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In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me grinning, his sherbet teeth an unsightly disgrace. What a rag-end, I thought . . different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, dirty tartan trousers and two scarves, one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist. From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came tinny music: some kind of jazzy blues. No voices, just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me he stopped. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he said, pointing a finger. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”
He retreated his finger, and with it scratched his wiry beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! hit him! howled a voice in my head. Hit the stupid lubber!)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think you did,” I said.
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the inside pocket of his filthy coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why in god’s name would I tell you to bring me a feather,” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me. I scratched the tip of my nose in dismissal, distain.
He blinked. I coughed. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at the stupid runt!)
He continued to stare at me. “You told me,” he said.
“I told you nothing.” I spat on the grass. “Buggerall. I’ve never done an interview on that ruddy radio and you know I haven’t.”
“But I heard you,” he croaked.
“No you didn’t, you dumb wazzock.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching his feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten?”
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, tears welling. “I’m sorry I‘m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up some.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes . . ”
We lent our heads together, closed our eyes, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me grinning, his sherbet teeth an unsightly disgrace. What a rag-end, I thought . . different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, dirty tartan trousers and two scarves, one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist. From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came tinny music: some kind of jazzy blues. No voices, just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me he stopped. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he said, pointing a finger. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”
He retreated his finger, and with it scratched his wiry beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! hit him! howled a voice in my head. Hit the stupid lubber!)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think you did,” I said.
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the inside pocket of his filthy coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why in god’s name would I tell you to bring me a feather,” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me. I scratched the tip of my nose in dismissal, distain.
He blinked. I coughed. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at the stupid runt!)
He continued to stare at me. “You told me,” he said.
“I told you nothing.” I spat on the grass. “Buggerall. I’ve never done an interview on that ruddy radio and you know I haven’t.”
“But I heard you,” he croaked.
“No you didn’t, you dumb wazzock.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching his feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten?”
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, tears welling. “I’m sorry I‘m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up some.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes . . ”
We lent our heads together, closed our eyes, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.
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In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me grinning, his sherbet teeth an unsightly disgrace. What a rag-end, I thought . . different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, dirty tartan trousers and two scarves, one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist. From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came tinny music: some kind of jazzy blues. No voices, just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me he stopped. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he said, pointing a finger. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”
He retreated his finger, and with it scratched his wiry beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! hit him! howled a voice in my head. Hit the stupid lubber!)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think you did,” I said.
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the inside pocket of his filthy coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why in god’s name would I tell you to bring me a feather,” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me. I scratched the tip of my nose in dismissal, distain.
He blinked. I coughed. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at the stupid runt!)
He continued to stare at me. “You told me,” he said.
“I told you nothing.” I spat on the grass. “Buggerall. I’ve never done an interview on that ruddy radio and you know I haven’t.”
“But I heard you,” he croaked.
“No you didn’t, you dumb wazzock.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching his feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten?”
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, tears welling. “I’m sorry I‘m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up some.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes . . ”
We lent our heads together, closed our eyes, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.
Carrying a brown radio he shuffled towards me grinning, his sherbet teeth an unsightly disgrace. What a rag-end, I thought . . different-coloured shoes, a battered hat, dirty tartan trousers and two scarves, one wrapped around his neck, the other tied to a wrist. From the radio (an old-fashioned wireless) came tinny music: some kind of jazzy blues. No voices, just music. Brassy music, tinny.
A few paces away from me he stopped. “You’re him, aren’t you,” he said, pointing a finger. “You’re the one.”
“Pardon,” I said. “What on earth do you mean?”
He retreated his finger, and with it scratched his wiry beard. “You’re the one who’s been talking to me on my radio.”
“I think you’re mistaken,” I said. (Hit him! hit him! howled a voice in my head. Hit the stupid lubber!)
“You told me to come here,” he went on. “You told me. I heard your voice on the radio.”
“I don’t think you did,” I said.
“You told me to give you this.” He delved a grimy paw into the inside pocket of his filthy coat and pulled out a white feather. He stroked the radio with it, from which the tinny jazz still came.
“Why in god’s name would I tell you to bring me a feather,” I said.
His dark-circled eyes gazed at me. I scratched the tip of my nose in dismissal, distain.
He blinked. I coughed. (Spit at him! yelled a voice in my head. Spit at the stupid runt!)
He continued to stare at me. “You told me,” he said.
“I told you nothing.” I spat on the grass. “Buggerall. I’ve never done an interview on that ruddy radio and you know I haven’t.”
“But I heard you,” he croaked.
“No you didn’t, you dumb wazzock.” I pulled my coat around me and flopped down on the bench. He sat beside me, clutching his feather.
“The voice on your radio isn’t me,” I told him softly. “Only the skeletons in the graveyard can speak to us through the radio. Have you forgotten?”
“I’m sorry,” he said at last, tears welling. “I’m sorry I‘m sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, twisting up the radio’s volume dial. “We’ll go through the litterbins when this song has finished and we’ll find something to fill that belly of yours. That’ll pep you up some.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes . . ”
We lent our heads together, closed our eyes, and listened to the tinny jazz.
In the park, the sun was shining.