Thom Boat

The Little I Remember

Once, many years ago I knew a seemingly ordinary man. A quiet refined gentleman who somehow appeared many years older than his countenance. His order of dress seemed to be fashionably practiced, although as if washed over like a well-loved photograph. Trousers, uncuffed shirts, a waist coat, and heavy boots always. I imagined his feet hardly visiting the sun in his life.He was of fair modest stature. Slender, with a back as militarily straight as a door. He walked with a cane. Although it was hard to tell if it was out of need or just idealistic habit. His hair was mostly dark with flecks of aged discolouration. And his bright pervasive eyes always sought your attention, even more than his quiet voice which was indistinguishable in accent, apart from its timber and character. Like the sound of the sea edging away from the shore.He lived in a weathered sandstone cottage on the side of a small loch. It was almost invisible, blending into the shale that covered the ground in front of his porch. All the cottage appeared seamless. Windows effortlessly blending into walls, with shutters that clung to the windows as if nothing was holding them there at all.Walking through the dark oak door that greeted you was a room that composed of simple crafted furniture. All of which appeared to be older than him.Nobody remembers him for being there more than a few years. But everybody knew him in the town as Mr. Wilson. Ernest and polite, he spent his time in the village, watching the fishing boats and writing in his journal.One morning he left an ornate handwritten invitation to dinner in the letter box of a local doctor with whom treated him, almost unnecessarily due to his impeccable health. The doctor accepted the invitation and was treated to a home cooked meal of practiced quality at the hand of Mr. Wilson himself. The discourse was pleasant and engaging, but with no depth or explanation as to why the invitation was initiated. Extraordinarily, at the end of the evening, Mr. Wilson took an overworked key from the mantlepiece and opened a looked door just off the dining room. He entered the room and returned with an old wooden box. It was an antique medical kit identifiable with the name Thom Boat inside it. The doctor opened it to find medical equipment and pages of notes dating back to the first world war.Mr. Wilson gently grabbed the doctor's wrist and said, "This my friend, is now yours." The doctor left with the beautiful gift in his hand, never to forget the mysterious evening.Over the next few months, one by one, more and more people from the town received invitations. And left the gentleman's house with extraordinary gifts. A final invitation was sent to a young man who a year earlier had offered Mr. Wilson a ride home as he was walking along the sea road on a drizzly autumn day. The young man arrived at Mr. Wilsons cottage. And when the old man opened the notably small door he found himself inside an empty house with only a dusty bottle of red wine and two glasses on the hearth.He said to the young man "I want to thank you for coming. I was moved by your gesture of kindness in driving me home." The young man brushed off the gesture as not being anything but major importance. As if not hearing the young man, Mr. Wilson continued."it only takes an instance to see someone's quality of character. And in doing so, I have invited you here to give you a gift as a gesture of thanks. Unfortunately, my room of antiques that I'm sure you are aware of is now empty". The young man quickly advised Mr. Wilson that no gift was needed. Once again as if not hearing the young man, Mr. Wilson continued. "so, this" raising his hands to indicate the humble home, "is yours". The young man's eyes became very narrow. And without finding a thank you in his mind, could only say one word. "why?"The old man, biting the side of his lower lip, smiled and said. "because there has to be a better way". And with that, the old man picked up his small leather suit case and cane, shook the young mans hand firmly for almost too long and said. "take care dear boy". he then left. Never to be recognised in the town again.My first memories are of fire and sea. And the marching boots of soldiers. I was born during the machine of war. One that replaced my parents with a stranger who called herself Grace. The first years of my life were spent walking with mostly a scorched crust under foot. Always holding the left hand of my guardian so is to protect me from the roads that always carried carts filled with the dispossessed.Grace always told me that we were walking in the direction of home. She said it was a marvellous place. With the ground cushioning every fall. And the sky was so clear that every star came out to shine. Beauty so wonderous to look upon that you scarcely had strength to loosen your eyes from it.I was mostly blind from my early age. My pale clouded world was sprayed with drops of colour. And lit by the voices of those always moving, running and walking. Talking to Grace mostly, and sometimes to me. I often seemed by all accounts invisible.The rough hand I held had been on the hard end of much labour before it found me. Grace had a soft voice, sometimes hard to hear. I can only assume that my ability to listen was made acute on a lack of sight, so I was grateful for that at least. But it wasn't a natural of volume with which she seemed carried her words. There was caution and urgency in her tone.And for many years it was so. Until the days of when the earth around us quietened down. As we left the sea and stopped walking. It was almost as if the world went to sleep. And then I could hear things. Things that until now in my life had been hidden by the corrupted music of war. The approach of the wind, broken by the trees. The way the sound of a stream would crawl through a valley. The sound of storms as they held the horizon. In the almost complete disappearance of the grounds tension beneath mt shoes.Many days seemed to pass, almost fastened to my guardians hand, until we came upon an old town wedged deep into a valley. Grace told me that although this isn't home, it was time to make peace with our poor feet. So, there we stayed. Grace working in a tavern, and me, fiercely protected from what little of the outside world that existed for me. Once again invisible. It would ne many years before id realise what souvenir invisibility could be. One day Grace got a cough. And the urgency that once escaped her voice found itself imprisoned again. I was old enough to know what was coming. And mature enough to understand that the fear in hear voice was not of dying, but of leaving without preparation for the life that mine lay ahead.On what would be her last day, I woke to find an extraordinary thing. I opened my eyes to find my sight complete and unblemished. As noticeable as the sounds from war to peace. Although with that sight, I did not lack anything physically. I leapt out of bed and found myself at graces side without hardly touching the ground.I sat beside Grace on her bed as gently as I could with all my excitement. I grabbed her hand and placed it mine. She gently awoke and turned her head to see the blanket on my eyes gone. A broken raised smile held the corner of her mouth. And a tear weld in her eye before it found the crease in her face and disappeared into her ear. "I knew it would come" she whispered. "help me to the garden my sweet boy". "My eyes are dim, but yours are now strong". I carried her outside and sat her in the chair we had both poorly made on a better day. Those three legs and a tree stump held her firmly above the ground for what would be the last time. "don't ever think they hate you" she said. "they just don't understand" "understand what grace" I asked "that their jealous" she replied. She sighed as if asking my permission to go. "just a few more minutes please" I asked with urgency. She squeezed my hand like a vice. "can I call you momma?" "only if I can all you son". "momma, how old am I"? "always younger then you think, and older then you look".I laid you to your rest in the rain on the first day of spring under a maple tree. And from then on, that became my birthday.