Mister Nobody

Bertie had no family. None to speak of. Bertie had been a decent child; he’d worked hard at everything he did. He went to school on the days he wasn’t looking after his father.

When both his parents had passed, he joined the army. There, he found a family and friends. Bertie was sent to the far corners of the world and loved every single minute of it.

One day, while walking in a little park, he met Elsa. Bertie met her more than once, until the day he asked her to marry him.

They had a child, Maisie, who had made it to her twenty-third year when she left them for good. Elsa’s broken heart never mended, and she went to join her daughter a year later.

Bertie never met anyone else. He worked for the council until he retired. He played bingo and bought ten cigarettes which did him for the week.

When he was seventy-three, Bertie contracted Covid-19. He had no family, no friends left and died several weeks after entering the hospital.

Perhaps the Undertaker was overworked, or tired or was just having a bad day, but he had labelled the box that Bertie lay in as ‘Mister Nobody’.

But what the Undertaker didn’t understand, is that there is no such thing as a Nobody.
The elements that had made up Bertie’s bones had come from a galaxy almost 3.4 billion light-years away. The water in his body had been manufactured at the other end of the Universe long before the Earth had been created.

The elements in his skin had come into being when a giant star had exploded at the very edge of the Milky Way.

So, you see, he wasn’t a Nobody. He was a little slice of the Universe made human for the shortest of time. That is, until he was called back to be among his real family again.

Sleep well, Bertie. Sleep well.

bobby stevenson 2020

Love. Love. Asap.

 

Run my friend and don’t look back
Don’t think the rest of life is yours
Or that unfinished day
Will hold its course as planned
Take what you think is needed now
Don’t hesitate, for loss is never reinstated
Breathe deep and strong
Then run and love and live
And tell all of those who need to know
How much their hearts are needed.

bobby stevenson 2020

 

"FOR FRIENDS"

No one will stand by your grave and weep

Nor will they talk of long lost friends

No one will raise a drink nor wish you well

For all the years you spent near by

You were not asked nor were you wanted here

Be sure you have not won the war

This battle has only just begun

We will not rest, nor disappear

Until the day a child asks

“Please tell me, what was cancer?” 

bobby stevenson 2020

The Chipped Cup by the Sink

The tea-set had been bought to celebrate some achievement of someone – perhaps an anniversary that had demanded new dishes for the family. When that celebration was over it had lain in the back of a cupboard until that piece of furniture had been damaged during a bombing raid in 1941.

The cupboard was emptied, and Helen found that nearly all the cups and saucers had escaped without damage. Except, that is, for one cup which had a chip in it - on the rim.

It would not make a comforting cup of tea. So Helen held back one saucer and sold the other seven cups and saucers as a set for two shillings.

The chipped cup was placed beside the sink and held all manner of things: a toothbrush, a pencil, a wonky knife, and several types of soap. Helen saved up all odds and ends of soap, eventually making them into one usable piece. After all, there was a War on.

That day the Telegram arrived from the War Office and she rolled it up and placed it in the chipped cup. The news could wait until tomorrow, and so she slowly made her way up to bed.

When she got married, it was a custom in those parts to throw pennies at the bridal car as the bride left to go to the church. Helen’s uncle had collected all the coins and placed them in the chipped cup.

Helen and her daughter went to see the Beatles at the town hall as a treat for her fortieth birthday – Ringo Starr signed her ticket and then she had placed that glorious stub in the cup as a souvenir.

After her daughter had their first grandchild, Helen stood a photo of the little girl, Amy, in the cup for her to look at as she stood by the sink.

The letter arrived about a week after Helen had been to see the doctor, so she put the envelope in the chipped cup and went to her bed, after all the - news could wait until the morning.

On the day of the funeral, Helen’s daughter washed the cup, and although it was old and worn, she made a cup of tea and drank from it. She wished her mother well, where ever she was.

With her mother now gone, Helen’s daughter sold the family home, but the one thing she took with her before the new folks moved in was the chipped cup by the sink.

She placed it by the sink in her own home.

bobby stevenson 2020

THE MAN IN THE BLACK JACKET

When I found the letter and the photograph, I thought it was just an old photo of Whitechapel taken by my great-great-great-grandfather. He had been an early user of the, then, new photographic technology.

The letter writer was my grandfather, James Butterworth, who had opened a small shop on Whitechapel Road in the Spring of 1888. The shop sold everything, and anything and my grandfather James had befriended many of the locals. He had come originally from Derby or somewhere near. However, my family were never too sure.

It was said that he was a kind soul, who lent many of his neighbours a farthing here or there to stave off their troubles. This was the reason that he got to know Mary. A woman who was a little older than James, but he had befriended her on sight. She would travel to his small shop for a talk or perhaps to repay him on his kindness when she could afford to.

There was one other man. One who James mentions in the letter. The man would regularly follow Mary, and when James would refer to the ‘gentleman standing outside’ – Mary would just laugh and say ‘oh, him, he’s harmless’. In the letter, James remembers that the gentleman was known as ‘Leather Apron’ in those parts.

James had lent Mary another penny ha’penny to get her through another tough week. So it was a surprise to my grandfather when the constable came calling on the morning of August, 31st to inform him that Mary had spent the previous night in a bar in Brick Lane. The constable was interested if James knew anything of Mary’s whereabouts beforehand.

James told the constable about lending her the money and wondered why he was asking the questions. The constable told James about Mary’s horrible death at the ‘hands of a madman’.

Several more women met an untimely end, and my grandfather noted that each time, the man known as ‘Leather Apron’ was always in close proximity to those ladies. My grandfather had even been under suspicion himself as were many in the area.

That was why James was determined to take a photographic plate of the man. The sad point is – according to the letter – the man was facing him when he was ready to take the picture but had turned to walk away, sharply, when he saw James looking at him.

The man is the person in the centre of the photo with the black jacket.

That is Jack The Ripper.

bobby stevenson 2020

THE LAST HUMAN

We are only memories.

I have memories as a kid; at least I think I do. About being with my mother when I was about four or five years of age, and we were crossing a bridge over a rail track. It was a winter sun, and the air was as fresh as daisies. I could hear the ‘fut-fut-fut’ of the approaching steam train, whistling as it came around the corner up by Jason’s Creek.

I would stand on the bridge motionless, close my eyes and hold my breath. All of a sudden, the train would pass under the bridge, and I would be enveloped by the smoke and smell of the steam. It was an addiction which I loved.

I have other memories, which I think are mine, about later years when the steam trains had long since gone. Some of us would relive the old days when we heard that an old steam engine had been brought out for the day. Standing on the bridge would be those with recording cameras, waiting for a chance to capture a piece of the past. I wouldn’t take photos -

I would just close my eyes, smell the smoke and be four years of age again.

But the truth is, I’m not so sure which of those memories are mine and which belong to the warmbloods. That’s what they did, back then, when they knew their time was limited. When they’d realized they’d screwed up the world with their global warming, with their floods, with their rains. They started transferring their memories into us, the coldbloods - the robots. That way, their thoughts and memories would last as long as we did. I can never be sure which memories are mine and which are theirs. Did I really stand as a kid and smell the train smoke?

And now the last of the warmbloods, the last of the humans has died and we, the robots, the coldbloods are standing on bridges waiting on a train as it pulls the last human through the country for us all to pay homage to. To see where we came from.

We, the coldbloods, stand here not sure if we have tears, or if it’s the rain.

All we can do is remember.

It is all that we have.

bobby stevenson 2020

Corin - The Best of the Best

#MentalHealthAwarenessWeek #StaySafe

Corin always knew he was a genius. It came from being a part of a small family of only 172 brothers and sisters. At least, that was his take on things. Having such a tight-knit family meant he got to know all his siblings intimately.

He learned everything from them.
So when the village was looking for a wise man, they looked no further than Corin – ‘The Best of the Best’ as he was usually called.

His favourite writer and poet was Robert Burns. Corin had found his collection of poems in a pile of books that had been thrown out by the other-world. Funnily enough, his two favourite books were titles that originated from Burns’poems: ‘Of Mice and Men’ written by John Steinbeck, and ‘Catcher in the Rye’ by J.D.Salinger. My how he loved to read those.

He was the village doctor, detective, encyclopedia, singer, poet, and cook. There wasn’t much Corin couldn’t do. Well, except for playing football, he was pretty awful at that.
The first big test that Corin faced right after he was made the ‘best-of-the-best’, was the day that Suzie Tumbleweed found herself at the lowest point in her life.

The Warren had been in a lockdown situation since the news that myxomatosis (a virus) was on the rise again and it was Corin’s job to patrol the area keeping a lookout for sick animals.

Suzie was at the end of her rope and had been talking about walking out into the Fox’s Lair and finishing whatever this thing called existence was.
“It would mean certain death,” Corin told her in a kind yet stern voice.
“I realise that but what is the point of living if all I do is hide in this hole waiting for the virus to get me? There doesn’t seem much point in being alive.”

Corin hummed and hawed, and then he walked this way and that way. Up and down. Side to side. 

Finally, he coughed and muttered ‘dear, dear, dear’, then he talked to Suzie.
“I realise you are tired and fed up with this turn that living has taken in the Warren. We all are, to be honest. Some days I am happy, and many days I am sad, but I would never walk off into the Fox’s Lair. Never.”
“That is what my mother did,” said Suzie.
“And that left you sad, did it not?” Said Corin.

Suzie nodded.
Corin continued,”what you seriously have to think about – is the other lives you would be taking with you?”

“And who would those be?” Asked Suzie.
“Why they are all of you, of course. No one is the same creature from year to year. It is said by the wisest of rabbits that we shed our skin and bodies, and by the time we pass, we are not physically the same creature as when we were born. Each year we see new things, new lives, new loves, new hopes, and yes, new skin. Who is to say that the person you become in two more years would not be happy and looking forward to life? What I am saying is, Suzie – if you do take that walk into the Fox’s Lair, you will taking with you all the future souls you might have become – souls that regretted the decision you made to go for that walk. You will not only kill yourself but all the other you’s that would have loved to have breathed and been alive. To have hoped and cared. This decision is only about the rabbit you are now. Nothing more.”

Suzie started to weep, and Corin kindly held her.

“I will leave that thought with you my precious little rabbit. Be happy.”
And Corin continued on his way being the best-of-the-best.

bobby stevenson 2020
Painting: http://www.cherylbakerartist.com/

Beautiful

So you’re not as thin, nor as fat as you wanted to be,

Or as tall, or as short, or with a little more hair,

You’re not as clever or wise as they said that you were,

Or have looks that have people chasing you there.

And you’re not that great person with so many friends,

Or as famous or rich as you dreamed life would bring,

But the dust of the stars was moulded and shaped

Into the soul that is you,

By someone

Or something.

You’re not as graceful or talented as you hoped you would be,

Or have a family and home that was always packed full,

But you’re loved and unique, and somebody cares,

How could you be anything other than beautiful?

bobby stevenson 2020

Today is International Nurses Day.

Mural by The Rebel Bear, Ashton Lane, Glasgow

YOU, KILL ME.

So I am gonna tell you the story exactly as she told it to me and you can make your own mind up:

“I was working in the Teddy on that particular day, the day when the two gentlemen came to call. It was unusual as we usually had only one customer at a time. But hey, you gotta take the money where you can get it. They didn’t arrive together, which made me think that they were trying to have a meet without anyone else over-hearing if you get what I’m saying. They both asked me what the special for the day was and I told them it was the mac and cheese. They both seemed happy with that. One of them was a real good-looking man with a New England way of talking, and when I walked across the floor, he mentioned that I had a really nice way of moving. I took that on board with both hands, I’ll tell ya. The other was a dark, strange-looking fellow, who seemed to be keeping one eye on the door.

I was wiping the counter, and that was when I heard the conversation they were having. And this is where I swear it got strange. The good-looking man said that it was true that he was dying of cancer or something. I couldn’t quite hear as they would stop talking when I got close. I couldn’t keep asking if they wanted more coffee as it was starting to look strange. That was when the other asked when he would do it.

It seemed that one man was dying and he wanted the other, a hitman, to shoot the dying man and that he’d get well paid. He just wasn’t to tell him when it would happen. ‘Let it be a surprise’, the good-looking man said with a grin.

I remember they left a big tip and shook hands, and then they drove off in separate cars and in different directions. It was only when I read the papers a few weeks later, that I realised that one of them was the president, and the other was some guy who shot him from a book depository.”

bobby stevenson 2020