Old P

(i)

 

Old P paid a visit last night.

You remember Old P - the one I told you about,

the one who disappeared ?

 

He was standing on the pavement

in the middle of my dream

dressed in his big old shorts and scuffed boots.

 

He looked well, all things considered;

his wispy strands of hair

much lighter than I recall.

 

(Perhaps that’s what happens when you get old

and disappear and step beyond

life’s postern gate.)

 

He was ranting about the war

in my dream!

I’m not kidding –

 

ranting and raving, throwing punches

at the air, gurning at the sky,

rage and despair in his eyes.

 

It was a brief, intense visit.

I woke, was unable

to return to my sleep,

 

so just lay awhile, staring into darkness

thinking about how I hadn’t thought about

Old P in years.

 

 

 

(ii)

 

I lived with him (I told you, right ?)

In a shared house. In a cul-de-sac.

In the city of W-. A house built in the 40s,

winged beetles burrowing deep

into the crumbling red brick

   cement.

 

I didn’t tell you ? Well, I was working

a short-term contract. Night work.

Supervising. Machinery and stuff.

Lived there through the week,

went home at weekends.

A housing allowance was included.

(Quite generous, to be fair.)

And so – you know me - I found

the cheapest, ugliest place.

Pocketed the difference.

 

Old P lived in the front room.

He stank. (Did I tell you this ?)

Up at five am. Deaf as a post.

Bang, clatter, wallop in the kitchen.

A mug of tea and a bowl of cheap oats.

Kitty bics for the cats (the ginger one

was his favourite.) Standing on the porch

checking the weather when I got back.

‘Morning’ was about all you’d ever get.

(Old P wasn’t a talker, whether it was

am, pm, daytime or night.) Then he’d go out

pounding the streets, arguing with himself

about god-knows who-knows what.

Punching the air - rant and rave, rant and rave.

What happened ? Why was he so angry ?

Who knows what goes on in an old man’s mind ?

He certainly put in the miles.

Oh yes; Old P- certainly put in the miles.

 

Lunchtime: boiled spuds, cabbage, and gravy.

His falsies swimming in a glass of clouded water.

Ate like it was manna from heaven.

A nib of salt, a Jacob’s cracker (if he was in the mood).

Then another walk – along the river, up the hill,

across the car park, past the cattle market, way way

away, miles and miles from the house, along the dual

carriageway to the nature reserve and beyond.

 

Spaghetti hoops on toast – Old P’s afternoon snack.

The same meals every day. 365 days a year.

No family, no visitors. No friends or acquaintances.

Never showered; always a strip wash. Ran his clothes

through once a month. Watched an old black and white TV.

Read military books from the library; went to church

on Sunday morning (or at least that’s what I was told.)

 

Who’s to judge ? Who’s to cast doubt ? A person’s life

takes many forms. The past exists for a reason.

An ex-con ? Some kind of vet ? Who knew what Old P was ?

(I certainly didn’t.) An enigma living under the same roof,

along with the beetles sleeping in the hollowed out cement.

To the kids outside just a skinny, stinky old man.

To his house mates just a deaf old pain in the ass.  

Once I asked him: Where you from, Old P ?

He smiled. Enfield, he said. Got family there ? I said.

   He didn’t reply.

 

 

 

(iii)

 

What happened, Old P ?

Did the plague take you away ?

Or did you simply pull on

 

those big old shorts, step into

those scuffed old boots

and walk back to Enfield ?

 

Is that why you came ?

Is that why you woke me up ?

To tell me where you are ? Tell me what’s

   to be done ?

 

They dragged the river for you, Old P.

They kept your room as it was.

Each month the rent was paid on time

 

even though you’d disappeared.

I rang the hospital and the police

I asked around and around and around.

 

I had to leave the house, Old P,

when my contract was up. But I knew you’d

come back. Someday. I just knew.