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Coffee
7:33 Fri Dec 25
Re: The Cemetry(sic)
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I once knew a man called Jerry. Short for Jeremiah. Of devout, respectful, working class Irish stock. He was a short, skeletal man. A big nose, a long chin and high, protruding cheek bones gave him a weasel-like appearance. In another life he might have been a jockey.
In his youth, he’d signed up for the British army and served as the military equivalent of kitchen porter in various parts of the world, including India during World War II. Promotion always eluded him, if it was ever sought, and after he was demobbed at the end of the war, he took a series of menial jobs. But a growing fondness for the bottle ensured that these rarely lasted more than a few weeks at best, and Jerry’s life spiralled into alcoholic homelessness.
He reasoned that he could survive on charitable handouts and weekly social security payments. Accommodation was afforded by the open road and, in bad weather, by charitable hostels. When the winter was particularly harsh, he’d commit a minor crime – breaking a shop window then letting off a volley of abuse at the arresting officer came highly recommended. That was rewarded with a short prison sentence. In prison it was warm, you got a bed, three meals a day and a new set of clothes upon release. But no booze. That was the downside. The trick, he grinned, was to ensure that the crime was serious enough for a custodial sentence to see you through the worst of the winter, but not so bad that you’d still be inside when the weather improved.
By 1984, Jerry had spent nearly 40 years as a tramp, schlepping between the occasional jail, off-licences and doss houses the length and breadth of Britain. He’d made friends along the way and a few enemies on whom he wished great wrath – the higher his alcoholic content, the more unholy his wrath. Regular targets included the Pope, a prison officer, an army sergeant and, for reasons he never divulged, Mahatma Gandhi. He knew where to get free handouts. He knew hostels that offered a bed for a few nights, and he knew good places to sleep rough. He particularly liked Liverpool, with honourable nods to Oxford and Norwich.
It was in Oxford one balmy summer evening that he looked for a place to sleep. He found a graveyard beside an old stone church where the grass had just been mown and lay in a large pile to one side. That would make a good blanket, he thought, and he’d always liked the smell of freshly cut grass. Finding a flat space between an old grave and the footpath, he stretched his legs, covered himself from head to foot in grass and eased into an inviting sleep.
He was woken by early morning sunlight that glinted through the grass cuttings and by the chatter of two elderly ladies, the heels of their shoes clicking on the footpath as they approached. Jerry waited until they were level with him, then lifted his head through the grass and asked if they might tell him the time. Surprised by his unexpected ascension from what they had reasonably assumed was a fresh grave, the two ladies squealed and fled.
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