FRAMES

RYAN FITZGERALD

“Let me tell you a story, sonny,” the old lady said, turning to me and flashing a toothless

smile. Disinterestedly looking out of the window as the landscape passed by at breakneck

speed, I hadn’t heard her the first time. But the second time she spoke she’d caught my

attention.

I’d been on the train for, maybe, almost an hour. I glanced at my watch; I was way off,

it seems I’d only been travelling for just over fifteen minutes. Still more than two hours

of this mind numbing journey left.

“Why not?” I replied, rubbing my forehead briefly. It wasn’t like I had anything better

to do.

“Well, it’s quite a nice story, about trains.”

Great.

“A mysterious gentleman once travelled this very same route, and sat exactly in the seat

you are in. How do I know this? Because I was sat in the seat beside him, where I am sat

now. He had a bowler hat, the shadow of which concealed most of his face, and wore a

dark grey suit. In his left hand was a briefcase, attached by a chain to his wrist. Or maybe

it was his right hand…I forget. It’s not important. The man smelled strange, like fresh

spring flowers, even though it was the middle of autumn. That’s what was so strange

about him. Reminded me of something my grandmother used to say. Ah, my

grandmother, she was a good woman, you see…she had to spend most of her later years

looking after her brother, and on a small pension too. My grandfather died before I was

born, killed in the war, so I never met him. But my grandmother has told me a lot about

him. There was one story about him that will stay with me forever.

““Listen up, Edna,” my grandmother said. “Your grandfather was a great man. I

remember clearly the first time we met. It was a cold, bitter winter’s night, and I had been

locked out of my own house – I was a bit forgetful in those days, you see. Well, I was sat,

shivering on my doorstep, waiting for my neighbours to arrive back home – they had a

spare set of keys, thank god.” I forget what she said their names were. Ranson, Robinson,

something like that. It’s not important. “Well, anyway, I was sat on the steps, nothing but

my work clothes to keep me warm. I’d stayed late at the office that night, to get

something finished.” My grandmother was a good woman, you see. She liked getting

things done. “Your grandfather, well, he was just a passer by who happened to take pity

on me. Seeing me sat there, shivering on the driveway, he wandered over and offered me

his coat. “I can’t take that!” I said, but he insisted. And, what’s more, he sat with me

throughout the night. After a few hours, I realised that the Robinsons” – or the Ransons, I

forget now – “were on holiday. I felt incredibly stupid. “Come with me, I can look after

you tonight, and you can get in touch with someone in the morning.”” Well, I guess they

were going to call the police or something, get them to help her get into her own home.

Anyway, my grandmother continued, “Anyway, I went with him. He was so kind. I asked

why he had stopped to help a complete stranger, and he said, “Let me tell you a story.”

“““My father”” – that would be my great-grandfather – ““he was a good man. He

always stopped to help people out when they were in trouble, whether he knew them or

not. It cost him much, but he would always insist that “I gain my compensation in the

thanks of those I help.” Bloody good man, he was, my father.” Well, I believed him, let

me tell you, for here was the continuation of that good will. “What is your father doing

these days?” I enquired, and that was when a sudden change came over your grandfather.

“My father is dead. He rescued an old lady from a burning house, but the flames, or

smoke, I don’t know which – it’s not important really – they finished him off. Well, not

entirely. He didn’t die from that day, but he was never the same afterwards. I read in a

book somewhere, “There are always two deaths, the real one and the one people know

about””” – I don’t know where he got that from. It’s not important – ““Well, my father

really died that day. He couldn’t do as much as he wanted to do – he had to watch

impotently as his inability to help constrained him. One day, he fell down to the floor. No

one stopped to help him to his feet. All of those strangers he had helped, and not one

person would help him to his feet. He lay there, unable to move, in the middle of the

street. Well, it began to snow, and that night, my father passed away. I have made it my

sworn duty to live out my life, helping every stranger I see, especially on nights as cold

as this.” For it was a very cold night. But, his words had warmed my heart. I fell instantly

in love with this noble man.””

At least, that’s what I think she said. It’s not important.