Clickity clickity clickity click. Michael’s hands rolled across the keyboard like an express train. On the screen in front of him the numbers spontaneously appeared in the grid. Cause and effect. Michael remembered a time, in his university days, where he had got into an argument about the beauty of numbers. The purest form of poetry, he had said. The numbers never lie, he had said. They always mean what they say and say what they mean, he had said. He may have then made a derogatory comment about a girl he used to go out with. He couldn’t quite remember. It was a long time ago, and he had been a bit drunk.
Yes, a long time ago. These days he didn’t feel quite the same way about numbers. Years and years in front of a computer, making the digits dance before his very eyes, had taken some of the shine off. Nothing kills passion like turning a hobby into a living. The numbers he worked with now certainly told stories, but they only told the whole truth and nothing but the truth, and when you want an exciting story a little lie every now and then makes all the difference in the world.
He looked up, to the window behind the computer screen. It was still raining on the grey street of houses. Not much of a view, if it were not for the bus shelter right in the centre of his field of vision. Bus stops told stories too, and they could be quite exciting, but you never knew the honesty of them. Did it matter? The bus shelter was there for when the numbers became just that bit too boring.
No people waiting for buses now. No-one sitting in the shelter. He glanced at the clock. The 11:17 must have passed by without him realising. At least fifteen minutes until the next one. No stories for the moment, just the rain dancing. With some interest he noted that a pool of water had gathered at the side of the shelter’s right-hand support, a marriage of the rain and the overflow from the shelter’s roof. A happy marriage this one, he figured.
Entering the window from Michael’s left came a small, snugly-wrapped figure in wellington boots. Michael took immediate notice. A child, maybe three or four years old? At that age the rain was a source of joy rather than damp feet and misery. The tiny actor moved quickly, centre stage, hand brushing playfully against the bus stop and shelter, and halted at the edge of the newly formed lake. Anticipation swelled in Michael. There was only one outcome for this scenario. This small adventurer knew what to do when confronted with a puddle.
The tiny figure studied the water with all the interest of a professional. The numbers forgotten, Michael felt himself drift forward, to the literal edge of his seat.
Then, just as the tension had become unbearable, it happened – a leap that took the combined effort of all the growing muscles in this small thing, and a sudden downward stamp right into the middle of the puddle. Then again! Jump! Splash! Again! Jump! Splash! Again, again, again! Michael imagined he could see, deep in the hooded periscope of the child’s coat, twinkling eyes and a smile. Was it a boy child or a girl child? Michael couldn’t tell, and – frankly – he didn’t care. When it came to joy, the rain was an equal opportunities employer. As Michael watched this enthusiastic moment, a warm glow and a gormless smile engulfed him.
Then, Entering Stage Left, approached a banshee. She stormed (there was no other word) to the bus shelter and grabbed the child by the elbow. Even through the rain, from the other side of the road, Michael could hear the shrill declaration:
“Come on! We don’t have time for this! We have to get your brother!”
Then the banshee Exited Stage Right dragging the small bundle by the arm, the wellington boots engaged in a mad quickstep to keep up with angry mum.
Michael stared at the rain, the bus shelter, and the puddle long after its waters had calmed. He stared until there was a lump in his throat and his eyes glazed over. Then, swallowing hard, he went back to the numbers.
Love this story James 🙂
Thanks Andrew.