The Silence

It was the day after the end of the world. Occasionally I’d bump into Joe on my way home from work, but he wasn’t in his customary place... outside the station – black and white, Cocker-Cross-Collie in tow. He was sitting on the heath – a short-cut of mine. Against the railings, his weather-worn placard, ‘REPENT YE SINNERS –THE END IS NIGH’ followed by various dates crossed through – except yesterday’s – 13 NOVEMBER, 2003’. He was whittling a scrap of wood – didn’t notice me till I tapped him on the shoulder. “The human race survived then, Joe?” I quipped. “I was expecting the four horsemen of the apocalypse, but they never showed; lost, maybe. Mind you, you’d think, nowadays, they’d have sat-nav; only a joke, Joe. Say – you OK? You look bushed.” “Still getting over yesterday; don’t remember too much about it... except I couldn’t sleep. The old engine shed at Dinton... by the cutting; lovely building, in its day. Steam trains; a great era – rusting light fittings still hanging from its ceiling. It’s warm in there, and my Jess’s favourite haunt; she’d meet her ‘boyfriend’, sometimes, for a spot of ‘canoodling’; a Cocker-Cross-Poodle, he is. Told her, “Jess – girl...a blessing you’ve been ‘done’.” Except...puppies would’ve been nice, if I could have kept ‘em, that is.” “I know the old engine shed, Joe. Live close by; pity they closed that station. Bloody Beeching!” “Too right. Anyway, I stayed there all night; ghosts to lay. Waiting...hoping, then I found myself here...trying to make sense of things. You know how it is?” “Sure, Joe. At least the world didn’t end.” “A matter of opinion, perhaps. Mine did.” “Not sure I get your drift, Joe? You saying you don’t believe in all this ‘mumbo-jumbo’ stuff you preach. A bit of an act, is it?” ‘“All the world’s a stage...’ didn’t Shakespeare say? And he weren’t far wrong. Fog’s closing in. Best be off.” I hit the road, too, after phoning home. “It’s me. I’ll be about twenty minutes. Was going to ask for a lift, but you’re obviously not in yet. See you soon. I’m starving!” How different things look in fog; the familiar strange, and the strange – familiar. By now, I could just make out the lights of Dinton, and then...just short of the old engine shed I spotted someone with a torch. ‘Joe...Joe! Is that you?” I called, but whoever it was didn’t answer. Then I saw Joe’s placard against the wall; at its foot a freshly dug mound of earth topped by a small wooden cross with the words, ‘JESS – 25th JULY, 1993 – 13th NOVEMBER 2003. ALWAYS MY EARS, SOMETIMES MY EYES – EVER MY FRIEND.’ Entwined around it – a lead with a brown, leather collar – brass disc attached, ‘HEARING DOG, JESS...’ plus a phone number. Don’t ask me how I’d never twigged Joe’s profound deafness; too blind to see it I guess. Nor why, years later, I can’t forget the sound of that inter-city’s horn, or the screech of brakes...or, the silence.