Fear for Frances

by Veronica Heley

  ‘They’d probably jail him first for trespass and stealing eggs! You don’t want to send a man to jail, do you?’

  ‘N-no …’

  ‘Then let’s keep him for a few days. We’ll give him some work to do, and let him doss down in the garage at night. Then when he’s earned some money, we can send him on his way with a few pounds so that he can get a fresh start. Without money he can’t buy new clothes or obtain accommodation, and without new clothes he can’t apply for a job. He’s in a vicious circle of poverty, and he can’t break out of it on his own. We could help him to do so.’

  ‘But I don’t like tramps, and although I know it’s silly, I’d be afraid to have him around me.’

  ‘I’ll cope. You won’t have to talk to him or do anything but tell me what jobs you want him to do.’

  He looked excited and pleased. I couldn’t find it in me to refuse him his wish to do good, so I agreed. I got out the cutlery box and all the materials for cleaning silver, and directed Toby to set up a bench and table outside so that the tramp could do the job in the open air. I didn’t want him in the cottage. Toby gave me a lingering kiss to show his approval and I melted. I knew that just because a man was big it didn’t mean that you could look up to him morally, but in this case I thought I was on to a good thing, for Toby had proved himself big in every way.

  I started to make a shopping list while Toby instructed the tramp in his duties. Presently I heard Toby’s voice raised in anger, and then the sound of a slap. I didn’t like violence, and I didn’t really think Toby needed to use any on that shrimp of a man.

  ‘He can’t talk!’ said Toby, returning. ‘He’s dumb. Not deaf, but definitely dumb. I can’t get a word out of him. Either that knock I gave him earlier, or some illness perhaps … For all I know he’s been like it from birth. He doesn’t seem to know his name, or where he came from or where he was going to. You can see his mind goes blank when he tries to remember!’ The tramp’s plight seemed to amuse Toby.

  ‘Can he understand you? Does he know what he’s supposed to be doing?’

  ‘He understood that all right. Where are you going?’

  ‘Shopping.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’

  ‘But I don’t want to be left here alone with a nameless tramp. What would I call him?’

  ‘Hob the Hobo, perhaps? That would be a good name for him. He’ll not bother you. He’s chained up, remember, and he understands what he’s to do. I’ll take the Mini to a garage and see if I can get the dent knocked out, and do your shopping on the way back. You can get on with your clearing out in peace and quiet, and tonight we’ll dress ourselves up and go out. I see there’s a Jazz Festival on somewhere nearby. Do you fancy it?’

  I’d seen the posters, too. ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ I said, ‘Even though I’d have to go as I am.’

  Toby went off in my Mini, and I found myself work to do inside the cottage. I didn’t want to pass the tramp, so I made excuses not to go outside. At twelve I made myself some sandwiches and a cup of coffee. It was a baking hot day, and even inside the thick walls of the old cottage, the air was thick and warm. I had an argument with myself about feeding the tramp, and then took him out a sandwich and a mug of water on a tray.

  He had finished cleaning the silver, which was gleaming in the sun. Now he was resting, lying at full length on the bench, his bruised and bloodied feet towards me. The chain round his ankle allowed him just enough leeway to get both feet onto the bench. I didn’t like to look at him too closely, but I couldn’t avoid seeing his feet.

  I pushed the tray of food onto the table, and he sat up, slowly. I stepped back, to be out of his reach, although the table was between us, and he could not possibly have hurt me from where he sat. His eyes fixed on the tray I had brought him; Toby was right, and the tramp was hungry. But when I reached for the knife box and silver cleaning things, he raised a hand to stop me. I dropped the tray in fright. He tried to smile, to reassure me. He pointed to the mug of water and made washing motions over his face and hands. He wanted water to wash himself in.

  This evidence of civilised behaviour reassured me. I promised to fetch some for him, and this time he let me remove the silver. I brought him a bowl of warm water, soap and a rag of a towel. He had drunk half the mug of water by that time, but not touched the food. He thanked me with a dignified bow that should have been ludicrous, but wasn’t. He had dark brown curls all over his head, and although his hair was tangled and thick with muddy patches at the moment, it might once have been attractive. I have always wished that my hair were curly; I won’t go through all the rigmarole of perms and weekly sessions at the hairdressers, so instead I keep my hair cut short and neat, close to my head.

  I watched him from the doorway. He luxuriated in the water. I could hear his intake of breath as he touched a bruise, but he didn’t miss any. In silence I fetched him a refill of water, and he got to work on the rest of himself. He was wearing nothing but a reasonably clean pair of blue pants; I wondered where he’d pinched them, for they actually fitted.

  ‘More water?’ I asked, when he reached his feet. He nodded, his eyes wary, but not unintelligent. It was difficult to tell how old he was, even now. A beard that had once been trimmed to a reasonable shape covered the lower part of his face, but his teeth were good. His nose was no splodge, though it did widen at the tip. His forehead was square under a loose mop of hair without a thread of grey in it, but the crow’s-feet around his eyes marked him as a man past his twenties.

  His feet were a mess, and in my opinion, needed more than a wash. It was a wonder to me that he’d been able to walk on them at all. I fetched ointment, lint and bandages from Granny’s medicine cupboard, and ordered him to lie flat on the bench and not move till I’d finished. He didn’t stir while I washed and bound his feet, but his eyes followed my every movement, like a watchful robin. When I had finished he put both his hands together over his heart, as if he were praying, then touched them both to his forehead and spread them towards me. In thanks.

  ‘That’s all right,’ I said, foolishly confused. Hob the Hobo might not be able to speak, but he could make himself understood.

  From a window I watched him eat, which he did with restraint. He rinsed his fingers afterwards. I took him out a small bookcase which needed scrubbing down.

  ‘You understand why Toby wants you to stay? You will work for us for a few days, and sleep in the garage at night? We’ll pay you for what you do, and at the end of the week you can be on your way with some money in your pocket. You agree with this?’

  He watched my face while I spoke, and frowned when I finished. But he nodded. I wasn’t satisfied with his reaction, although I couldn’t tell why.

  ‘Can’t you speak at all?’ I asked.

  He didn’t appear to hear me, but bent down to start work on the bookcase. I stamped my foot at him. He took no notice.

  ‘It’s for your own good,’ I said, trying not to be angry with him. He didn’t look up from his task, so I left him to it.

  With anger came contempt for him, and I no longer avoided going into the yard because it meant passing by the bench on which he sat. He was a scruffy little man. He’d probably be no larger than me, standing up. It was a pity that all of Grandpa’s clothing had been burned or given away when he died, or I could have lent the tramp something to wear. Then I laughed at myself, for Grandpa had been a six-footer, and his clothes would have drowned the tramp.

  By teatime the sun had moved round from the front of the garage, and the tramp tried to move along the bench with it. The chain wouldn’t allow him to move that far, and I saw him shiver.

  Of course, my clothes would probably fit him all right. No, I couldn’t. I could not lend him anything of mine. I’d never see it again, and … no, the idea was repellent.

  Only he couldn’t go around naked, and I had several pairs of worn jeans and some old sweaters with me. I looked over my stock and selected an ancient navy sweater and a pair of paint-stained jeans that had once
belonged to one of my elder sisters and were a trifle too large for me. He took them from me wonderingly, his eyes distrustful. He pulled the sweater on at once, but couldn’t do anything about the jeans until Toby unlocked the chain.

  And where was Toby, anyway?

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