Listen to the Trees and Other Curious Tales

Leaving for Home

I  had just finished a busy and long day at the office in Manchester, my head was still running on overtime and I needed to relax.

Walking out through the car park in the late afternoon to sit in my car was a refreshingly cool experience. Sitting in my vehicle, I left the door open, closed my eyes for a few moments and just sat there unmoving, feeling the cool air wash over my brow while breathing a welcome sigh of relief that the day was over at last.

I was tired and needed to head home so refocused, with the door closed, the engine started and with my seat belt fastened, off I went, but with an easy, relaxed driving style.

There shouldn’t be much rush at this time of day; it was late. I had deliberately worked until eight pm. to let the terrible jams of the rush hour period dissipate (that was a bit of a contradiction) to make the journey home less of a stressful event.

Out through the barrier, arm lifting as I approached, I joined the local road to head in the general direction of the nearest motorway junction.

I worked my way through the traffic, the city roads still busy at this late time of day. Making proper use of my mirror, I soon spotted that a grey hatchback was behind me as it had been as I left the office car park. That hadn’t seemed a problem to me at first. Perhaps he was heading towards the same junction as me having also left his place of work late. There were plenty of offices a mile or two down the road and his journey might just be as innocuous as mine. Something about his presence caught my attention however.

I had come to this train of thought almost automatically as a result of my military experience of some years ago. It had just kicked in all by itself. Knowing who was behind me and also sometimes in front, during those scary days, could mean the difference between ending my journey safely or perhaps not at all. My training had been put to the test on several occasions and, it seemed, was to be again for one more time; after all the years that had passed.

I deliberately changed my route. Instead of heading by the shortest route to where I originally intended, I turned away in the opposite direction, across town. I would join a different motorway, one that would link up after a few miles with the one I really required.

Weaving my way though the still busy traffic, even at this time in the evening, took the best part of an extra half hour but actually proved to be beneficial.

It took me out of that lazy, get-home, switch-off mode I was otherwise on the point of entering. I was now awake and very aware; tiredness was put away.

As I joined the last town road that led to the motorway slip-road and checking my mirror for the umpteenth time, there a few cars back, there it was, the same grey hatchback. I hadn’t read the number plate or even been able to notice, never-the-less identify, the driver but I was sure that it had to be the same vehicle. I felt convinced that it was the same one that had been behind me since leaving the office. I was now feeling concerned.

I was not too sure why this particular vehicle had caught my eye. Perhaps it really was my training from that period with the forces in Northern Ireland. It had certainly laid silent, tucked away somewhere in my head for the last twenty or more years. I did what I actually should do on such occasions, as my training dictated, and changed my route yet again. I had done this for real on more than one occasion in that past and the same nervous, sometimes frightening feeling now returned.

I didn’t continue to the slip-road but again changed direction immediately at the next junction. I knew this would lead towards an alternative connection to another motorway; the city was surrounded and served by several. This might have added some extra few miles and a little more stress getting out of the city, not counting the stress from what was actually happening. I thought the several changes of direction just might be worth it, in fact I knew it would.

I was now driving deliberately in the wrong direction to get home, opposite to the way I should have taken so whoever was driving the car behind me, if he was still there, had deliberately chosen to follow me. I really was as concerned as the adrenalin surge was telling me I should be.

Accelerating down the slip road I concentrated on joining the still busy going-home traffic. I checked my mirror, as I should do, deciding to accelerate to change motorway lane towards the outer one. I wished to put on some speed, overtake as many other vehicles as I could to put some distance between myself and whoever it was that had chosen to follow me.

The grey hatchback was no longer there. I relaxed, without adjusting my speed (exceeding the national speed limit slightly but not enough to come to the attention of the police – I hoped) and concentrated on getting home. Several miles on, he was no longer putting in an appearance in my mirror.

As I approached the motorway split to another going north and south, across the one I was travelling on, another glance in the mirror and by hell, he was there again. Several cars back there he was and still, I guessed, following me. The hairs started to lift on the back of my neck.

I changed lane far too late for safety to hit the split slip-road taking the northern route which could still take me towards home if I didn’t travel along it too far. It was not the route I should be taking but let’s see if he follows me now.

Travelling down the slip, then joining the northern route there was no sign of him. It looked as though my strategy had worked or, just maybe, I was imagining the whole thing. This was England and unless someone was mistaking me for a spy, I really wouldn’t expect to be followed in this day and age. My military days were well and truly behind me and except for this incident, I had forgotten them all.

I couldn’t believe that someone from the troubles was tasked with coming after me now but stranger things had happened.

Heading away from my home route, I left this northern motorway to join a simple main road that ran into and through the centre of my local town. I needed to be several miles on the other side of town. This would be something of a busy circuitous route through a few miles of the town’s roads perhaps, but it would sort out my dilemma once and for all, possibly.

Within five minutes or so and no sign of the grey hatchback, I found myself passing by one of the new edge of town shopping centre developments and spontaneously just pulled off quickly into the car park. Driving round it, I picked a parking spot right outside of a furniture salesroom where a few were vacant.

Take a Break

I turned off the engine, slumped in my seat and stayed quiet, trying to relax. Closing my eyes, for what I guessed could be called a power-nap, I managed to switch off properly, relax and bring the tension I had been feeling under control.

I must have been there a good ten minutes or so. I couldn’t resist lifting an eyelid a little for a quick peek before relaxing further into my seat. No sign of any grey hatchback; this strange incident had to be over.

A few quiet minutes passed by before I decided to fully come back to reality. Sitting back up in my seat, I was in two minds to either drive home or spend some more time here wandering through one of the stores, a little window shopping perhaps or even some retail therapy. Reaching for the door handle and checking the space alongside was still empty, I opened the door fully and stood up.

There it was again, the grey hatchback, on the other side of a couple of adjacent parked cars over which I could see easily. I started to freeze. This scenario was catching me out and it was not at all a pleasant experience.

What is more, I stood rooted to the spot as I watched as the occupant get out, look in my direction and smile at me. The adrenalin rush came thundering back and this was most unpleasant. Should I leap back into my car, go screaming out of the car park, spinning the tyres as I went, or what, I didn’t know?

“No, sunshine, you’re not a boy-racer, or some sort of terrorist,” I thought to myself. “Take this easy, play it cool, act normal,” the thoughts ran through my mind (although I obviously had not been driving normally a short while ago). I had faced plenty of stressful situations in my current position at work; this was only another one if I played it right.

“Stand by the car, let him come to you; relax, try to relax,” I thought on. “Come on sunshine, you’re stood in a public place, with shoppers wandering about, you’re safe,” I tried to rationalise my situation. I hoped I was safe or was I just trying to fool myself?

Was this to be some sort of road rage incident, perhaps, but what had occurred on the road, nothing that I could think of? Was this to be some sort of NI situation, or a follow up to events there, surely not, that was many years ago? If someone was after me, I couldn’t think of any possible reason for them to be so.

Strangely enough there was something oddly disconcerting but in a pleasant sort of way from the smile of this guy. He remained standing a few cars away just staring at me, no, just looking in my direction, his gaze not being at all penetrating or unfriendly.

He stood unmoving in the same place, just looking and as he then smiled again, I was all at once put at ease. I actually felt this somehow simply from his presence. Something was telling me that I knew him, a sort of recognition, but I had no idea who he might be.

I stood my ground, a little nervous but nothing more, as he left the hatchback and strolled over towards me, round the adjacent cars between us, to stop a few feet away.

In his casual slacks and sports tee shirt he looked like any other guy relaxing after work and I think I saw trainers on his feet; it was hard to turn my gaze downwards.

My adrenalin started to surge once more and I rapidly developed twitchy feet; should I run, jump back in my car and drive off or what?

“Everything is as it should be David,” he spoke calmly and softly.

“Nobody’s used my full name in years; I’m always just ‘Dave’.”

“I know David,” he said, “but I thought it best to be polite. You don’t mind, do you?” he asked.

“He’s reading my mind,” I thought to myself.

“Sort of, David; does that bother you?” he asked.

It did; I nearly jumped out of my skin. I had never encountered anything like this before. The adrenalin surge was not easing, if anything it was becoming worse and seriously uncomfortable.

“Relax, David. I mean you no harm, that’s furthest from my mind. I bring you some good news,” he continued.

His easy, relaxed and somehow reassuring countenance had a sort of strange relaxing effect on me; I did as he asked. I calmed down easily and without consciously wishing to do so; it just happened and without any effort from me.

Then an even stranger thing happened; I really did feel that I knew him, somewhere in my past. I seemed to recognise him, but how and who? I was bothered, but again, not. This sort of thing had happened with my work, meeting someone I recognised and should know but whose name would not come to mind. In such circumstances it was always prudent to plough on, keep going, keep the conversation general and a name will come to you eventually.

His smile became even broader and, yes, friendlier.

“I think it would be impolite to continue without introducing myself, what do you say?”

He offered me his right hand to shake and announced, “I’m called Mu’grigori, a little difficult to pronounce I keep getting told, so you can call me George; I’m happy with that.”

“What an odd name,” I thought.

“Not really, David,” he replied to my thoughts, “it’s just an ancient one. Stick with George, it’s OK.”

I didn’t think I could pronounce his correct name, probably end up making a mess of it, so sticking with George would do for me.

“I have something for you, David,” he said through a broadening smile and producing a small, brown-paper-wrapped parcel from, I didn’t know where.

It was offered to me in his hand but I hadn’t seen him carrying anything when he walked over to me and he wasn’t wearing a coat and surely it could not have been in a trouser pocket, it was a little too large for that.

The parcel was not that small, or particularly large, and was wrapped in old fashioned brown paper, tied with fine string. This was completed where it was presumably tied, with a dollop of red sealing wax. I had seen nothing wrapped like this since being a very young boy.

My parents always wrapped their parcels in brown paper, tied them with light string and then melted some red sealing wax on to the knot. This was remarkably similar and gave me a sense of nostalgia. But this was a technique from way, way back. Who would wrap any parcel like this today?

“I am only a postman, David,” he explained. “This little parcel is not from me but from someone you knew long ago.”

I took the parcel from him and stared at it; what on earth could it be and from whom?

Remembering

“Do you remember a chap called Alan, your friend from school those many years ago? He was in your class but when you both left to go into the big world to seek jobs, you lost contact and you never saw him again. That’s about right isn’t it?”

That stirred the old grey cells well and truly; back to my school days, wow! What he had said was indeed correct and I said so, “I do George; yes I do remember Alan. There was only one in the class and he had indeed been a friend of mine.”

The memories of those last days at secondary school came flooding back; I hadn’t thought about that time for many years.

Alan and I shared similar interests and our selected GCE exam subjects had been the same except for a couple. I was good at art whereas Alan wasn’t but there again he was good at biology while I went down the physics route (miserably as it turned out).

Some years back trying to recall and note down some of my events during those early years, I had searched the social media (still very new to me) for his name, among others, but all to no avail. I abandoned the project idea that I had had of writing some memoirs, as work occupied nearly all my waking time. If I wasn’t working, I was thinking about it, such was the nature of engineering and often found it difficult to find space among my thoughts..

“Do you remember lending Alan your drawing compass set for an exam?” he asked me.

Was this a fresh ‘off-the-wall’ question or was he picking up on my train of thought?

“He did not manage to return it to you before you both left school and went your separate ways in the big world of employment,” he continued.

That was true, not only of Alan, but all those other good school friends that had simply disappeared as the big world invited us all in.

“Well Alan asked me to look you up, that’s my job where I hang out,” he explained, “and return something you had both found precious; that drawing compass set.”

In the local parlance, I was ‘gobsmacked.’ Even after all my years living in this part of the world, I had never really got to grips with all the local variations of speech but that one seemed particularly relevant at this moment.

George’s smile seemed even broader, if that was possible.

He continued. “Alan wanted to return this to you a long time ago, but like yourself, he went his own way in life. He couldn’t find you, as you couldn’t find him. He just kept hold of the compasses and kept them safe until the opportunity presented itself to finally return them to you.”

This was years and years ago. I had forgotten all about my instruments, written them off to experience.

“Early this week, that opportunity presented itself,” he continued. “Alan had a chat with me, told me all about the story and today I decided to seek you out to complete this episode in his life. Crossing tees, dotting eyes and so on, so to speak.”

“I am just his messenger, David. Alan cannot be with us today, he’s not able to travel long distances just yet,” he explained. “Give him a little while and possibly he will be able to later on, much later on.”

“Is he unwell,” I enquired after hearing this, being concerned over the welfare of a once lost but now seemingly found old friend.

“No, no David. Don’t you worry like that. He’s quite well, just a little tired after a long journey and is now resting up. A little recuperation that will serve him well. You mustn’t concern yourself,” he assured me.

“He wished to meet you face to face, but realised that that would not be possible for some time. That’s where I come in handy; it’s something of a regular job for me. I met Alan, had a very pleasant, long chat with him, he’s quite a likeable fellow, and as a result resolved to put matters to right.”

“Alan has written a note, which he put in this little parcel and which he told me, would explain everything. Well that’s what he said to me. I haven’t read it so I don’t know what’s actually been written.”

I stood stunned at what I had just heard. Looking intently at the small parcel, carefully wrapped in brown paper, tied with fine string and sealed with a dollop of red wax over the knots, I failed to notice that George had walked away.

I looked up from what I was holding in my hands to see him give me a wave just before he jumped into his car, the grey hatchback. Then it was reversing out before moving away towards the exit. Why disappear so fast? I had wanted to hear more, there was so much to talk about, but that seemed impossible now.

As the grey hatchback reached the car park exit, I saw the driver’s side window come down to allow another wave goodbye. What a strange sensation I felt as George’s hand waved to me; a warm, “Goodbye”, combined with a sort of, “I know you now,” and “until the next time.” It wasn’t a visual sensation, but a strange welcoming, warm, sensation echoing through my entire body; most odd.

I had to open the parcel, see what it contained and read the note that George said Alan had written. I jumped back into my car and sat in the driver’s seat staring at the small parcel on my lap.

“Come on Dave, open it, open it. Stop staring and get on with it,” I thought to myself.

“Yes, Dave, get on with it,” George’s voice echoed in my mind.

How on earth did he do that? Yes, he seemed able to read my mind, but he was long gone, somewhere driving his car, even on the motorway perhaps. But all of a sudden his voice entered my thoughts.

“David, if you ever need me, and a time will come most surely that you may, I will know and will come to you. Our minds engaged for a little while and the connection between us is still warm. It will fade in a short while, don’t worry, but for now I can still sense what you are thinking. I suggest that you really should get on with opening Alan’s parcel. He took a lot of care in ensuring it was wrapped properly and delivered directly to you.”

Now I really was ‘gobsmacked’.

“Yes, yes,” I somehow managed.

I reached for the little parcel on my lap, my fingers slightly trembling and managing to break the wax, albeit with a little difficulty. I pulled the string away. Then the brown paper, so carefully folded round a neat white cardboard box, was unwrapped and placed on the passenger seat.

I realised that the box had a lid that was tucked in and carefully prising it out, lifted it up to find an envelope. This presumably contained Alan’s note, and beneath it, sat on a few sheets of folded tissue paper, was the black leatherette finished case I remembered from so long ago that contained the compasses; if I was correct and my memory served me well.

The note, still in its envelope went onto the top of the dashboard where it promptly slid down to the windscreen. I could reach it in a moment, but for now the black case had my attention.

On one end there should be a small nail head which was the opener; of course I managed to inspect the wrong end first. Looking at the other end, there it was; a small circular thing which I could only describe as a pin or nail head. Two finger nails gripping the head, and with a gentle pull it slid out easily about a half inch as though the whole thing was brand new. Come to think of it, the black leatherette cover was also in remarkably good condition considering I had last seen it over forty years ago.

I lifted the now unlocked lid and there they were, in their compartments in the dark blue velvet lining. One small, very shiny chrome finished springbow compass, with its drawing lead still in place and nicely sharpened. The other larger divider type compass with a separate attachment for holding the lead was also still in its compartment inside the box. This was amazing, almost as good as meeting an old friend, a very old friend.

A Note

I had spent many of my career years using drawing instruments of this type on a drawing board, even when pencil leads were replaced with ink pens. Of course when CAD came in, all my instruments and pencils became superfluous, used only to produce quick sketches to give to the computer operators.

I was still smiling and reminiscing when I realized there was something else far more important to consider, Alan’s note. A direct communication from a long lost friend who had not only remembered me but wished to restore an old friendship, I hoped.

Putting the still open instrument case on the passenger seat, I reached over the top of the dashboard to recover the envelope in which Alan’s words were waiting for me to read. He must be doing well, I thought, as the envelope was from stiff and slightly cream coloured paper. It spoke so much of a quality that I was clearly sensing through my finger tips.

I opened the flap which was simply tucked in, not at all sealed as had been the box, and lifted out a folded sheet of paper that contained Alan’s words.

In fact it was two sheets of paper, of the same quality and colour as the envelope; I could even see a watermark shining through – posh indeed.

Impressed by the quality of the cursive handwriting (Alan and I had never had a neat hand at school if I remembered correctly), that is if it was his handwriting. I started to read.

“Hi Ian,

Long time, no see my friend.

There has been a lot of water under the bridge, has there not, and while it might seem a little odd to be making contact now, I’m sure you will understand by the time you have read my small letter. (well it started off small but I think now that it has become a little longer than I intended – sorry about the scribble inserting this little note)”

There was nothing scribbled about this composition, in fact I would swear that a word processor had been used to type it up – the additional insert had gone in so neatly, it had to be typed. Yet letting my eyes scan across the whole page, there did seem to be slight variations in the lettering that was telling me that it was indeed handwritten; strange, very strange.

I read on.

“I really must thank you, firstly for lending me your compass set at such short notice when we were both at school. I don’t know how I would have coped taking my drawing exam without it. Trust me to mess up my exam’s timetable and preparation.

Somehow we managed to miss each other in the last few days of school and I never got to see you again. I had no idea where you lived and I’m sure it was the same for you if you had tried to find me.

After all these years and because of my current circumstances, I have finally been able to locate you and to return what I borrowed. I felt sure you would like to have it back even after such a long time. I’ve taken good care of the set, I promise. Drawing was not to be part of my chosen career after all, so it has remained tucked away safely among my treasured possessions for all of this time.

I guess that if you are reading this note then you will have met my new friend, Mu’grigori, who is really helping me out at this difficult time in which I find myself. I’m sure that you will have ended up calling him George, I did and I know that he doesn’t mind. I let him know where everything was and I gave him this note to tuck inside the box. I hope that it will explain everything.

We won’t be able to meet face to face for some time yet, in fact for some years I have been told, but I have developed a great amount of patience now; this comes with my current situation, I have come to understand. That may seem rather odd but I promise to explain it all in due course.

I must move on a little further, right now I guess.

It was with some regret that I have to tell you that my time on earth ran out last week and I passed away sadly from a form of cancer that proved to be terminal. Where I am now, there is no cancer, it simply doesn’t happen. That’s not to say that we sometimes do not get unwell – I am particularly tired and worn out from the events of the last week and will take some time to fully recover.

George has proved to be a Godsend you could say – sorry, just one of my little jokes as my sense of humour has not gone away – but he has been incredibly helpful in the task of returning your compasses. There are a couple of other jobs he has done for me, and I gather that this sort of thing happens all the time with all the new arrivals; I am no exception.

You may not believe this at first but I do promise you that it is all true.

I am now able to sit up and here at my little table (where I wrote this note) I am recuperating nicely as the chirping birds fly by over the meadow in front of me, and there is a hot cup of tea just waiting to be drunk.

I’m not strong enough to come to see you personally; that sort of strength won’t come to me for a long while yet but I can be patient. Perhaps you will come to see me before I’m ready to come to you, who knows?

Enjoy your time there Dave for as long as you have been give. I’m sure we will meet again when the time is right. I look forward to us meeting up again and possibly some of the other chaps we knew when they also eventually arrive.

Do you remember any of the guys from school, Smudger perhaps; he was always a good type but I’ve no idea what happened to him, he’s not here so he must still be at your end.

I really must come to a conclusion with this little letter as writing is proving more tiring than I first thought it might be – and besides my tea is going cold.

All my very best wishes to you, my friend, please take care of yourself until we can meet again,

Alan.”

I had not only a sense of astonishment at what I had just read, I wasn’t that sure how to take it, but a tear was rolling easily down my cheek and I guess that gave me a good clue.

I looked up and for some compulsive reason, swivelled round to look behind me, in the direction of the car park exit. The grey hatchback was still there waiting to leave, but this couldn’t be the same car; I had seen George leave some time ago. I jumped out rather quickly to stand in a sort of shock, I guess.

The driver got out of his car and looked directly at me with a large grin that seemed to beam its warmth straight at me. His hand rose in a wave of both welcome and goodbye; it was George once more, but how?

I was dumb struck and wanted to know more but before I could make my mind up whether or not to wave him to come over, run across to him or drive my car towards him, he was back inside the hatchback and once again, driving away.

I had to get back into the driving seat and try to absorb what had just taken place and, more importantly, what I had just read. I slumped back into my seat to have a long think about events.

Even looking at my compass set and Alan’s letter, no plan of action would come to mind, I had no idea what to do. I felt hollow, still wanting answers that would not or could not be answered, I realised, for a very long time. I hoped it would be a long time.

I believed, I had to believe, in what had just been explained to me.

I sat feeling a great sadness yet with a profound happiness, rewarded yet also lost somehow, but most of all, I was plain dumbfounded.

Author’s Note.  

This is a story I elaborated from a series of real events that involved not two people but three. The real events did include for the return of a school compass set that had been ‘written off’ many years previous but which was delivered in a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string to one of the three people concerned.

The person who had apparently returned it, after all the years since school had elapsed, had passed away and it had to be assumed that an executor going through his possessions following his death, knew by some means, who the compass set actually belonged to. It was not posted directly to him but to a friend of his. How an executor was aware of this is, is unknown. Indeed how the executor knew anything of the two other people and how they related to each other during their school days is a complete mystery.

No names were used, nor a company name, nor an accompanying business letter, only a simply written letter inside the parcel which also gave nothing away.

My friend and I were not invited to the funeral and a scour of the death notices in the local newspapers did not elicit anything which might help as to location, etc. For all we knew the parcel may have been sent from a different part of the world to an entirely different trusted third party who re-wrapped and forwarded it on. 

I concocted a story round the main events which took place several years ago when I received that very same parcel from a friend to whom it had been first sent (via the third party perhaps?); my name had been mentioned in the enclosed note.

The names in the story have been deliberately altered to protect the innocent, as they say, and the main character is a compilation of the two figures (I’m one of them) that are a part of the real events.

~ o ~