Short Story: Hometown Character

Short Story: Hometown Character

He is loud and brash and has a habit of saying what he really shouldn’t say. He listens to absolutely no one. Not even to those he claims to hold in the greatest respect.

He’s in his late 70’s now but he’s still a large man: large in a physical sense and larger than life personality-wise. He doesn’t believe in wearing coats ever and even in the wild, cold and often wet weather that is the north of Scotland, he shuns any formal outer protection. Donald’s answer to whatever the weather throws at him, is to put on an extra sweater and that means that sometimes he’s wearing two or three at once as he walks around the town.

He is single and unattached - at least as far as anyone around here knows. Whether or not he is hetero or homosexual has always been a matter for conjecture but it’s not a matter that too many in the town dwell on for too long.

His dress is unremarkable, open-neck shirts and corduroy trousers that don’t always reach his shoes are the order of the day. As well, of course, as his sweaters many of which have seen better days and boast worn through holes as proudly as a 4yr old might flaunt his band aid over a graze. The only tell-tale sign that he may be out of the ordinary are the bright red socks he likes to wear: made all the more obvious by his slightly too short, trousers.

His accent is not a local one. He was brought up here as a boy by his grandmother but then his parents paid for him to go south to Boarding School at the tender age of 5yrs old. Talking to him, it seems possible that his idiosyncrasies may have been obvious even back then. Perhaps this was thought by the family, to be a solution to having what has been termed ‘a problem child’. There’s no one around from back then to ask.

He came back here when he retired. ‘Here’ is a small town of about 1200 people with roughly the same number again living in the surrounding, mainly crofting, countryside. That’s enough of a mix to offer variety but not so many to warrant any interest, thankfully, from any fast food chains with neon lights. We do get however, a lot of visitors in the summer months from all over the world who come here to chill (sometimes literally) and to play golf.

I’m not sure anyone who stays here or who has visited us over the last 10 years will be unaware of Donald’s existence because he makes a point of personally greeting as many visitors as he possibly can and filling them in on the detail of how wonderful this part of the world is. And since his domestic and culinary skills are non-existent, he has a tendency to turn up on the doorsteps of those who live here all year round, inviting himself in for anything from a cup of coffee to dinner – or even breakfast!

How do the townspeople react?

It’s true that he has been a source of a great deal of irritation to many. He is no longer welcome in the local Golf Club or in the Golf Clubs immediately north and south of his hometown because of his habit of walking around with golfers talking through their shots and refusing to move on.

For very similar reasons many hotels in the area have banned him from crossing their threshold as all too often he has disturbed dining rooms where people expected to be taking quiet evening meals, with his incessant chatter and almost histrionic laughter.

On Sundays however, his woollies are replaced by a smart blue blazer. The corduroys are switched for grey flannels and a striped tie is hung around his neck as he makes his way to church. He always sits in the same seat in the second front row. His presence used to make the minister slightly anxious, fearing an outburst from Donald in worship, but while he can often be vociferous before the start of the service and his laughter overtly loud, he says nothing out of place during proceedings and afterwards simply gives the minister a mark out of ten and leaves.

His greatest disappointment he tells locals and visitors alike over and over again, is that he has not yet been asked to read the lesson in church. This is, as everyone knows, because once in front of a captive audience, no one can be sure of what he might say or of how long he might say it for...

That said, the community is remarkably understanding and in the main accept him for who he is and as he is. They always have done. And in their own quiet, no fuss way, they look out for him. They check he is up in the morning. He is fed in various homes on different nights of the week. He is even invited to play chess with the local headmaster once a fortnight – so long as he never divulges the score!

But these things happen all the more frequently now he is sick.

He won’t say what’s wrong because he doesn’t know. Or rather, he doesn’t want to know but the raucous laughter is dampened a little and his face looks drawn. He still greets visitors but he goes out much later and returns home much earlier. He still says inappropriate things at inappropriate times and calls on locals and accosts shoppers and dog walkers but there’s less bark to his bite now.

Some say it’s nothing physical that’s causing his apparent decline, it’s money worries. His car is off the road. He hasn’t had a delivery of heating oil in over 15months. He doesn’t treat himself to dinner out even occasionally now. These things have been noticed.

But money worries don’t slow your steps or drain you of colour. Money worries don’t make you stoop or dull your eyes with pain.

He lived alone.

But he didn’t die alone.

Highland people may be reserved but we are definitely not cold nor insensitive nor uncaring. Even those whom Donald had managed to offend rallied round. They respected his wish not to know what was wrong and didn’t ask too many questions. Instead they brought him his newspapers. They loaned him books since he loved to read. They left him meals. And when the time came, his sheets were changed sometimes two or three times a day. As winter approached his oil tank was filled.

And on the day of his funeral, the church was packed.

And even the minister wore red socks.