seemed to melt into the crowds, almost as if the woman sensed her approach and wanted to avoid her. Maybe she thinks I’m stalking her, Debbie mused to herself, only half-jokingly, but then it occurred to her that perhaps it was the other way around. It was a little strange that she kept seeing the dog lady wherever she went, having never noticed her in the previous few weeks.

Thursday was Christmas Eve. She finished work at lunch and walked into town to finish off the very last of her Christmas shopping. As she made her way back to the train station through the back roads and laden with carrier bags, it began to sleet and she broke into a trot whilst struggling to juggle her bags and button her coat with her two free fingers. When her phone began ringing in her pocket and she tried to extract that too, she was utterly distracted and stepped out onto the zebra crossing without noticing the black VW Golf speeding down the road towards her. A furious barking to one side her made her look up and she leapt backwards onto the pavement, stumbled, dropping several bags and her phone, and landed in a rather undignified heap on her bottom. The speeding car barely slowed and was gone straight over the crossing and around the bend in a blink. Dazed and in shock it took her a moment to recognise Henry the Third at her feet, wagging his tail and snuffling at her feet. The face that appeared at her side was that of the dog lady, her dark, beautiful eyes peering at her with concern. “Are you alright Debbie?” she asked. “Yes… yes, I think so. Thank you” she stammered in reply and then puzzled “How did you know my name?”. The woman held out her arm to help pull Debbie back to her feet. “It’s there, plain as day” she pointed at the security badge still dangling on a lanyard around her neck, under her unbuttoned coat,  identifying her as “Ms Deborah Moffat”.

“You need to take better care of yourself young lady, you wouldn’t want your kids to be without their Mum at Christmas would you?” the dog lady gently chastised her.  Debbie paused, suddenly overcome with emotions. “I don’t have any children” she replied, swallowing back the tears. Or a Mum either, she thought. “No?” the woman said gazing directly into her eyes “Maybe by next Christmas eh?”. Debbie bit her lip and felt her shoulders begin to shake as the tears came. The dog lady put an arm around her shoulder. “Come on love, you’re in shock, let’s get you a nice cup of tea and a sit down”. Debbie allowed the dog lady to pick up her bags and phone and to lead her by the elbow to a café on the corner. Henry the Third dutifully followed and sat outside the door while his owner sat Debbie down at a table and presented her with a steaming  mug of tea. “Here you go pet, get that down you and you’ll soon feel better”.

Debbie was suddenly very embarrassed “I’m sorry” she said, drying her eyes with a napkin “I feel such a fool. And I haven’t even thanked you for saving me from being run over”. The dog lady shrugged “That wasn’t me, it was Henry. He’s been looking out for you.” Debbie did not know how to respond to that and just said “Oh…right.” Her scepticism must have shown on her face because the woman leant forward and took her hand. Her deep, dark eyes were piercing and Debbie felt as if the woman was peering into her very soul. “I know it sounds strange, but believe me you’ll understand one day”. Debbie turned to look out of the window at the aging dog sitting quietly and obediently just outside, watching the world go by. It had stopped sleeting but the skies looked heavy with snow clouds. When she turned back to look at the dog lady, she noticed how tired and old she really looked. A little of the gleam seemed to have gone from her eyes and the resemblance to her long dead mother seemed to vanish.

“Listen, what will you do over Christmas? Do you have anywhere to go? Maybe I can help?” Debbie asked. The woman sighed and smiled “You are your mother’s daughter alright” she said mysteriously. “Honest love I’ll be fine; I’ve got a bed in the Baxter Street hostel till the 27th. . But they don’t take dogs… If you really want to help me you could look after Henry for a couple of days? Just till I’m free again?”

An hour later and Debbie pressed the doorbell on her own front door, being unable to find her keys with one hand clutching a half dozen shopping bags and the other carrying a scruffy Jack Russell cross under her arm, looking for all the world as if it was his rightful place.  She was somewhat surprised to see Mark opening the door. “Have we got room for one more on Christmas Day?” she smiled at him as he lent over to pat the dog’s head. From the hallway she heard Dad calling “Is that our Debs?”. He appeared at Mark’s shoulder and gasped “bloody hell it’s another Harry!”  She smiled “No Dad, but he does look like him doesn’t he? This is Henry the Third and he’s staying for Christmas. Come on let me in you two it’s freezing out here”. They made way for her to enter but she noticed that both Dad and Mark fell silent and their smiles had faded to confused and thoughtful frowns. Putting Henry and her bags down and peeling off her coat and scarf she looked from one to the other. “What’s the matter? Is everything alright?” she asked “And why are you both here at this time anyway? I wasn’t expecting you till later.”

“Oh we were just returning Jon’s electric screwdriver. He’s just popped out to the corner shop by the way – you’ve run out of teabags” Mark sounded a little distracted.

They all walked through to the kitchen and sat at the table. Henry followed and settled himself at Debbie’s feet. She watched both Dad and Mark staring at the dog and took a deep breath. “If you’re wondering where he came from, well…he sort of saved my life”. Their expressions of confusion changed to ones of shock and concern as Debbie recanted the tale of her encounters with the dog and his real owner and her narrow miss with the car at lunch time.

“So I felt it was the least I could do really and it’s only till Monday”. She stroked Henry’s head and he looked up at her adoringly and thumped his tail on the wooden floor. She glanced from Mark, who looked like he’d seen a ghost, to Dad who was frowning and pale. “Well it’s the damned-est thing” he muttered, almost to himself. Mark and Debbie both looked at him and waited for him to continue. “Harry…well Harry was actually a Henry too. I…I didn’t ever tell you the full story because you were both so young and to tell you the truth I was a bit ashamed of myself”. He paused and looked from Debbie to Mark to Henry and back again. “The truth is – I stood by that canal seriously contemplating throwing myself in because I just couldn’t face the world without your Mother. I’d been so wrapped up in my grief that I’d been neglecting both of you.  Your Grandma and Grandad had practically taken over looking after you anyway and I just thought you’d be better off with them than me, I was a broken man…Then, just as I was about to jump in I heard a little bark and a whimper from under the bridge. I don’t know what made me go and look but I did…” Mark concluded the sentence “…and you found Harry”. “Yes, but the weird thing is that the note actually said “My name is HENRY, please look after me”. I didn’t ever tell you his name because I thought it was a bloody silly name for a dog. I know we always said Harry was a rescue dog but I swear it was him that rescued me rather than the other way around”.

There was a thoughtful silence in the room and Henry, seeming to sense that he was the centre of attention gave a small woof and stood up. Debbie picked him up and sat him on her knee, where he settled himself contentedly, chin on paws.

“It gets even weirder I’m afraid” Mark broke their reverie, “although I didn’t realise it at the time. That Easter I went camping in the Lakes with the boys from Uni do you remember?” Debbie and Dad nodded and waited to hear what could possibly make this story any stranger…”Well one night we came back from the pub and it was freezing cold so I brought my camping stove inside my tent to warm up and.. I fell asleep.” Debbie looked horrified “Mark you idiot!” she cried. She knew that people had died from carbon monoxide poisoning doing exactly the same thing. He looked suitably embarrassed…“I know but I was a bit pissed. Anyway, the thing is, I woke up just after midnight when this dog started barking furiously right outside my tent. Woke the whole bloody camp site up. I had a stinking headache and felt a bit sick but realised what I’d done and turned the stove off. When I unzipped the tent to see what all the commotion was I saw this dog that looked a bit like Harry and this woman with a backpack across the field. A few of the other campers had woken up and were shouting at her to shut the dog up and bugger off so she called to him ‘HENRY! Come here boy!’ and they disappeared down to the woods. The name didn’t mean anything to me until today – I was just glad his barking had woken me up”.

Debbie’s heart began pounding and her head was spinning, the dog lady had called him Henry the THIRD and said he had been waiting for a long time…waiting for what she had wondered but now she knew…he had been waiting for her, to save her, in the same way his predecessors had saved Dad and Mark, even if they hadn’t realised it at the time. Who the hell was this mysterious woman with the big brown eyes? She began to feel faint and the last thing she remembered before passing out was Henry jumping off her knee to greet Jon as the front door opened and he called “Hello!” down the hall.

When she came to on the sofa in the lounge, Jon was kneeling next to her holding her hand and Mark and Dad were stood behind looking concerned. He stroked her forehead. “Are you alright sweetheart?” he asked. “Yes, yes I’m fine now honest, I think it was all just a bit of a shock”.  She spied Henry at the bottom of the sofa as he stood with his front paws on the cushion and tried to peer at her. Mark sat himself on the arm at the end. “Jon suggested we go to the Baxter Street  Hostel and talk to this woman – see if we can’t find out more about what’s going on”. Debbie nodded “ok” and forty minutes later they were sat in a car outside the hostel on Baxter Street, not entirely sure what to do next. They did not even know the woman’s name…

“I’ll go in – it might look a bit heavy handed if we go en masse” Debbie proposed. The others agreed and she climbed out of the car, up the steps and through the glass doors at the entrance. “Can I help you?” asked the bearded man at the front desk. “I hope so. We’re looking for an older lady who said she was staying here over Christmas, about 60, dark brown eyes, black woollen hat, owns a dog called Henry?”

“Ah. That sounds like Pam. She used to come here a lot.  Are you a relative?” There was something in the tone of his voice that rang alarm bells. “No – just a friend. We’re looking after her dog for her”. “Is your surname Moffat?” Debbie nodded. “ Well I’m sorry Mrs Moffat  I’m afraid I have some bad news, Pam died  earlier today. The police found her down near Deansgate station.” Debbie held on to the desk for support. “But that can’t be right I saw her just hours ago!” she exclaimed. The man looked doubtful but sympathetic. “I’m so sorry Mrs Moffat but there was a positive ID. The police brought us this letter though” he began to rummage through the drawers in his desk. “They said she’d written a note specifically asking them to leave it here for collection. Ah – here it is” and he handed her a slightly tatty and aged looking cream envelope addressed to “The Moffats, Care of Baxter Street Hostel”.  She stared at it in silence, too stunned to speak. “To be honest we weren’t sure anyone would come for it.” The man confessed. “Are you ok? Do you want to sit down? Or can I call anyone for you?” “No, you’re alright thank you, my family are just outside”. She smiled weakly at him and bid him good-bye.

She sat back in the car and looked at the expectant faces around her. “Well?” asked Jon. “She’s dead. The guy said she died this afternoon but she left us this.”  Debbie showed them the letter. “No way!” said Mark in disbelief. Dad took the envelope from his daughter, opened it and began to read:

Dear Bob, Mark and Debbie,

You do not know me and I’m sure you have lots of questions. I will not be able to answer them all but let me tell you how many years ago a beautiful young woman saved my life. In those days I was a drinker, that’s how I ended up on the streets in the first place. One day I sat half drunk and shivering with cold on the pavement near Victoria, the rain pouring over me. I held out my hand to beg for money and everyone ignored me. Hundreds of people must have walked straight by and dismissed me for being the worthless wreck of a human being that I was. I didn’t even look up at them anymore, I just sat soaked to the skin with my palm held out for change, thinking how pathetic and desperate I had become and how heartless and unforgiving the world was. I decided that I’d had enough, that I didn’t deserve to live anyway and that I would get up and walk down the rail track until I found a train going fast enough…

 But just at the moment when I’d hit rock bottom I suddenly felt a warm hand in mine and this voice asking if I needed help. When I looked up I saw the kindest face with beautiful brown eyes looking at me, actually seeing me as a human being and not some piece of trash. She smiled at me and helped me up, took me out of the rain to the café on the station. She said her name was…” at this point Dad began stammer and to choke back tears “…her name was Glenys Moffatt”. There was an audible intake of breath from Mark and Dad seemed incapable of speaking so Jon took the letter and continued to read aloud. “She was so nice to me. She paid for my tea and a plate of hot food. She talked to me as if I was a real person. She wasn’t patronising or nosey. When I asked her why she was helping me she said she’d just found out she was dying and wanted to do some good in the world before she went. She said I’d looked as if I had the weight of the world on my shoulders and  that she wanted to show me that there were still some decent people in the world. When I asked her if she was frightened of dying, she said no, but she was sad for her family, for all of you because she wouldn’t be around to look after you and keep you safe. She showed me a photograph of you all and you looked like the loving, happy family that I’d never had.

 When your mother took leave of me she gave me some cash and her umbrella and held my both of hands in hers and told me to take care of myself. I promised her that I would and that I’d look out for you when I could. I vowed to myself that I’d do what I could to protect you. I came from a family of travellers and had inherited a sort of 6th sense from my own mother so that I had a knack of anticipating danger.

 Glenys was a remarkable woman who restored my faith in human nature. I never saw her again after that day  but I thought of her often. I stopped drinking and even lived in a real house every now and again although I never really settled in one place.

 My dogs kept me company and I knew that they’d be useful in my mission to look after you. Bob – I didn’t expect you to keep Henry the First and thought I’d reclaim him from the Dog’s Home but I’m glad he stayed with you in the end and that you looked after him so well. Henry the Second was a livewire and would never have settled in a real house so I kept him with me. As for Henry the Third, well he has had to wait a long time to look after your baby Debbie, but if you could make him cosy and comfortable for the last year or so of his life that’s all I ask.

 I can rest now, knowing that you don’t need me anymore and that I have paid my debt of gratitude for your lovely Mother’s kindness. Bless you all and take care of each other.

 With warmest regards

Pamela O’Reilly

 P.S. Remember to stay off the mulled wine, pate and soft cheese Deborah Moffat!”

All four of them sat in a car, sniffing and wiping their eyes. They looked at each other and smiled through their tears. “Does she mean what I think she means Debbie?” Dad asked. She looked into Jon’s eyes and put a hand on her tummy. “I don’t know… but nothing would surprise me after everything else that has happened”. She had been feeling unusually tired recently and very off colour in the mornings…

Debbie smiled to herself, snow began to fall and Henry the Third woofed from the back seat, wagging his tail. Christmas was coming and this year would be the start of a new era.