A Flurry in Time - Linda Lenehan

[Ceri Shaw]

I was busy cramming numerous files into my already bulging document case when Janet, my secretary, rapped on my partially open office door. The sharp staccato sound instantly drew my attention.

‘Mr Bennett, I know you said you did not want to be disturbed, but your mother is on the land line, and it’s the third time she’s called in the last hour.’

Normally composed, her words sounded somewhat strained.

‘Janet, I’m way behind and-’

She silenced me with her… you need to take this call, look. Janet had been with me since the first day I opened my own consulting firm and I trust her judgement implicitly. Sighing audibly, I told her to put her through and continued to cram the numerous files wherever I could fit them.

Less than a minute later my desk phone shrilled, almost urgently, as if advising me not to ignore it. I didn’t have time for one of my mother’s long carping phone calls right then as I had to be at the airport in less than two hours, and knowing the New York traffic would be chocker block, I was cutting it fine, far too fine. Taking a deep air cooled breath; I snatched up the receiver and said, ‘Mother, I can’t chat right now-’

‘For crying out loud Charles, you are such a difficult man to get hold of,’ my mother whinged, her voice high-pitched and penetrating.

My knuckles whitened. I wasn’t up for this. ‘Mother, I’ll have to call you-’

‘I’ll come straight to the point, Mr. Crowther died last night…’ she paused, waiting on a response. None immediately came.

‘Charles, did you hear me?’

‘Sorry, mother… what did you say? I replied, still sorting through files with my free hand. Dropping one, I told her to hang on and switched the phone to speaker mode.

‘What was that again?’

‘I said… Mr Crowther died last night and the funeral-’

‘Old Mr Crowther from-’

‘Yes, Charles… old Mr Crowther from down the road,’ she repeated and waited again for me to reply. But the only sound she heard down the line was that of a slight crackle, like dry wood burning. Elevating her voice to a pitch, which nearly always gained my attention, she continued, ‘Charles, are you suffering from some kind of auditory comprehension problem… or am I conducting a conversation with myself?

‘Eh… sorry mother…it's been so long since… so many years… I’d quite forgotten about him,’ I answered somewhat indifferently.

Instantly she snapped back, ‘Well, he never forgot about you. Every time I saw him… every time… he would ask after you. Such a pleasant man… such a soft… oh never mind. Anyway, the funeral is this coming Wednesday… ten o’ clock… St Peters Church. Will you be bringing Alice and the boys? If you are, and I hope you are, I have to warn you its pretty darn cold here at the moment, so take warm clothes. Oh, yes… you’ll have to stay at Killay Manor… I’m in the middle of having the spare bedrooms painted… the fumes… shockingly bad for dear little Gryffydd’s chest so-’

‘Mother, what are you talking about? That’s in four days time…I can’t just up and leave New York for Swansea just like that! I’ve got far too much on at the moment… up to my neck in work. No, sorry, I’ll have to give the funeral a miss. Tell you what… give Janet the details of where we can send flowers-’

‘What do you mean, give the funeral a miss? Good Lord, Charles, you have to come. You just have to!’ she replied crossly, as if I had just said I couldn’t be bothered attending her own memorial service.

‘Whoa there, don’t get so excited. Swizzle your wig back round-’

‘Wig… what WIG?’ What on earth are you talking about Charles? And stop changing the subject.’

‘Mother, I am not changing the subject as you put it, and I was only joking about the wig-’

‘This is not a joking matter! You know, Charles, after your father died, Mr. Crowther stepped in, magnanimously I might add… and made sure you had a man's influence in your life,’ she retorted, highly affronted by what she obviously thought was my lack of remorse.

I had to smile at that word magnanimous. Although I had never witnessed any obvious intimacy between Mr Crowther and my mother, I had had my suspicions as to how deep their ‘friendship’ had actually been. Especially on the nights he would have supper with us and I would sometimes hear him slipping out of our house long after I had retired to bed. Taking into consideration that it had been many years since I had spoken to him, all of a sudden, memories, pleasant memories flashed through my mind like an old black and white movie.

You see, when I was growing up in Swansea, Mr Crowther had definitely played an important part in my life when I was a young boy, and more importantly, a troubled teenager. During those awkward years as a headstrong adolescent, the old man managed to spark my interest in many different things especially carpentry, which eventually became my passion. Not that I have time for it nowadays. Apart from always ‘being there’, he would often sit patiently with me simplifying subjects which caused me immense difficulty at the time, such as basic maths, trigonometry tables and the bewildering rules of calculus. And he took great pleasure in arranging hush-hush day trips. And they were hush-hush, because I was never allowed to know beforehand where we were going, as he claimed it would spoil the surprise. When I was a young boy, those trips consisted of local carnivals, circuses, fishing expeditions, car shows, and when I entered my teens, rugby and cricket matches, visits to museums, art galleries and my favourite, the annual boat show in London. All of which aided the old man’s itinerary of my edification.

When the time came for me to go off to university to study architecture, our relationship was unintentionally severed and never got back on track because as soon as I had received my degree, I left

Wales for the United States to take up the internship I was offered within a prestigious group of architects right in the middle of New York’s capital.

Then four years later I went out on a limb and started up my own, I’m pleased to say, now highly successful consultancy. My marriage to Alice followed, and our twin boys Peter and Gryffydd a year later, which leaves me hardly any free time for myself, let alone a visit to my old mentor - and now it was too late, the old man was dead. I felt a needle of guilt stab at my heart.

Hearing my mother’s voice saying, ‘Charles, Charles, don’t you dare put me on hold!’ I switched the phone back to hand held and said into it almost reverently, ‘He's the one who taught me about carpentry…’ then my voice died away again, as if lost.

‘Charles, I know that… and he taught you a hell of a lot more than carpentry. He was practically a surrogate father… and a hell of a good one at that.’ My mother reminded me, her voice once again elevated. Not a good sign.

‘I agree with you, and I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him.’ As an overwhelming feeling of contriteness flooded me, I announced, ‘Mother, I'll be there for the funeral. But I doubt if Alice and the kids will be coming with me… quite short notice… boys and school… Alice’s job... you know how it is.’

‘Humph, it would be nice for me to… to actually meet my grandchildren you know. It’s not as if I can visit with you… not with my fear of flying!’

‘Yes, I know, and I agree, but I really have to go… got a plane to catch… we’ll discuss this later.’

I hung up the phone and before I had settled it back in its cradle, Janet appeared once again in my doorway. She has this uncanny knack of materializing when I need her, as if conjured up by magic.

‘Ah Janet, I was just about to buzz you… anyway, directly after I’m finished in Washington I’ll be going on to Swansea. Can you make the additional flight arrangements?’

Nonplussed, she told me to leave everything in her hands as she walked over to my closet, took out my spare Armani suit and three freshly laundered shirts, and carefully added them to my well-travelled valise.

***

I landed in Swansea Airport the next Wednesday with two hours to spare before the funeral service was due to begin. As I had taken my valise and document case onboard with me, I was spared the inevitable palaver created by others as they frantically grabbed oversized Samsonite suitcases off the carousel. Or God forbid, the absolute panic should those suitcases pass them by. Anyway, not having to endure that, I hired a car and made my way towards my hometown, Upper Killay.

With most of his friends already deceased, Mr Crowther’s church service was small and uneventful. However, as we gathered around his graveside, I my attention was sidetracked by a large white cat sitting in the middle of a cluster of lichen covered and peculiarly lopsided head stones about six meters away, and it seemed like it was, well, grinning. That part of the cemetery was quite old, with many of the graves most probably dating back to the last century. They looked shamefully neglected and uncared for. But when I looked again, the cat was gone. I thought no more of it - for the time being.

When the service was over, we were invited back to the old man’s house for light refreshments. Once there, I paused momentarily on the doorstep, engulfed by melancholic trepidation. When I went inside it was like I had crossed over into another dimension, a leap through space and time. Nothing had changed. The house was exactly as I remembered it. As I wandered from room to room, every picture, every piece of furniture held memories.

I muttered to my mother, ‘I loved this old house…’ then I stopped dead in my tracks, and exclaimed, ‘Oh, NO!’

‘What's wrong?’ my mother asked startled.

‘The box… it’s gone,’ I replied, disbelief cloaking my words.

‘What box?’ mother asked cocking one eyebrow.

‘There used to be a small wooden box… ornately carved… very old… he kept it on his desk, just over there. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. And all he would ever tell me was, “Inside is the one thing that I learned the most from in my life,”’ I replied crestfallen.

It was gone. Everything about the house was exactly how I remembered it, except for the box. Disheartened, I figured someone from the remaining Crowther family had taken it.

‘Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him,’ I said sadly, more to myself than anyone else.

***

It had been about three months since the old man died and hurrying to work one day, I discovered a note amongst the clutter of the ever-increasing bills and junk mail. It read: Recorded Parcel Delivery - Signature required. Not thinking much of it, the note remained in the glove compartment of my car for the next two weeks until my attention was brought back to it by a duplicate from my wife. She explained she had tried to fetch the parcel for me, but the counter attendant had refused to relinquish it because my signature was required. No exceptions.

Irritated by the time I was about to waste making what seemed an unnecessary journey to the post office, as I was not expecting anything which required only my signature and not that of my wife or secretary. I made the necessary detour.

Once there, I was lucky and found a parking space right outside. When I entered the building I groaned. It was packed. Brilliant, I thought and joined the slow moving queue. When my turn came, I handed the note to a disinterested counter attendant. Without any conversation except a perfunctory thank you, I took the parcel out to my car and opened it up.

The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught my attention. It was from a firm called, Remington & Partners, Attorneys at Law. I couldn’t believe my eyes; inside was the wooden box, and taped to it, an envelope with the words written in the all too familiar hand of the old man. It read:

Upon my death, please forward this box and

contents to Charles Timothy Bennett.

H. W. Crowther.

When I opened the envelope, a small key fell onto my lap. My hands shook, my heart pounded and tears threatened to spill out of my eyes as I ran my fingers slowly over the finely carved casing before unlocking the lid. There inside I found a snow globe depicting a small Victorian village, and on closer inspection, I saw a greyish white cat sitting at the end of the tiny street. Intrigued, I shook it gently and the 3D scene inside instantly changed from merry clarity to a blizzard engulfed landscape with the cat racing around the circumference haphazardly. I stared at it until it settled back to its original peaceful setting. Before I put it down, I noticed the cat had returned to its original position, and

it was, dare I say it, grinning. Then I unfolded the letter and started to read.

My Dear Charles,

You often asked me what the box that you now hold in your hands contained, and until now, I have never told you. The reason I did not was simple, up until now, you would not have learned anything by it.

The snow globe (terribly old) is the one thing that I learned the most from in my life. You see, my father gave it to me many, many years ago. I want you to pick it up and look carefully at the characters inside.

Done that?

Right, let me move on. You will see smiling men, women and children wandering through small streets in between quite elaborately depicted Victorian buildings. Look carefully and you will also see a white cat. The detail is quite amazing, is it not?

Confused?

I don’t blame you, so was I when given the same globe.

You see Charles, what my father (a man of many cryptic words) told me when he gave it to me was:

Do not be frightened of new challenges, and should you fail, there is no reason to be ashamed. You will learn far more from your mistakes than your triumphs. Life knocks all of us down at some point. But we get back up and make some changes because that is what men do. We adapt. And when we are done adapting, we are better equipped to survive. But all of this takes time, and time we cannot buy. As you pass through your life journey, look around and make sure you enjoy it. Do not be like the cat in the globe scurrying around with no purpose.

Still confused?

For what its worth, let me translate that into my own words.

Go forth and get on with your life. Be successful, but never lose sight of what should be important to you, and that being family and friends as well as people, similar to those wandering through the streets in the globe. Make time for them, and importantly, make time for yourself.

You never knew this about me Charles, but I did have a wife, once upon a time, and sadly, I lost her because I was far too career orientated and never spent any quality time with her. I won’t bore you with the details. But lose her I did, Stupid fool as I was. Hence, I learnt from my mistakes, albeit too late.

Charles, the cat in the snow flurry reminds me of myself when I was much younger, always rushing around - always so much to do. And what did I achieve by charging around like that? Not a great deal.

You were much like that cat as a young boy, constantly twirling in never ending circles, and I fear your life is still a race against time, a race against yourself.

Now Charles, in the bottom of the box you will see a small ivory button.

Found it?

Excellent!

Now press it. Forgive and old man’s folly, but I have never really grown out of my childhood penchant for secret compartments.

Found the watch?

Of course you have!

Apart from the snow globe, I wanted you to have this special timepiece. I bought it for you as a celebratory gift for your twenty-first birthday, but I decided not give it to you thinking it too old fashioned for such a smart modern enterprising person. Now open the watch and look at the inscription inside. I have never altered that inscription, and you will see it says, Thank You for the Time We Shared Together… And that is what you gave to me, you gave me your precious time, and in so doing, made an old man feel worthwhile.

Thank you Charles.

H. W. Crowther

I held the watch tightly in my hands for a few minutes, momentarily overwhelmed. Then as if a switch flicked in my head, I knew what I must do.

As soon as I arrived in my office, I asked Janet to clear my diary for the next month as I was taking my family to visit my mother in Swansea. It was about time she became acquainted with her daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

In all the years Janet has worked for me, she has never witnessed me taking any proper leave, not even a sick day. If she was a cartoon character, her tongue would have lolled around her knees, such was her surprise. Before she could say anything I continued, ‘By the way, Janet, thank you for all the time you have spent working on my behalf. I know, on occasions, I haven’t been the easiest of men to work for… so, as a long overdue token of my appreciation… take a couple of extra weeks paid leave. Enjoy some well earned quality time with your family.’

Linda Lenehan © 2009