Epiphany for Mary

 I am, I have always thought, a Good Person.     I try to help people and be a useful member of society.     I go to church regularly and have never failed to do my bit in supporting worthy causes and caring for the less fortunate in spite of my own health problems.     As such, I had assumed that people would appreciate my efforts and give me credit for them and I had lived with this comfortable belief for many years.   So it came as something of a shock when one day last week, Friday to be precise, I was cruelly disabused of this notion. 

I had agreed that I would do a stint selling flags for  Dr. Barnardos, and had chosen a pitch outside the most popular department store in our small town,  Brownlow’s, which I knew would be busy as there was a civic dinner due to be held the following week and many of the local dignitaries would be looking for new finery to wear.     I was sure it would prick their consciences when they were making luxury purchases to have to think about those poor orphans.     Well, it just goes to show how wrong you can be.

It was a lovely day and the town was buzzing with people, so I confidently set up my little stall and settled down on my folding seat, gratified by the generosity of some of the passers by.   Before long I spotted  my friend Mrs. Caldicott approaching – or so I thought.    I saw her suddenly hesitate and look round furtively, but then she realised that I had seen her and she walked towards me smiling.   As she drew near I distinctly heard a voice in my head, her voice, saying  

“Oh no, it’s that dreadful  woman again with her good works.  She’d spotted me before I had chance to escape.   Every week it’s one thing or another but I suppose I’ll have to give her something or she’ll be telling the world how mean I am.”

Then I heard another voice, this time emanating from her mouth, saying

“Hello Mary, how lovely to see you.    It’s wonderful the way you support all of these causes:   you quite put me to shame.     Of course I’d like to buy a flag.    Are you going to the WI meeting next week?      You are?    I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it – do you think you could give my apologies?”     With that she vanished into the store, leaving me quite perplexed:    I must have imagined it.

 I soon forgot about the strange experience as many people came along and popped coins into my collection box, and I began to feel that warm sense of having made a difference that one gets from helping others.   My  knee and shoulder were rather painful, but that is just something I have to live with and I don’t like to make a fuss about them.   ‘ It’s an Age Thing,’  the doctor says ‘keep taking the tablets.’    Well,  I don’t do that, I don’t believe in taking too many drugs, so I just work things out for myself. 

Then suddenly:

“Goodness, it’s Mary Brown!    For Heaven’s sake don’t ask about her arthritis, I’ll be here all day:   how she won’t let it defeat her, how she’s coping with it, all the exercises she has to do, how other people just give in to it......”

 A voice in my head again.    Startled, I looked up to see Joan Baker, a friend from church, smiling down at me.

 “Mary,”   she exclaimed,  “what are we supporting this time?    You should get a medal for all these things that you do.    Are you going to the PCC meeting next Thursday?     Yes?    Umm, of course we could have gone together but I can’t make it unfortunately – will you give my apologies?”     A heavy clunk in the box, and she was gone.     What could it all mean?

 The day was very hot, there was nowhere to shelter from the heat.    I was feeling rather strange:  I wondered if I had got a touch of the sun and was hallucinating, so I had a good drink of water and a biscuit from the packed lunch I had brought with me.    I had intended to finish my stint of flag selling then go to the park to eat lunch and feed the birds but I hoped that a little sustenance would make me feel better.    The water had got warm and the biscuit covered my fingers with melted chocolate so I must have looked a sorry sight as I licked them and pulled a face at the tepid water.   I felt flustered and quite out of sorts and looked round desperately for some shade but there was none to be found:   I dare not leave my little table and collection box:   I tried to stand up but the effort made me dizzy;   I stumbled back heavily on to the small seat which promptly overbalanced as I fell, with the result that I ended up in a confused heap on the pavement.     I glanced round, hoping that someone would come to my aid – preferably not anyone that I knew.    To my dismay at that moment Mr. Peterson from the bridge club hove into view.    I had partnered him last week and had high hopes of forming a rather closer friendship with him as he seemed such a gentleman with very refined tastes – I really would have preferred him not to see me like this, but I was sure he would understand when I explained things.

I could see his lips moving, but the words that I heard did not relate to the movements of his mouth:

“Well, well, it’s that old trout from the bridge club:   I’ve always thought she must be a secret drinker – too perfect by half if you ask me.   I saw her gulping from that bottle –bet it’s gin.”

I stared at him aghast as he bent down to help me up.   I heard his voice, his actual voice, saying

 “There, there Mrs. Brown, you look very flushed, can I help you?”

 I was shocked into action, and stood up with the aid of his outstretched hand, brushing myself down and assuring him that I was quite alright, just a little overcome by the heat.

 “You’re quite sure?”  he enquired, “I’ll get along in that case.   I won’t be at the bridge club next week, though - something has cropped up.”   

 He was gone before I could say anything dignified and suitably cutting and I realised that he hadn’t even put any money in my box.   

 It was no good.   The day had been too much for me and I decided to go straight home, where at least I could get a nice cup of tea and my dear cat, Tiddles, would be waiting for me – such a comfort to have the unconditional love of an animal.

 Fortunately it was not too far to walk and I managed to get back to my own house where I opened the door with a huge sense of relief.    Tiddles was sitting at the end of the hallway looking round at me as I came in.

 Then a voice:   not again, surely?

 “Here we go again....How’s my lovely pussycat?    Have you been a good girl while Mummy’s been out?    I wish the bloody woman would stop patronising me!”

 This was the last straw – I must be ill and in need of rest and a good sleep.   At the back of the store cupboard there was a bottle of brandy that I kept for emergencies and I rummaged behind the tinned pears and tomatoes to find it.     As I reached for it I could swear that it gave me a broad wink.    Then a voice, sibilant, but as clear as day, murmured

 “Hello Mary, I’ve been waiting for you:   I knew I’d catch you in the end.”