The Man Who Greeted Strangers

Ian Cathcart awaited his dandelion and burdock with toasted crumpets outside the café part of Sonning Common’s Herb Farm. He decided that he would say, “Hello” more often. He swept a glance over the August weekend diners consisting mainly of families with very young children. A good amount were on the picnic benches near the terrapin toilets and the potted herbs for sale outside, Ian being sat alone, whilst the conservatory-stroke-small barn interior with its orange tree pot plants had a fair share of chattering clattering folk. Ian Cathcart weighed and considered the dilemma of his decision. He could start with saying, “Hello” to the young person who serves him his dandelion and burdock and toasted crumpets. But it would most likely be a fruitless decision. Said person would not have time and would say very little beyond how fine things are and how busy he was. So Ian drew his attention to the fact that there were other people at the Herb Farm to greet and after all there’s always the maze. Ian Cathcart could get lost in there, wait at the centre and converse with the good users of that combination of foliage and puzzle. No. The centre was too small a waiting spot and couples with little ones holding a map might find the site of a waiting conversationalist a little disconcerting. Maybe even a criminal offence.

A young lad approached him with his order and placed them on the table. Ian began to show his gratitude and added with a “but” that he did not know the waiter’s name to thank him properly. The waiter smiled and said he was Simon. The gentleman he served said that his name was Ian Cathcart and that his last name was? Goldstein, Simon Goldstein. Ian was interested; Simon must be Jewish and was asked if he was such. Simon and Ian began a conversation that was all too soon halted by a call from the counter about Simon’s monotheism and Ian’s atheism. Both wanted to learn from each other and Simon was pleased to have the opportunity to discuss his faith and identity so openly. When alone Ian spread butter onto both crumpets which softened into the pitted areas and dolloped a small splat of strawberry jam onto each. He bit into the first one and sensualised the exquisite combination of the sweet and the savoury. A combination he’d always found agreeable from the days when his mother would Clingfilm wrap a cheese and jam sandwich for his Snoopy and Woodstock lunchbox. The dandelion and burdock drank straight from the bottle gave Ian an electric pleasure with its taste and sensation being akin to stroking the side of a matchbox with one’s tongue. Could anything be more heavenly to this man? Yes, a big woman.

And speaking of big people Ian came across one in the Herb Farm’s shop. A large fellow with tattoos on each arm and a moustache similar to both Mark Twain and Friedrich Nietzsche. He wore a sleeveless denim jacket and browsed round the shop with his wife a woman five foot in height with cropped auburn hair dressed head to foot in denim. Both had large patches consisting of pictures of steam rollers sewn on the back of their jackets. Ian greeted those two strangers and quite soon a chord was struck. That day Friedmann and Andreas Sturt took Ian Cathcart for a ride on their steam driven vehicle that they had brought all the way with them from their home in Germany. The Deutsch husband and wife were going to the Knowl Hill Steam Rally, Ian was invited to come along and he accepted. It was certainly a unique experience for Ian to be at such a large gathering of enthusiasts of heated water. He reckoned that Fred Dibnah would have revelled in such a gathering. Ian soon lamented the death of one of his country’s finest characters. Friedmann and Andreas gave their new English friend leave to explore. So many people to meet. So many people to greet. Ian wanted to know if any had other passions or curious life stories to tell. One chap intrigued him who was twice as large in belly than Friedmann Sturt. Hector Hastings collected posters and programmes, song sheets and long players of entertainment from what Roy Hudd and Ken Dodd might refer to as ‘The Good Old Days’ with a liquorice moustached Master of Ceremonies elucidating with superior alliterative lexicon.

Hector Hastings’s house, as to be expected, was so overcrowded that Ian found that to walk around it took a modicum of effort. Ian wondered how cluttered the place would be if Hector was married or just had anybody special to share his life with. Ian spent a bit of time pondering on Hector’s sexual predilection as he couldn’t work out what it could be. How could Ian be a matchmaker for a music hall aficionado? Did he have the right to be a matchmaker? Returning back to the Herb Farm a few days later Ian discussed the matter with the young Jewish waiter. Simon argued that although he has an atheist Ian by wanting to introduce Hector to the joys of romantic love is akin to the botherers who assume that everybody has a God shaped hole in their life. This reminded Ian that he had a hole in his life when he neglected to type his German friends’ numbers and e-mails on his mobile. Simon patted his customer on the shoulders and sat next to him as Ian drank his latte and ate his carrot cake. There was a light murky drizzle outside so the café had very little customers to be concerned with. Ian had a heavy cloud of depression hovering over him. Later that day he went to the Job Centre to sign on for his unemployment benefit. Attempts to say “hello” to new people were mixed but those who responded favourably were glad of the attention after the loneliness of searching, applying, interviews and rejection. After signing on Ian Cathcart popped to Reading Central Library and looked at the local papers for jobs. He applied for a part time position in a clothing chain store in Henley-on-Thames. That evening in The Butcher’s Arms the landlord asked him how he got his scar. It was a fresh one and very nasty looking. “A stranger.” Replied Ian and at that point a big woman walked through the door.

© 2009 Clinton Morgan