THE SAMARITAN

             Fred was almost asleep when he heard a bang at the front door. He sighed, grabbed his dressing gown and trudged downstairs. Who would be out on such a night?

            “Yes?” Fred was not impressed.

            “Give us a push, mate?” The question slurred from beneath the dripping hood of an anorak.

            “What? I hope you’re not driving?”

            “Me? Course not, just need a push, mate,” said the swaying figure.

            “Sorry, pal.” Fred was in no mood for this. “Find someone else. It’s two in the morning.”

            He slammed the door in the drunk’s face and returned to bed, anxious not to awaken Alice.

            “What was that about?”

            Fred smiled at her squinting face, dimly jaundiced by the street light. “Some drunk at the door wanted a push, love. Probably broken down somewhere up the lane.”

            “Why didn’t you help him?”

            “In this weather? And at this time of night?”

            “What about that party last year?” she said. “Your work do that we just had to attend. I said the car needed a service, but you couldn’t find the time to take it to the garage, could you?”

            “No, dear.” Experience had taught him there was no point arguing.

            “And what happened?” She was wide awake now.

            “The fan belt snapped.”

            “Yes, it did.” Alice sat up and folded her arms. “Down some road in the middle of nowhere. We’d have been there for ages if those two lovely young lads hadn’t stopped and fixed it.”

            “Always figured you fancied them.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them.

            “I’m old enough to be their mother. So clever of them to suggest using one of my stockings as a fan belt.”

            “Yes, dear.”

            “So, you get yourself out there and help that chap. You’ll feel better about yourself.” Alice always knew what was best for him.

            Fred sighed again, got out of bed again and dragged some clothes out of the wardrobe, wondering exactly why he would soon be feeling better about himself. Downstairs, he donned his waterproof jacket and cap.

            With one final groan, Fred pulled the icy boots on and opened the door. He peered into the rain lashed blackness. “Are you still there?” he yelled.

            “Yesh, mate.” The response was barely audible in the storm.

            “Do you still want a push?”

            “Yes, please, mate.”

            Fred couldn’t make him out. “Where are you?”

            “Over ‘ere – on the swing...”