The Silent Stranger

I did not see him arrive on that summer’s day, but when I noticed him, he sparked the attention of my eight-year-old self. He sat quietly on the lush grassy knoll beside the tranquil canal. It was a warm sunny day in July, and the bees buzzed incessantly in my mam’s sweet-scented, flamingo-coloured roses.

I eyed the stranger as I sat on the grey stone wall. He was gaunt and lanky. Although he was sitting, I could tell he was tall because his long legs draped the side of the embankment and touched the ground; mine could only dangle.

I watched him as he rooted in his long black coat pocket. He took out a stubby pencil and a piece of brown paper and began writing slowly and deliberately, stopping momentarily to wet the pencil tip with his tongue. He did this under the gaze of the snow-white swans that hissed as they glided gracefully by, their craned necks divulging their interest in the stranger.

When he was done, he looked my way and beckoned me over. Without hesitation, I hopped down from the wall and ran to where he was sitting. He gave me the note with something hard and flat rolled up inside. He didn’t say anything, just pointed towards my house. I ran into the kitchen where my mam stood washing up at the sink. She dried her soapy hands before taking the paper and carefully unwrapping it to find a 50pence coin and a short message that read.

‘Please, Mrs, could you spare some food as I have not eaten today? I am deaf and cannot speak. Thank you.’

Mam peeped out the window to look at the mysterious stranger, and without a word, she began to butter some bread. Tomatoes and ham sandwiches were piled one on top of the other as my tummy rumbled; looking at them, I wondered if the strange gentleman was getting my dad’s lunch rations. I remember the woody aroma of hot tea as she filled an empty lemonade bottle. I couldn’t help but mourn the loss of the 5p money-back deposit I planned to collect when I returned the bottle to the local shop. My intended purchase of some fizzy cola bottles was quickly fading away.

I was then dispatched with the large parcel of sandwiches wrapped in shiny tinfoil, a bottle of hot sweet tea (I hoped he liked sugar), and his note with the 50 pence still intact. I was told not to annoy the man and let him eat in peace. By now, my two brothers and three sisters had learned of the mysterious stranger and followed me to where he was sitting. His peace was well and truly shattered, but his eyes lit up when he saw the bundle of food and the bottle of tea. He politely took his money and placed it in his pocket, smiling his appreciation.

Mam had told us he could not hear or speak, but that didn’t stop us from our relentless chatter. He had kind eyes and a gentle smile. We were delighted to have someone new to talk to, and he seemed to enjoy the exuberant company. He ate his food and drank some tea while he watched intently as we showed him how to make the blades of grass whistle.

He left as he had arrived, silent and unobserved, but his memory remained.

• Trish Raleigh-Doyle is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 10.30am, Annebrook House Hotel.