Many years ago, Indian braves would go away in solitude to prepare for manhood. One young Indian hiked into a beautiful valley, green with trees, bright with flowers. There, as he looked up at the surrounding mountains, he noticed one rugged peak, capped with snow.

"I will test myself against that mountain" he thought. So he put on his buffalo-hide shirt, threw his blanket over his shoulders and set off to climb the pinnacle.

When he reached the top, he stood on the rim of the world and there he could see forever, and his heart swelled with pride. Then he heard a rustle at his feet. Looking down, he saw a snake, and before he could move the snake spoke.

"I am about to die" said the snake. "It is far too cold for me. Please put me under your shirt and take me down to the valley"

"No," said the youth, "I know your kind. You are a rattlesnake and if I pick you up you will bite and your bite will kill me"

"Not so," said the snake. "I will treat you differently. If you do this for me, I will not harm you."

The youth resisted for quite some time but the snake was very persuasive. And so at last the youth tucked the snake under his shirt and carried it down to the valley.

There he laid it down gently in the grass. Suddenly, the snake coiled, leapt, and bit the young brave deep in the calf of his leg.

The boy spun as pain shot up his leg, cold chills ran down his back and the blood drained from his head.

"But you promised," cried the youth.

The snake stopped in his path, looked back at the
boy and in a cold voice said,
"You knew what I was when you picked me up!"

(One is too many, and a thousand is never enough!)

PERHAPS the strangest story told in the Cotswolds concerns `The Campden Wonder', writes Mathew Martin.

Set in the turbulent aftermath of Cromwell's puritan regime, it combines such fantastical elements as witchcraft, piracy, espionage, slavery and murder. However, the tale of the Campden Wonder is not a cider house yarn, but an actual historical enigma.

The story relates the strange disappearance and return of William Harrison, a faithful retainer of the dowager Lady Campden.

Mr Harrison was a man of some 70 years who was respected and liked throughout the community despite his role as the estate's rent collector. It was with this routine task in mind that he set off on the afternoon of Thursday, August 16, 1660, for the two-mile walk to Charingworth.

When by dusk he had failed to return, his wife sent their servant John Perry to look for him. He too did not come back. The next morning Harrison's son Edward joined the search. He met Perry returning from Charingworth and together they called at Ebrington. Here they discovered Harrison's comb and collar, mangled and bloody, lying in the road.

The immediate conclusion was that Harrison had been murdered for the money he was carrying and John Perry was called before magistrates.

Perry convinced everybody of his guilt. He constantly changed his story and his explanations became ever more fantastical. Eventually he implicated his mother and brother in the alleged crime and they too were arrested. After more than a year in jail all three were executed - accusing one another and professing their personal innocence to the end. It seemed that the town had rid itself of a thoroughly unpleasant and murderous family. Furthermore, the mother Joan Perry had long been suspected of witchcraft.

Campden life returned to quiet normality until two years later, on August 6, 1662, a remarkable event occurred. William Harrison walked back into town. With him he brought a remarkable story that he related to Sir Thomas Overbury, a local magistrate.

Harrison told how he was overpowered by three men who bundled him up and carried him off into the night. They took him to the town of Deal where they negotiated with a mysterious stranger.

Here, Harrison reported, he was sold to slave traders and eventually became the property of an ancient physician in the Turkish town of Smyrna. When the doctor died, Harrison escaped and, stowing away on a ship bound to Lisbon, worked his way back to the Cotswolds.

Many solutions have been put forward to explain the Campden Wonder. Harrison would have had little value as a slave so it is impossible to understand why he would have been abducted and carried so far. The contradictory confessions of the Perry family are also something of a conundrum.

Many possible explanations have been put forward in a wealth of plays, pamphlets, poems and novels.

Some speculate that Harrison was the restoration's answer to James Bond off on some foreign mission or escaping old enemies. Others suggest that he believed himself bewitched by Mrs Perry and so went to elaborate lengths to rid himself of her curse.

Given the importance of the unknown realm of the supernatural, and the unseen world of political intrigue at this time, both of these explanations are possible. Perhaps the most straightforward theory rests on the fact that Harrison's son Edward was known to be bullying, ambitious and ruthless. He could have arranged his father's disappearance to get his hands on his inheritance.

Whatever the truth of the Campden Wonder, it remains one of the most fascinating of all historical enigmas.

Room at the Table

Have you ever noticed that dining room tables seat six, eight, or twelve; not seven, nine, or thirteen? I've been single all my life, usually not thinking much of it. But on holidays, even the place settings conspire against me, rendering a silent rebuke against my single status.

You can endure holiday dinners two ways if you're single: 1.) Bring someone you don't particularly care for and 2.) Hear the awful words "pull up an extra seat," a euphemism for either a collapsible chair or one that is too high or too low for the table. Either strategy leaves you uncomfortable.

At Thanksgiving two years ago, while my calves cramped from straddling the leg of my brother's dining room table, Aunt Nell took the opportunity to ask for details about my love life, which was seriously lacking at the time. The event was excruciating.

Though I enjoy singlehood in the main, there have been times when I've worked myself into a mad frenzy looking for someone to fill a void I thought I couldn't satisfy on my own. Someone, anyone with a pulse would do. Over the years, I dated quite a few guys I liked. I was even engaged once, but "till death do we part" seemed like a very long time. I always ended up alone again.

So holidays, especially with the Aunt Nells of the family, can weaken my confidence, leaving me a little bereft. One day, noting my frustration surrounding the holidays, a friend of mine suggested we try something different on the next such occasion.

"How about you and I go down to a homeless shelter and help out? Then maybe we'll be grateful for what we have," she proposed. I had a thousand reasons why this wasn't a good idea, but my friend persisted. The next Christmas, I found myself in an old downtown warehouse, doling out food. Never in my life had I seen so many turkeys and rows of pumpkin pies. Decorations donated by a nearby grocery store created a festive atmosphere that uplifted even my reluctant spirit. When everyone was fed, I took a tray and filled a plate with the bountiful harvest. After a few bites, I knew what everyone was carrying on about; the food was really good.

My dinner companions were easy company. Nobody asked me why I didn't have a date or when I was going to settle down. People just seemed grateful for a place to sit and enjoy a special dinner. To my surprise, I found I had much in common with my fellow diners. They were people just like me.

My experience that Christmas brought me back to the shelter the following year. I enjoyed helping others so much that I began seeking more opportunities to serve. I started volunteering for the Literacy Foundation once a week. I figured I could sit in front of the TV, or I could use those evening hours to help others learn to read.

Caring for others has abundantly filled the void in my life that I had sometimes interpreted as a missing mate. When I stopped trying so hard to fit in, I realized I was single for a reason and found my own special purpose.

There is room at the table for a party of one. And sometimes "just one" is the perfect fit.

--Unknown

A Man of Letters

By David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited. The copyright remains the property of the author

"Would you please stop chattering, Margaret?" Anthony requested, with just the right edge to his voice to ensure immediate compliance.

"Sorry, Mr. Thomas."

"Now I think you all know that apart from Prize Day we won't be seeing each other again after this session. We have talked about revision technique and examination technique and I have discussed your course work with you both individually and as a group. If there is anything that you are still uncertain about this is the very last chance we are going to have to talk about it. So I want you to consider very carefully everything I have told you, and if there is anything, absolutely anything, that isn't completely clear to you, speak up now."

He ran his eyes along the arc of young female faces, the different coloured eye-shadows, the occasional garishly painted lips, the scattering of aggressive spiky hairstyles, Margaret's dangling blue earrings which were against the school rules, Zoe's equally illicit nose-jewel which made him want to scratch his own nose every time he looked at it. Girls poised impatiently on the threshold of womanhood. There was only one face with which he could not bring himself to make eye-contact: the least threatening face of all, at the furthest right-hand end of the arc, half hidden behind long straight cascades of shining black hair, big brown eyes slightly downcast, chin resting on her clasped hands, exercise book open and held flat on the desk between her two slender bare elbows.

A few moments passed in silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her put her arms down on the desk and lift her head to look at him. He shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

"Very well then. I just want to say that there is absolutely no reason why every single one of you shouldn't pass and pass well. You have been an outstanding group and I have greatly enjoyed teaching you over the last two years. Some of you of course I've taught for much longer than that. I want to wish you the very best of luck in the exam, and in whatever comes after. University for most of you I'm certain, but remember that there are other things in life besides study, and there is no disgrace in working for a living." He hesitated. "I know you can't wait to be grown up and out there running your own lives. One word of advice. Don't rush it. Take your time. Look around you and try to learn from other people's mistakes. And don't stop reading just because you've stopped studying English Literature. Don't settle for living in a single world when you can live in a thousand."

There was no reaction. Maybe his little sermons were becoming trite.

"Very well. There are five minutes to go before the end of the period. You have a study period next. I suggest you go now and you'll be at the front of the queue in the reference library."

He wondered if any of them would say anything, if they would thank him or give him a signed card. It happened some years, in the final session. This time, it didn't. They collected their books and started to file out of the room, chattering as usual. "Oh, Ruth, could you stay behind for a moment please?" He said it as casually as he could as she rose to her feet, but Margaret seemed to sense something and hesitated at the door. "A few things about your course work," he added as Ruth made her way to his desk. He kept his gaze fixed on Margaret as he spoke, making sure that she continued out of the room and shut the door behind her.

Ruth stood in front of him and looked down uncomfortably, breathing fast, he noticed. He felt a wave of tenderness go through his body.

"It's all right, Ruth," he said gently, "I got your note and I'm very flattered. You don't need to be embarrassed about it. It's a brave and sensible thing to tell people what you feel. You haven't done anything wrong. I want you to be able to talk to me honestly like that. There is nothing for you to feel guilty or uncomfortable about."

"I love you, Mr. Thomas," she whispered without looking up.

"Oh God...!" The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. It's just that, well... you must know that you've put me in a very awkward position. That's the most dangerous thing that a school student could possibly say to her teacher. You know how sensitive this kind of thing is, how easy it would be for it to reach the wrong ears. I could lose my job, and my whole career, come to that. This kind of thing is dynamite. Pure dynamite. You can't help how you feel but... well, it just isn't appropriate. You know that, don't you?"

"I won't be your student any more after today. I'll just be... somebody you know..."

Margaret's head suddenly reappeared behind the glass upper panel of the door. He glared in her direction and she went away.

"Ruth, we need to talk and it can't be here. Do you have to go straight home after school today?"

"No."

"There's a cafe at the corner of Wilmer Street, where it meets the High Road..."

ooOOoo

Anthony appeared in his long dark overcoat, carrying his bulging briefcase and smiled sheepishly in Ruth's direction. "You got here before me, I see," he greeted her uncomfortably. She nodded. "Could we sit over there?" He motioned towards a secluded table with bench seating. "You haven't ordered anything yet, have you?" She shook her head and picked up her satchel. They made their way to the chosen table, her hand brushing against his as they walked, sending a shudder through his body. They sat alongside one another on the padded bench, Ruth next the wall and almost hidden by his greater bulk. A lurking waitress monitored their movements and followed them to the table. "A cappuccino for me," he said brightly, "and you have whatever you like, Ruth. My treat."

"The same..."

"Are you sure you wouldn't like one of those cream buns they have in the window as well?" he urged with a smile.

"Oh... all right then." She gave him the prettiest smile she had ever given him. He felt a bead of sweat come to his forehead. The waitress nodded and withdrew.

"You're going to tell me I'm a silly kid, aren't you? That it could never work out?" Her smile faded as she waited apprehensively for his reply.

"Do you know how old I am, Ruth? I'm forty-one. You've passed your GCSE maths. How many years are there between us?"

"It doesn't make any difference. I don't care. I don't care about anything else except... being with you."

"Oh Ruth! This is so painful for both of us. Look, what you're going through is perfectly normal and healthy. Everybody has a need for love... for... intimate relationships. And it takes each of us a long time - decades, even - to find the right person. Some of us never find that person. We think we have, many times perhaps, and each time that we get it wrong it's extremely painful, not only for ourselves but for the other person as well, because it's not their fault that they're wrong for us. That's what being a young adult is all about. It's what three quarters of literature is all about. Perfectly decent and well-meaning people hurting one another because they're not right for each other. It's something you're going to go through again and again. Something everyone goes through. I can't protect you from it. All I can do is save you from this one particular mistake. Because it is a mistake. Nobody in their right mind would countenance what you're proposing. It's a total impossibility. I'm sorry but it is."

He wasn't sure if she was taking it well or not. She looked him straight in the eye and her chin began to tremble slightly. Her face was very pretty, he found himself thinking, not for the first time. Delicate, regular features. High cheek-bones, the perfect even white teeth of the fluoride generation, dark brown eyes slanted into the hint of a V, as though she might have a trace of Oriental blood in her distant ancestry. What she said next surprised him. It came as a blow beneath the belt. "Have you found the right person?"

Slightly flustered, he stumbled over the words. "I'm a married man. You know that."

"That wasn't what I asked you."

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waitress approach with a tray. It gave him a little thinking time, an excuse to sit for a few moments in silence. His thoughts darted back to his own student days, to furtive kisses on the stairway outside somebody's room in the Halls of Residence, fumblings in the back seats of taxis and other people's cars, tearful goodbyes on the platform as the train taking him home was about to leave, promises of eternal love. The waitress delivered the coffees and the cream bun, seemed to glance disapprovingly in his direction, and left. He tasted his coffee.

"Ruth, you've been totally open and honest with me, so I'm not going to lie to you. What Marcia and I have now is no longer a marriage. Or any other kind of relationship. We live in the same house, that's all. We're polite to one another, we keep out of each other's way, avoid conflict. I can't remember the last time we had a serious conversation. We just co-exist. So, no, I haven't found the right person, and I've given up imagining that I might."

"That's very sad." Ruth took a delicate bite from her bun. "Why did you marry her? Did you love her once?"

"You know I can't believe that I'm sitting here telling you all this. I must be insane." He hesitated. "The truth is, I don't ever remember being in love with Marcia. Or asking her to marry me either. She was the daughter of my mother's best friend. When I was little my mother and her mother used to share looking after the children. They used to take it in turns for one of them to have both of us so that each of them could work a few days each week. Yes, that's something we have in common, you and I. We were both brought up by single-parent mothers. My Father left when I was five, I don't really remember him. Anyway, Marcia and I spent half our lives together when we were little and as we grew up it just became assumed, somehow, that we would marry. Our mothers were booking a church for the wedding and a hotel for the reception before it had really sunk in that we were engaged."

"Why did you go along with it if it wasn't what you wanted?"

He sighed. "That's not an easy question. My mother had a very powerful personality... and I didn't really know what I wanted back then. I'd just come out of a very unhappy love affair with somebody at the University... the first real girlfriend I'd ever had... and I needed somebody... or something. A shoulder to cry on, maybe. And Marcia was there. An easy option."

"Do you like easy options?" she asked, taking another bite of her bun.

He smiled. "I think you're laughing at me now." She shook her head to avoid talking with her mouth full. "If you're thinking that you're an easy option, you couldn't be more wrong. Can you imagine how people would react if I told them that you and I... were an item, so to speak?"

"I don't care what people think. Only what you think. Would you be ashamed of me?"

"Ashamed of you! Good God no! No man in his right mind could be ashamed of a girlfriend like you. You're beautiful, young, intelligent... and you've even got a sweet personality. You've got everything that life has to offer. The world is at your feet. Any sane man would give his right arm to have a girlfriend like you..."

"Aren't you any sane man? I don't want you to reject me, Mr. Thomas. I'll do anything to make you happy. I just want to be with you. I don't care what anybody thinks. I don't care about marriage, or sex for that matter. I just want to be yours - completely. I want to go to sleep in your arms every night and wake up in your arms every morning."

"Impossible. I shuffle about too much in my sleep."

She smiled. "I mean it, Mr. Thomas. I want to make a home for you. I want to be there for you always. I want you... to love me. Or if you can't... well, just let me love you. That will be enough."

Against his better judgement he put his right arm around her shoulder and drew her towards him. He kissed her gently on the forehead before she could get to his lips.

"Ruth, that's the most beautiful thing anybody has ever said to me. I want to thank you for that, no matter what else happens." He looked down at her eager, serious young face and slender perfect body and felt a shudder of sheer animal attraction pass down his spine. The angels must envy me at this moment, he thought, as she nestled her head into his shoulder. "Ruth, I don't know what made me do that," he heard himself almost plead. "This is wrong. Very, very wrong. I can't believe that I've let myself get into this position. You realize that if somebody sees me now and recognizes me I'm not a teacher any more. I won't have a career, or a marriage..."

"You'll have me, Mr. Thomas."

"That's another thing. Could you please, for God's sake, stop calling me Mr. Thomas?"

"What should I call you?"

"Anthony."

"Not Tony?"

"If you like. Nobody calls me Tony but you can if you want to." He paused, felt her relax into his embrace, saw her raise her hand to touch his cheek. He sensed his control slipping away, something stronger than common sense nudging his reason to one side. "You're very lovely," he whispered, almost directly into her ear, "and more tempting than you can possibly know, but this isn't real, Ruth. I know perfectly well what's going on even if you don't. What you see in me has nothing to do with lovers... and boyfriends. What you see in me has to do with parents and children. With the father, the kind loving father that you never had..."

"I had him for a little while. Maybe you're right. What difference does it make? I don't care why I feel this way, just that I do. Why does it matter so much what people think?"

"It's not just people and what they'll think. This thing is doomed, Ruth. It wouldn't last - couldn't last. You would discover all my faults and weaknesses and... how I'm just not the person you think I am. You might even end up hating me..."

"No, that much I can promise you. I'm never going to hate you."

"But Ruth, you don't know..."

She silenced him with a fleeting, butterfly kiss on the lips. He stiffened with the thought that someone might have seen. "I wish you wouldn't be so scared," she entreated, "we're not doing any harm, are we? We're not hurting anybody."

"Well, no, but that isn't how the world would see it. There are certain expectations of a teacher... rules, both written and unwritten..."

"Here's what I think of your rules." She held him tighter and planted a kiss firmly on his lips. "Maybe you're right that it won't last. Nothing lasts for ever. People don't last for ever. What if we just get a year, or even a month, of the most perfect happiness that two people can ever have? Isn't that something worth going for?"

"You're incredibly persuasive. In fact you're just incredible. I had you down as such a shy, retiring little thing. I could have imagined this of Zoe, or Margaret, but you..."

She smiled. "I don't think you're their type. I am shy. I almost died when I told you I loved you today. Writing the note wasn't so bad, but saying it right out was the most difficult thing I've ever done in my life."

"And yet... you managed to do it..."

"I might never have seen you again. I had to say something or my last chance was gone. This doesn't have to be a fantasy, Tony. We can do it. In a few months I'll be eighteen, my mother can't do anything to stop me then. We can go away together, somewhere far away. Somewhere like Africa or China or South America. You can be a teacher... you can teach English as a Foreign Language. We can live by the seaside in a little wooden house and swim every day, and write poetry. We can have animals in the garden, like monkeys and parrots, and catch fish for dinner. There's nothing we can't do if we want to. You know William Blake a lot better than I do. What did he say about the "mind-forged manacles"?

He almost laughed at her enthusiasm. "What about your place in University?"

"Lots of people take a gap year."

He shook his head in disbelief at his own naivety. "And what would we do between now and when you're eighteen?"

"We could meet up secretly. I could be your mistress."

The word "mistress" brought him crashing back to reality. "Ruth, sweetheart, if we tried to do something like this they would crucify us. I don't know exactly how, but believe me it would happen. People don't get away with the kind of thing you're proposing. Trust me, I've lived in the world long enough to know."

"What was it you said to us today, Tony? Don't settle for living in a single world when you can live in a thousand. You've taught English Literature for loads of years. You know that there is more than one possibility, that people have choices. Make a new choice, Tony. Please. Take a chance on another kind of life."

"My God, I didn't think anybody was listening to that. You're cleverer than me as well as everything else. I can't even win this argument! You're the most amazing person I've ever met..."

"And you're the most amazing person I've ever met, so we're even. Do you want to know when I fell in love with you? The exact moment?"

"Go on."

"When you told us about William Blake. You almost cried when you read some of those poems. Did you realize?"

"Well, no, I didn't think it was so obvious. I love Blake's work though. I did a dissertation on his early poetry when I was a student..."

"They're all about rules, and how they make people miserable. Didn't you notice that?" She looked him straight in the eye as she quoted:

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this chapel were shut,
And Thou shalt not writ over the door,
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore.

She stopped and he finished the quote for her automatically, like a man in a trance:

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds
And binding with briars, my joys and desires.

"It was my favourite poem," he finished hoarsely, "always my absolute favourite. How did you know?"

"Because it was the one that made you cry. The one that hit home for you. That told you things you couldn't bear to hear."

As he sat, silenced and motionless, she finished her bun and drank down the last of her coffee.

"I've told you everything that I came here to tell you," she finished quietly and with total self-assurance, "it's for you to decide what to do next. I'm going to be in the churchyard of St. Leonard's early on Sunday morning. My father is buried there. It's my Garden of Love, you see. If you want me, I'll be there for you. I'll wait until the people start arriving for the service."

He nodded and stood up automatically to let her leave. She kissed him once more fleetingly on the lips as she passed him by, and was gone. He sat down again, his face drained of colour, and stared into his coffee cup.

ooOOoo

The first misty light of morning over the churchyard of St. Leonard's revealed Ruth's slim form seated on a low stone border that circled a grave that was a mass of red and white roses. Anthony in his long dark overcoat walked up silently behind her and sat by her side. She did not look around.

"You're here before me again," he said quietly, "and I thought I had got up so early."

"I've been here all night," she replied, equally quietly.

“Your father’s grave?”

She nodded.

There was a pause but neither looked at the other. "I'm frightened, Tony," she whispered. He put his arm gently around her waist.

"You think you're frightened. How do you think I feel?" She looked at him at last and he saw the agony of anticipation in her eyes. He gently wiped a tear from her cheek. "I've got a new quotation for you:

Children of the future Age,
Reading this indignant page;
Know that in a former time
Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.

They turned and held one another awkwardly but for the first time free of all inhibition. "Now I've got to find a crash course in Teaching English as a Foreign Language," he whispered as her body stopped trembling and she relaxed totally into his embrace.

The Lodger

By David Gardiner

This story may be reproduced in whole or in part for any non-commercial purpose provided that authorship is acknowledged and credited. The copyright remains the property of the author

I met Mrs. Ellwood in the hallway this morning. She opened her door just as I was stooping down to pick up the letters from the mat. I’m sure she did it deliberately. Mrs. Ellwood is a very nosey woman.

“Oh, good morning Mr. Ludwig,” she said, all bright and cheerful, “are you feeling well this morning?”

A strange question to ask that, when you think about it. A very revealing question. Why shouldn’t I be feeling well? Did I ever say I was ill? Of course not. The reason she says: “are you feeling well?” is that she makes assumptions. They all make assumptions. Because I don’t go out at the same time they do, because they don’t see me leaving in the morning, or coming back in the evening, because I don’t have visitors, they assume that I’m ill. That there’s something wrong with me. They have no right to make assumptions like that. The way I live my life is my own business. If I want to stay in, I stay in. If I don’t want people up in my room, messing around with my things, then I don’t have them up there. My business, you see. Nothing to do with Mrs. Ellwood. Nothing to do with any of them.

I didn’t say anything to Mrs. Ellwood. Just handed her her letters. Why should I answer questions based on assumptions that she has no right to make? They were all for her except one. The one that wasn’t was for Mrs. Creighton, the landlady. It was just an invitation to apply for some sort of credit card. If I wanted to I could make assumptions about Mrs. Ellwood based on the number of letters she gets every day. I could assume that she’s a blackmailer, or an agony aunt for a women’s magazine, or a compulsive answerer of lonely heart adverts. But I don’t assume anything like that because I don’t have the right. I don’t know anything about Mrs. Ellwood’s life and she doesn’t know anything about mine. That’s the way I like it.

My room is the smallest one in the house but it has the best view. Mr. Stephen’s room has a front window as well but there’s a big conifer directly outside it so I don’t think he can see very much. I can see right down the road in one direction. Not so far the other way because of the same conifer. I suppose Mr. Stephens should ask Mrs. Creighton to have it cut down. I don’t think she would though. Her window is at the back, downstairs. It doesn’t make any difference to her. Anyhow Mr. Stephens is hardly ever in his room. He just comes back to sleep in the late evening. You can tell when he’s there because he turns on his radio. He listens to the news, mostly, and classical music. He keeps the volume low, all I can hear is a kind of faint rumbling through the wall.

I’m glad that my room is small. I don’t like big spaces. My room at Roundways was small as well, and it had a good view from the window. Better than this one. Fields, and trees, and a little stream winding through a valley. Of course the bars spoiled it a bit.

I can cook in my own room here. I have a little electric hob and a sink to do the dishes and an electric kettle and sharp knives and everything. They didn’t let me have anything like that at Roundways.

Mrs Creighton has a daughter who visits her every now and then. I think she must live quite far away because she doesn’t come very often, and when she does she always stays for a few days. Mrs. Creighton’s daughter has long straight brown hair, down to her shoulders, and she wears low-cut dresses and short skirts. She’s a lot thinner than her mother. Her neck is fine and delicate, like the spout of a fine china teapot. I could snap that neck with one hand, in the blink of an eye if I wanted to. I wouldn’t want to of course. Why would I want to do a thing like that? She wears those white trainers, like all young people seem to nowadays. They don’t go with the skirts. Somebody should tell her.

I prefer to go out late at night, when there aren’t very many people around. Spaces don’t look so big at night. The scale of the world becomes more comfortable. I leave the house very quietly. I know which steps and floorboards creak and I don’t walk on them. I open the front door very quietly. I oiled the hinges of the front door myself. I’m a very considerate person. I walk to the all-night supermarket on the dual carriageway if I need any groceries. I can get there in about half an hour, if I’m in a hurry, but I’m not usually in a hurry. I just take my time and enjoy the walk, make a little detour into the park, perhaps, or down the alleyway behind the flats on Leeson Street. It’s hard to get away from the street lights in a big city like this, but I’ve found a few places where you can. You would be surprised what goes on in a big city, in very dark places, very late at night.

Mrs. Creighton asked me if I was happy here a few mornings ago. I told her I was very happy. She seemed almost... disappointed. Maybe she doesn’t like my being here. Maybe she would like me to leave. But that doesn’t make any sense. My rent is paid monthly without fail by the Social Services. I don’t smoke or drink or make noise or have strangers in my room or make a mess or cause anybody a problem. She should be pleased to have a lodger like me. Isn’t it funny how people don’t know when they’re well off? She’ll never have another lodger as good as me. You’d think she would be grateful. You’d think she would appreciate how considerate I am.

There are other places that I go to as well as the supermarket of course. There’s an apartment in one of the blocks on the William Randall Estate. There’s someone I visit there. The lift always smells of urine. But that’s private, you don’t need to know about that.

I go down to the towpath as well sometimes and walk along by the side of the canal. It’s very peaceful down there, just one or two houseboats tied up, and now and then an old homeless man sleeping under one of the bridges. When I first used to go there you would see a few younger people as well. There was drug-dealing going on there. That and worse. I like to think I’ve been instrumental in some small way in cleaning it up. People don’t go there very often now. Not late at night. Not after that unfortunate business with the Australian girl student. You probably read about it in the local paper. Young girls shouldn’t go out late at night like that. It isn’t safe.

There’s only one place that I ever go in the daytime. Apart from the library, of course. I usually drop in at the library while I'm out. It isn’t open at night, like the supermarket or the apartment on the William Randall Estate. If I didn’t go to them they would come to me, and I don’t want them to do that. I don’t want the people in this house getting to know about my business. Or people coming up to this room, messing around with my things. They ask me how I am and I tell them I’m very well and they give me my medication for the next fortnight and I take it home. That’s all there is to it. And for that they get paid quite a lot of money. They get to sleep at night as well. Not like the nurses at Roundways who had to pull back the blind on my door and look in every half hour. They have it easy down at the clinic.

I suppose you’re wondering what it is I do in here all day long. I know Mrs. Ellwood wonders. She thinks about me a lot. A couple of times she has knocked on my door and tried to see into my room. She makes up excuses, like there’s a package for me, or she needs to borrow something. That’s why I like to get to the mail before she does in the morning, so that she doesn’t have an excuse. In fact she doesn’t seem to try it any more. I think I’ve got through to her.

No, it’s very simple really. I like to sit quietly and think. People don’t do that often enough you know. I read a lot too. I’ve always liked reading. And I have my albums and my collections that I like to keep up to date. I buy the papers when I go to the supermarket for my groceries, if there’s anything in them that I want for my albums. I cut things out and I paste things in. It doesn’t make any noise or keep anybody awake. It’s a very considerate hobby. I cut out pictures and articles that interest me, and little mementos. Things like a student identity card and a couple of Australian dollars. I’m quite a sentimental person I suppose, where that sort of thing is concerned. I didn’t really want anything but the girl insisted. As a sort of souvenir, and a mark of gratitude for tackling the man with the knife.