Cancellation - a short story

Mum was furious, of course.

“That’s unprofessional, cancelling at such short notice. What are we expected to do now?” Of course, what she did was work furiously to find someone else. But it was never going to be the same.

I had been looking forward to this for so long, because this was going to be a very special event. I know it was only opening the town fate, but he was going to be here, and I – as mums only daughter – would be in charge of him, look after him for the hours he was around.

Of course, at school, this made me the centre of all attention. Everyone wanted to be my friend – except Jennifer Oswald, if I remember correctly, who though he was a creepy old man. But then, she was never one to go along with the crowd. I looked her up recently, and found that she had taken her own life many years ago. That shook me. I wondered when I read that.

And yes, I loved being the special one for a change. I loved all of the attention being about me – well, about him, but about me being the conduit to him.

When mum told me he had cancelled, my world fell apart. It might have been the last chance I had to meet him – he was doing less these days, and he was rarely on the TV. This was my one chance gone.

Needless to say, the day itself was an embarrassing failure, despite mum finding some soap star who could fill in.

It was a few years later that he died, and it all started. I couldn’t believe it when the rumours started, all those people telling lies about him. Why would they do that? Why would they say that stuff about him, my hero. Why would they tell all them lies about him? He would never do that – he loved kids. I couldn’t understand why so many people wanted to make him out to be a monster. Stupid cows – telling their stories for their minutes of fame.

Of course, now I realise the truth. Now I know what he was, I can see. It’s amazing what hindsight does. Now I realise that I had a lucky escape. I used to think that the weekend was my nightmare when I had missed my chance to meet Jimmy Savile. I now realise that it was my lucky escape from rape, abuse, a nightmare like Jennifer.

The Machine

So this is my machine. As you can see. It produces chocolate - at its peak, it produces the best chocolate you have ever tasted. Wonderful, rich, sweet chocolate - the best.

Of course, other machines do other things. Some of them produce cups of tea. Others flowers, grass, all sorts of stuff. They are great machines, which do wonderful jobs.

But they are broken. All of them.

I mean, not totally. The chocolate mine produces is still superb, but not quite as good as it should be. The tea should be always that hot cup of tea when you are dehydrated, that you down in one go. Occasionally, it produces that perfect cup of tea. Most of the time, the tea is not quite that good. Just occasionally, it is horrible.

We all know that the machines are broken. That is the way things are, but there are different ways of dealing with this.

Why don't we buy new machines? Well, that is the plan. We have asked for new machines, and there are plans for new ones to come at some point. The problem is, they take a long time, or something. We will have new machines, one day. But not now.

There are those who react to this by ignoring their existing machines. They stop producing, sit by their machines, and tell everyone that the new machines will be wonderful. Actually, they would be better if they did just that, but some of them do like to tell other people that they are wasting their time. One of them was even shouting at a chap that he would never get a new machine, because he had painted his old one in rainbow colours.

I thought it looked fabulous.

There are some who do seem to argue that the machines have had it, and there are probably no new ones coming, so we should just get everything we can out of them. They don't mend them, just work them until they finish. Their products are not that good, but they don't seem to care. Oddly, these two groups share a disregard for the current machines, and just differ on the possibility of new machines. And yet they seem to be completely at loggerheads with each other permanently.

I don't fully understand.

I should point out that we all work on each others machines - they are far too big to handle on our own. I have a number of those who help me with mine, and I help other with theirs. We all enjoy the fruits of the machines, which seems to work OK.

There are some who don't seem to want to mend their machines. When steam pipes break, they get someone to hold it closed. When levers snap, they get people to hold them. It is bad - people get hurt. That is how I lost my two fingers, but I don't work with that machine any more.

Of course, they keep people there by withholding their products from those who don't support them. For some, the risk is worth it.

So they think.

I don't take that position. Maybe I miss out, but maybe I will keep the rest of my fingers.

They argue that the people were made to serve the machines, that the important thing is the machines producing, so that everyone benefits.

Some of us take a different perspective. We argue that the machines were made for the people, to make good things for us. So when my machine breaks, I try to fix it. I have to scrape around for the pieces to mend mine, although those whose machines are broken are sometimes willing to let me have their cast-offs. The machine is, I suspect, mainly held together with chewing gum and string.

But we all work together on it, happily. And we still produce very good chocolate, for everyone. And nobody gets hurt. OK, well sometimes people do, naturally, but then, everything is broken, isn't it?

...

I don't have to explain this do I? I could have called it "Heaven and hell".

John and Cuthbert

While on my retreat, I wrote a short story about Cuthbert. I hope you enjoy. it is not perfect, but made a point for me at the time.

John and Cuthbert

John had always admired Cuthbert, of course.

“But how would he cope with my life, my work, my problems” he would sometimes mutter. The work and pressures of his particular monastic journey were getting John down. He always seemed to be busy, never finding time to unwind.

 “It’s alright for him” he moaned, “wandering off to his island there whenever he wants to. Some of us have to do the work that keeps him fed, you know”. The work that morning had been particularly tough and unrewarding, meaning that he was going to have to return later to finish off.

It was odd that they bumped into each other just an hour later, passing in the cloister. John tried to avoid the meeting, but Cuthbert seemed to make an effort to come over to him. John was not sure why, as Cuthbert simply greeted him saying “God’s blessing on you, Brother John” as he passed.

It was the late afternoon, when the monks would normally be free for a couple of hours private study or similar before the evening meal, when John had to return to the field and finish off. He watched Cuthbert walk over to his island, huddled in his hood as the wind lashed him. “It’s alright for you” John thought. Even more so as the rainclouds gathered, threatening, above him.

As he continued to work, Johns mood became as dark as the clouds above him. The rain had started, and the only bright spot was Cuthberts island.

Hang, on, that was wrong. Why should the island be OK, when everywhere else was miserable and dark? That made no sense. As he finished on bundle, he looked over and saw that, sure enough, the island was lit up, as if it was bright sunshine.

“Typical” muttered John, “he even gets his own good weather”, but he was puzzled, because the light seemed to radiate from the island, not onto it.

As he watched, the island glowed, centred on the cross that always stood there. The cross glowed too, but not the white shine of the rest of the island – in the midst of the storm, the cross was a just visible red streak.

John sat down and offered this vision to God. It slowly started to dawn on him.

Cuthberts role wasn’t the easy one – it was just different. His role wasn’t the hard one, it was just the place he fitted into at the moment. It is probably true that Cuthbert would not have coped as well as he did with some of the pressures of his work. It is almost certainly true that Cuthbert struggled with the whole monastic life thing, just like John himself did, sometimes. It was wrong to be jealous, because every place has its challenges, its problems.

That was the thing, he realised. Being jealous is wrong, because every role has its challenges as well as its benefits. It is far too easy to see the benefits, and not realise the challenges, especially if these are hidden.

The truth is, John realised, that each has their own part to play. It may take a time to find that part, and the part will not necessarily be easy, but it is where you best fit. That is Gods ideal place for you at this time, and if it is Gods place, he had no right to be complaining.

He was still kneeling when he felt a touch on his shoulder, and opened his eyes to see that it was getting dark. As he turned, Cuthbert was standing there, smiling.

“Come, on, lets see if there is any food left” he said.