A Helping Hand
By: DL
(Copyright 2007 by the Author)
The author retains all rights. No reproductions are
allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...
dl@tickiestories.us
Chapter 1
People say that there is usually a 'silver-lining' to every bad thing that happens. Personally I've always been a little sceptical about that; but perhaps, looking back on the events of this story, I might just have to concede that it may possibly be true.
The story started for me on a late October day in 1984. I had been involved in several issues that day and by mid-afternoon, had had a blazing row with a managerial colleague. I knew it was going to continue and also that I was about to lose my temper big-time because of our inability to reach a compromise.
There was a school of thought at work that I was a miserable, bad-tempered S.O.B., always losing my temper. They were wrong they'd never seen me REALLY lose my temper: and I was determined that wasn't about to change (I know that I can become violent when I really lose my temper to date [2007] its only happened three times: the events described in this story are a result of episode #2!).
So, after another heated exchange on the phone with my colleague, which finished with him saying he'd stop by my office to continue the discussion; I slammed the phone down attracting attention from people working in the open-plan office next door picked up my car keys and stormed out to my car in my reserved parking place.
I quickly started it up before anybody could stop me and spun out of the car park at high speed with a squeal of tyres yeah it really can be done if you've got the right sort of car! I made it to the A45 [now renamed the A14] and put my foot down hard on the accelerator, heading towards Cambridge.
Looking back, twenty-plus years later, I have to say that I was bloody lucky NOT to get nicked for speeding that day! Fortunately, back then, it was before the widespread introduction of speed cameras: the only real danger was from road-side radar traps and they weren't often to be found on dual carriageways. I was seething as I drove; far too uptight to be rational, and I deliberately drove very fast I kept mostly well over 100 m.p.h. for nearly an hour to force myself to concentrate on driving.
By the time I'd started to calm down and unwind I was a long, long way from home and in uncharted territory (for me, anyway). I slowed to the legal 70 m.p.h. speed limit, turned the stereo on, and started the CD player I was going through an ELO phase (Electric Light Orchestra), and had their Discovery album loaded. I just cruised along then till I reached the next service station.
Parking, I went into the shop and found a road map, bought it and then went to the cafeteria and got myself a mixed grill (a platter typically consisting of chips, eggs, bacon, beans/fried tomatoes usually a choice sausages, and a steak; this particular service station also included fried onion rings) and a couple of Diet Cokes [always small in service stations and hideously expensive]. I got a table for two in the corner and proceeded to slowly (for me) eat the meal and then I pushed the tray away and unfolded the map. I spent the next half hour or so working out where I was and finding a back road way home I definitely wasn't in a hurry to return!
Having planned my route (the long way round) home, I sat and finished my second Diet Coke whilst making notes of my projected route. Finished, I set out homewards; I'd already decided that I wasn't about to return to work and 'face the music' over the problem that had caused my angry departure: that could wait till tomorrow.
And that's when fate, destiny, chance call it what you will took a hand. I was driving slowly even reluctantly homeward along the back roads; quietly pleased with myself that so far my route was working out (I'm a lousy navigator!)
I turned, as planned, down another quiet country road just on the outskirts of a fairly large village and accelerated gently away. About a mile down the road I could see a collection of caravans, trucks and through gaps in the hedge cars, off to my left and then as I rounded the next corner there in front of me were a gang of youths in the road.
I slowed automatically as soon as I saw them because of the narrowness of the B road and subconsciously noticed the startled looks thrown my way by a couple of them. As I drew closer, I could see them almost hesitate, as if unsure what to do; and at the same time I realised that they were surrounding another youngster lying in the road. Time seemed almost to stand still as I slowed down, approaching them; and then as I made up my mind to stop and see if they needed help, flicking on the indicator, the group seemed to make up its collective mind and turned and ran away down the road all bar the youngster lying in the road.
As I pulled to a stop just in front of the boy, I could just see the other youths disappear through the hedge on the left, way down the road. Switching off the engine I got out and looked around for other traffic or people before rounding the front of my car. I realised as soon as I did so that the kid had been beaten up fairly badly: he was groaning, curled up with his knees drawn up to his stomach and had obvious bruises to his face (plus a split lip, and a black eye on the way).
I knelt down beside him and rather stupidly said, "Are you all right?" [Yeah, even I can't believe how stupid that was!] He just carried on groaning through his clenched lips, eyes tightly closed. I was at a loss for what to do; and consequently just knelt there for several minutes until the spell was broken when he squirmed on the road slightly and looked at me for the first time. Seeing him move brought me back to reality I don't know where I'd been between times and I brushed his brown hair away from his eyes and said "Would you like a drink of water?"
He slowly nodded his head [wincing as he did so] and I stood up and fetched one of the 500ml bottles of mineral water I kept in the car. I knelt beside him again and unscrewed the cap; as he seemed either unwilling or unable to hold it himself, I cradled his head in my right arm and raised him slightly while holding the bottle to his lips with my left hand. He swallowed from it greedily and some was spilt down his chin when I, unthinking, didn't take it away from his lips to allow him breathing space. "Sorry" I stammered, and he looked at me and the hint of a grin crossed his face.
I held the bottle up and said "Like some more?" he nodded more enthusiastically this time (quickly regretting it as pain flashed across his face) and I again held the bottle to his lips taking care this time to pay attention and over the next few minutes he drank 3-4 times from the bottle, and I eventually looked at him and asked "Enough?" He nodded very gingerly, and I laid him down and screwed the cap back on the bottle.
Turning back to him, and seeing he was no longer clutching his legs, I asked "Are you able to sit up?" He looked at me oddly, almost as if thinking, and then spoke for the first time: "Yeah, I think so." Hearing him speak confirmed what I'd already suspected: he wasn't English! [His light-brown complexion had already made me think he was a 'foreigner' I didn't think it was the result of a tan and his accent had confirmed my thoughts.]
"How about we get you across to lean against my car?" I said, reaching out a hand towards him. He hesitated fractionally, and then reached for my hand and started to rise. I could tell from his body language and his muffled moans as I helped him up that he was in pain; leaning on my shoulder he hobbled the few steps to my car and I swung him round and helped him sit gently on the bonnet.
"So, did you and your friends have a disagreement?" I probed gently. He shook his head very slightly, almost imperceptibly, resting his hands on his knees and looking down at the road. I was a mass of indecision; which was not unusual: in my professional life I am able to be decisive, knowing almost instinctively what needs to be done [and modesty aside, I was mostly right]. But take me away from work and I had difficulty making even basic decisions, let alone more important ones.
Now I was standing there thinking: 'What the hell do I do now?' My brain had been weighing the options even while I was thinking about it: (a) leave him there and drive off; (b) leave him there and find a phone to call the police/ambulance [back then, mobile phones were non-existent and car phones rare]; (c) take him to the nearest hospital.
"I think I'd better take you to the nearest hospital." I said after chewing over the only options I could think of. His reaction was swift and decisive; "No!" he yelled at me, getting off the bonnet and backing away from me round the side of the car.
"Hey, calm down!" I exclaimed, "I can't just leave you here you don't look fit to go far and the other kids aren't far away," I continued. He stopped, hesitantly, as if realising the truth of at least some of what I'd said.
"I don't want to go to a hospital," he muttered sullenly, not looking at me. "OK." I replied; lost in thought, as he'd shot down what I considered the only viable option open to me.
After several minutes standing there separated by the bonnet of my car, I mentally shrugged my shoulders, and said: "Would you like me to take you somewhere away from here?" He looked up, looking at me directly, as if assessing me: for the first time I got a good look at his face full-on with his eyes open. Out of his one good eye I could see his bright blue eye watching me.
"Would you?" he finally replied, almost holding his breath, as if he expected me to turn him down. "Where would you like to go?" I replied almost automatically.
Again there was a silence between us. Finally I asked him out of curiosity: "Do you know where you are?" His gaze dropped, and after a short pause, he quietly replied "No." I don't know even now what had made me ask that question but it was almost as if I knew the answer before he spoke. "What were you doing here?" I asked almost straightaway. There was a longer pause this time and he seemed to stiffen, as if searching for an inner resolve. "Just getting away," he finally said even quieter than the last time; the tone of his voice made me think that further questions would only make matters worse.
Realising that we weren't getting far like this, I finally lost my reservations about giving a stranger a lift and said "Would you like to go to a service station, clean yourself up and have something to eat?" At this he looked at me again speculatively; I thought I understood his hesitancy and said: "It's all right, I'm not going to hurt you; but I don't think I can just leave you here." He looked at me, still undecided, and I decided I'd better take control. "Come on, get in the car and let's get away from here," I said, moving slowly towards him.
He stood still as I came round the side of the car, and then turned away, stumbling as he did so. I quickly stepped forward and caught him before he fell, and helped him to regain his balance. "OK, it doesn't look like you're going to walk too far for a while, let's go and get you cleaned up." He finally shrugged his shoulders and then nodded his head; bringing a gasp as he did so. I opened the front passenger door and reached in to chuck the odds and ends I had on the seat in the back and then turned and helped him slowly to get into the car. His discomfort as he bent to get in; and again as I helped him fasten his seatbelt was obvious.
Slamming the door I retreated to the driving seat and started the car. I moved off and drove silently to the next village, where I parked outside the Post Office so he could be reassured that nothing bad was going to happen.
Switching off the ignition; I turned to him and said: "OK, would you like to call someone?" pointing to the nearby phone box. He firmly shook his head, wincing as he did so when he realised it maybe wasn't the smartest idea.
"How about if I take you to a service station so you can clean up and get some food?" He'd obviously had the time to think while we drove and this time he turned towards me and said almost hopefully: "Would you?" and then after a momentary hesitation, he continued "Only I haven't got any money." I started to ask a question and stopped myself before I had said anything; I thought there would be enough time for questions later.
Instead I leaned over and reached into the back of the car, and retrieved the road map I had bought earlier. "Don't worry about it. Let's find out where we are and where the nearest service station is." I finally replied.
I spent the next few minutes working things out with the map; interrupted only once by the kid asking me "Excuse me; please can I have some more water?" I got the half-empty bottle out of the door pocket and gave it to him, saying: "Here you are; there are some more bottles on the back seat if you'd like more." And then I returned my attention to the map.
Finally, having established where I was and the shortest route from there to the nearest service station, I laughed grimly to myself, forgetting I had a passenger. "What?" he said, looking at me. "Sorry, I just found out that the nearest place to take you is where I started from!" He flinched as if I'd hit him, and I could see he was upset by something. "Don't worry; it's only about 20 minutes from here. You OK?" He quietened and shrugged his shoulders.
Sensing that I wasn't likely to get anything further out of him, I started the car and set off on my amended route. Just over 20 minutes later, I was indeed back where I had started! I parked, switched off and turned towards my nameless passenger; "You wait here and I'll get you a couple of things so you can clean up a bit." Getting only a nod in response, I entered the station and bought a towel and face cloth, some plasters and a T-shirt (I hoped in his size) before returning to the car.
Pulling down the sun visor in front of him to reveal the vanity mirror, I gave him my purchases. "If you use some of the water" I gave him a new bottle from the back seat "to wash your face and clean the blood off, you won't look so bad. I got you a T-shirt as well as your shirt is soaked in blood. I'll leave you to clean yourself up and I'll wait for you at the table at this corner of the building. If you come in when you're ready, I'll get you something to eat; I can lock the car from there."
He nodded slightly and I left him to it. Inside the cafeteria again, I bought two more Diet Cokes one each this time and went to the table in the corner I had indicated. After nearly ten minutes, I could see him struggling with his coat and shirt and then a few minutes later his door opened and he stepped out hesitantly, leaning against the car before closing the door. I watched as he took a few shaky steps towards the building, and I debated whether to go and help him, but he seemed to strengthen as he started to hobble slowly to the door. I keyed the remote, locking the car, as he came through the door and made his way over to me.
He gingerly sat down at the table and rested his elbows on it. I pushed a Diet Coke towards him, and he reached for it and slowly drank several mouthfuls before putting it back on the table. "OK, what would you like to eat?" I said, handing him a menu. He read it for several minutes and then started to hesitantly ask for some individual items (toast, orange juice). I stopped him by waving my hand in front of him and gently took the menu away from him. "I don't want you to order the cheapest things on the menu; just what you would like to eat. So, you tell me what you would like, and Ill tell you if it's on the menu; and you won't get distracted by the prices." He blushed deeply at this and I couldn't help thinking what a cute kid he was with most of the battle-stains removed from his face.
"I'm going to have a mixed grill, what about you?" I said. "Can I have one as well?" he replied. "Sure you can; is that what you would really like though?" I asked. "Yeah, that would be good, thanks," he answered. I left him and went and placed the order, adding an extra portion of chips, egg and bacon for him along with another two Diet Cokes again one each. I returned to the table with the food and passed him his; he looked at me as I gave him the plate with the extras on. "I thought you might be hungry; I've already eaten today." I said in answer to his unspoken question.
Time passed as we both ate our food; me distractedly, as I had indeed already eaten I wouldn't have had another mixed grill except I had thought the kid would be nervous eating alone while I watched and him gingerly because of his lips, but apparently he was in need of food.
He finished first as I played with my food, and sipped his second coke until I put my knife and fork down. "Would you like some ice cream for dessert?" I asked, and he looked down, unsure what to say. "I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't mean you to accept." I said and he looked shyly at me and nodded slightly [he was learning not to move his head too much or too quickly]. I went and got two dishes of vanilla ice cream and handed him his. "Thanks." he said. We quietly finished the ice cream and I waited until he'd finished and put his spoon down before saying: "We have to talk, and here should at least make you feel safe. But you really do have to answer a few questions."
He sighed, and then looked up at me and said. "OK, I guess I owe you that. Thanks for stopping for me." He looked away as he said it, and I could see tears starting to form in his eyes. I stood up and went and bought a small packet of Kleenex tissues and yet another couple of Diet Cokes. Returning to the table, I slid the tissues and a coke in front of him. "Here you are; dry your eyes."
He nodded his thanks [he hadn't learnt; a grimace followed] and slowly opened the tissues, and wiped his eyes. I gave him a couple of minutes to recover, and then I held out my hand and said: "My name's Dave, what's yours?" He looked up, saw my outstretched hand, and I saw him smile for the first time before he replied "I'm Juan, thanks Dave, for everything."
To be continued . . .
Background
Well, before rejoining the narrative in the cafeteria, I guess its time to give you a few details about me. At the time the events in this story took place in October 1984, I was 28, single, 5' 10" and slightly over-weight, with ordinary looks. I was a departmental head in a small, privately-owned company, employing nearly fifty people. The company itself was one of three companies in a group owned by a holding company; all told the group employed nearly 130 people in and around the town where two of the companies were based.
I lived alone in a three-bed detached bungalow out in the sticks about seven miles from work. I'd moved there two years earlier after a bad car accident while on my way to work at 5:30 a.m. in the morning. At that time I lived nearly twenty-three miles from work and after the 1820 hour days I worked it wasn't good travelling that far. I had often made the trip home with the stereo blaring out on high and the windows down to keep me awake.
So, after I was lucky enough to walk away from the said accident and no, surprisingly, given the preceding paragraph, the accident was definitely NOT my fault! [I was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. A lorry driver had thought nothing else was around at that time in the morning and tried to overtake another lorry, going uphill into a triple bend then as he was alongside it, I came round the third bend with nowhere to go. The rest, as they say, is history.]
After that I resolved to leave the parental home and buy a place of my own, nearer work. I could afford it: I made nearly £40,000 a year; although I definitely earned every penny. It didn't take too long to find a place and I'd moved in, with only the barest of furnishings: a bed, computer table, my stereo and BBC Model B computer in my bedroom. I had added a bed/settee and dining table in the lounge-diner, along with a TV. In the kitchen I had installed an electric cooker, fridge/freezer, washer/dryer and a dishwasher; none of them got much use: I was never there. I hadn't before fate took a hand and thrust Juan into my life bothered about furnishing the remaining two bedrooms; they had just been carpeted along with the rest of the rooms.
Surprisingly to me at least the insurance company decided to repair my car! I couldn't believe it when I heard about it, as I had felt sure that it was a write-off. So, whilst working long hours, I spent the next nine weeks hiring a different car every week to get about (I enjoyed myself, trying different models). That cost a bomb nearly £3,000 by the time I had finished; although I got most of that back from the lorry driver's insurance* at the same time I had found a house, bought it and moved in. So, as the nine weeks came to an end I was looking for a new car my first ever brand new one! My old car went from the repair shop straight to Chelmsford Car Auctions; I never drove it again (instead I drove my brother's car behind him as he drove mine to the sale). We stayed long enough to see it sold for £1,475 about the right book value for age, condition etc. even though it had just had over £1,800 spent on it by the insurance company in repairs!
At this point, before getting back to Juan and the cafeteria, there are two things I want to bore you with; both happened while I was car hunting and they both amused the hell out of me at the time, and still do when I look back so here goes:
(1) I went to the Ford main dealer in Ipswich I didn't like our local dealership and was looking around a Granada 2.0 GLi at that time, it cost about £10,000, and was typically regarded as an executive company car; and was not often bought by individuals with my younger brother [he knew much more about cars than me]. We had opened the drivers' door to have a look inside, and stood back looking at the layout; I suppose it didn't help that I was wearing a duffle coat and purple carpet slippers (because of an ingrowing toe nail that made it impossible to wear shoes). A salesman came over, ignored us, and closed the door and buffed the top of the door with his sleeve then walked off without a word! I couldn't believe it, and exchanging glances with my brother we left.
(2) The same day the incident in (1) above happened, my brother persuaded me to go with him to the new Volkswagen garage in Colchester. We arrived and walked inside the brand new building, and a salesman (Larry, I later found out), came over and greeted my brother by name, shaking his hand warmly. Then he turned to me and said, "You must be Dave, Sam has told me a lot about you." He totally ignored the fact that I was standing in this plush showroom in somewhat incongruous attire; he apparently, unlike John Gross's salesman in Ipswich, didn't make any judgements based on my clothing!
But the thing that amused me here was this: I was in a brand new VW showroom and it was full of Vauxhalls, Citroλns, Renaults and Peugeots there was in fact, only one Volkswagen in the place! I asked Larry about this, and he smiled and explained that it was because of a strike by the German steelworkers that had started in mid-January (it finally finished in late September!) And the reason this amused me so much was simply that during the late 1970s, the UK had been stereotyped as the industrial misfit of Europe; with the all-powerful unions always dragging industry down it was always on the nightly news about the latest strike: but we never heard about this long-running German steelworkers' strike!
Anyway, Larry took us over to his desk, got us both a coffee and started talking about cars to us. I told him that I was really interested in the new Audi Quattro four-wheel drive saloon that had been introduced last year. He looked wistful, and said he was sure I was out of luck and turned to his computer. He explained that ALL unsold VW/Audi cars in the UK were listed on VW's computer network and the dealerships co-operated in moving vehicles around to match up with potential buyers. After a brief search he said that as he had thought there wasn't an unsold Quattro saloon in the UK. Then he said, "But if you've got that kind of money to spend, maybe you would be interested in this."
And he led me over to the only Volkswagen car in this VW showroom! It was a metallic blue VW Santana; a 5-cylinder, 2-litre, fuel-injected saloon, capable of 140 mph (the name wasn't popular and the next year the model was renamed the Passat; it was the top of the Volkswagen range). He said it was only £600 more than the £10,500 the Quattro would have cost me, and he offered me a test drive. I shouldn't have accepted, neither should I have bought it, but I did both: and that was the car I met Juan in. And so finally, back to the service station cafeteria.
_________________________________
*What really annoyed me was that I had to pay
insurance for the hire cars but the lorry driver's insurance company refused to
pay that part of the hire fee. They maintained that I would have had to have
insurance so it wasn't an additional expense. My point was that yes; I would
have to have had insurance, and that indeed I had PAID for a full year's
insurance prior to their client wrecking my car! I never could get them to see
that point though and lacked both the time and will to pursue it through the
courts.