There is nothing better, on a grey, wet and windy Saturday morning, than a nice cup of tea, toast and marmalade, and the Guardian cryptic crossword: robust mental exercise to set the tone for one's day.
Bastard red-haired Dutch sailor, all of twelve inches, all of them (8)
The length of a ruler is twelve inches, ‘all of them’ would be rulers. The previous words are descriptives of kings of England. The Conqueror was also known as the Bastard. His son and heir was called Rufus. In the seventeenth century, Parliament invited a member of the Netherlands royal family to occupy the throne, along with his Anglo-Scottish Stuart wife, Mary. And the brother and heir of the last of the four German Georges had served in the Royal Navy.
They were all WILLIAMS (eight letters).
That was satisfying, one might almost say thrilling.
Yes, my life is full of thrills. Five days a week, at exactly eight o'clock in the morning, I take a brisk walk from my cosy little flat in Victoria Park to my place of work, the Manchester Central Library. I return in similar fashion at five in the afternoon. I have been fortunate in avoiding the evening shift, which often involves dealing with reprobates and layabouts. That is what I am told anyway.
If you have ever been to the library, you will know that it has a truly surprising feature. Situated under a domed roof, and completely circular, any small sound reverberates around the cavernous reading room. There are those, I am sure, that deliberately slam down their books, pencil cases or rulers, just to see the effect of the echo on other users. Actually, when I know that no one is watching, I have done this myself. Please do not let on.
There are a couple of tramps squatting in a derelict building along my route. They seem to exist solely on kaolin and morphine, which is all I have ever seen them ingest. Once or twice a week I have to hop swiftly off of the pavement, as they sway out of their lair in search of money to fund their further intoxication. Spotting the early warning signs of this activity, and then dodging any incoming traffic, have been rather amusing exercises: mental and physical combined.
Going on foot saves me the bus fare of six pence each way, or sixty over the course of the week, enough to afford my guilty pleasure each Saturday. I make the hazardous journey into the heart of Moss Side, rumoured to be a hotbed of violence and crime, to Everton’s Friery for a fiery beef patty and scallops; battered fried potatoes I mean, not the snooty seafood, in case you were wondering. Along with a little lettuce and tomato, from the Spar supermarket, and a glass or two of Harvey's Bristol Cream sherry, what a feast!
I have given thought to potential alternatives, such as a trip in the opposite direction for a half chicken biryani at the Plaza Cafe. Variety, some say, is the spice of life. But it is not for me. Predictability provides peace. That is my creed.
And Everton's surname is Williams. Some would call that a coincidence. I call it kismet.
There came a point though where my weekly tryst with peril almost came to a crashing halt. There was more than one reason, but they all had a common thread. To explore them, we shall need to go back a few months to the summer, when, as usual, I was in no position even to think about going for a holiday.
As you will already have remarked, I am not averse to the odd scare. At the same time, I am quite meticulous in my preparedness for the unexpected. I seem to have developed a sort of 360 degree vision, so that, when I spot a danger sign, I can smartly cross the road, or sometimes skip down an alleyway to an adjoining street. It was thus quite a surprise when, one Saturday evening on my way to Everton's, still in full daylight, I was suddenly confronted by a young man with a stiletto. He was after my money, all of it, but I wanted to retain at least sufficient to pay for my supper.
I think he was quite taken aback that his victim insisted on negotiation. I was probably aided by some residual gentlemanly instincts that held him back from employing the blade in support of his cause. The thing is that, by allowing our conversation to go on for as long as it did, he sort of brought about his own undoing. A saviour appeared on the scene. It was Everton's son on his way back from a cricket match he had been taking part in, all in white, with a big kit bag that played a prominent role in my rescue. I did buy him a new one.
Of course, then we went together to his father's chippy. He wanted to walk me back home, but I would not have it. I could still look after myself. Well, mostly.
But he must have followed me home, because the next Saturday, and those that ensued, he would suddenly appear, just as I was crossing Wilmslow Road and making my entry into Moss Side. I had acquired a bodyguard. Like that time when he had rescued me from the rather incompetent robber, I insisted initially on returning alone to my flat. He was though so persistent, and charming in his own way, that eventually I relented, and we came home together, with two identical orders wrapped up in last week's newspaper.
I am not a talker. I like to read, listen to the radio, think, and – you know – do crosswords. Also, when I am out, I amuse myself, flirting with all the little perils you can find on a Manchester street, some of which I have already introduced to you.
He could talk the hind leg off of a donkey. I had learned practically his entire life story in the course of four walks to and from the chippy. His mother and father had both come from Jamaica on the same ship, the MV Windrush, though they did not know each other till they met by chance later, at a dance. He himself was a local lad from birth, a big supporter of Manchester United, though he had to keep that quiet. Moss Side is City turf, at least it was then.
Little by little, a new ritual emerged. I was no longer permitted to perform my solitary peregrination through the perilous streets of Moss Side. And my Saturday night suppers were now communal, in the sense that I ceased to eat alone.
I had thought we were two very different people. I was a graduate with a steady job as an assistant librarian. He was still engaged in ‘A’ levels at the local comprehensive school. I loved word games, whilst he was active in sports. Then, of course, there was the fact of our divergent backgrounds. Funny really, in a sense. He was the northwest native, whilst I had come from down south. He conversed in the patois of the region; my accent was completely foreign. Yet still, he was considered the alien in Manchester society. I am sure I do not need to tell you why.
Still, we did have some interests in common. During one of the rare lulls in his persistent monologues, I asked him what he liked in the way of literature. Imagine my surprise, when he admitted that his favourite fictional character was Inspector Fatima Dieng. The stories about that West Country policewoman, who later became a detective in a city very much like Manchester, were also among my own preferred reads.
Over time, our relationship evolved into something I would characterise as extremely comfortable. The very memory of those nights spent in no one's company but my own began to recede. I could not imagine any other way of being than with my new friend, at least on a Saturday.
I hope that I do not need to emphasise that there was never anything unsuitable or inappropriate going on during our weekly communions, though I got the impression that he would not have minded. Yes, he was over sixteen and, therefore, of legal age, but as far as I was concerned he was still a child. Also, personally I am not given to that sort of thing.
All right then, so what did happen? It is quite simple really. Clever lad that he is, when the time came, he got himself a place at University College in London, and off he went. After he got his ‘A’ level results, confirming that he had met the entry requirements, we went a bit mad and had a slap-up meal together at a Greek place not far from my library. They let you bring your own wine. He said he would never forget me, and he would be back to visit as soon as he got a couple days free, which would be at the half-term break in six weeks’ time. I said, yes, right, that will be lovely.
At the end of the dinner, as we were leaving the restaurant, I gave him a big hug, and he planted a sloppy kiss right on my lips. That was a bit embarrassing.
I have seen him again. Once or twice a year, he might be hanging around his father's chippy, when I pass by for my Saturday feast. Still a creature of habit, me. But we do not talk, except for me to ask how he is doing, and for him to assure me that he is fine.
I am back to walking alone, relishing the thrill that I get when I see some movement in the shadows. I have even taken to going straight at the tramps on my daily journey to and from work, dodging them right at the last minute.
Otherwise, everything is the same, even if it is not.
Well, back to the crossword.
An edict on an Italian city, no period specified we hear, for the original Arabist (8)
Edict is law. The Italian city would be Florence. We deduct flo, heard from flow, synonym for a woman’s period. And we get LAWRENCE (eight letters), you know, T.E., of Arabia.
That was his name: Lawrence Williams.
