Padraig O'Reilly

 Padraig O'Reilly

As I approached the bus-stop this morning, hat-less and care-free, enjoying the noon-day sunshine, I looked around for my new friend Padraig O'Reilly. It has become one of my routines on alternate Wednesdays, after the coffee-house discussion in the Old Mill. This smartly turned-out young man caught my eye a few weeks back with his rubber knee-pads,  leather belt, high-boots and his taut, kung-foo, readiness. I was too polite to ask his business, but too curious to ignore his evident plea to be noticed. Perhaps a fantasy warrior. Or a prisoner on early release for good-behaviour. 

He had responded most courteously to my greeting in a lovely Irish lilt. I soon gathered his destination, his preference for the early shift, his ambitious saving-plans, to learn to drive and then to buy a car. He wanted to know the hours I used to work (9 – 5 in my case, or 8–6 when I accounted for travel). And my regular breakfast. I was charmed by his openness, and interest. I learned of his 'traveller' in-laws; and out-laws, as the case might be.  I realised that I was being measured against his own experience. 

This morning I complimented him on his neatness and he, in return, praised my turnout. He reached for a note-book in one of the conspicuous pockets hanging from his leather belt. As he thumbed through to the back page, I remembered that writing was one of his prouder accomplishments. There he had listed five lotteries, including Euro-millions, Set-for-Life and the "Post-code" Lottery. In these he had decided to invest £50 a week.  Forty pounds, he corrected himself, sheepishly, as he crossed out the "post-code" lottery; someone must have told him that it did not operate like the others. 

"You are feeling lucky, are you?" I teased. "A feeling in your bones?"

"Some years ago", I continued, "I thought I might run a lottery in which the punters would all give me £2 a week, I would pocket one pound and give them £1 back. For that is all these other lotteries are doing, isn't it," I continued; "except that they give a million pounds to one guy and nothing at all to a million other guys. (Maybe they give 50p to charity; and pay tax on the 50p they keep.) 

"You can't win if you don't enter", he replied. 

"Very true, very true," I conceded. "What would you say to this, then: every week you give me £50;  and after 4 weeks I give you £200?"

"You have to stick to the limits you can afford", he told me. "Never go over". 

"That is good advice" I agreed. 

He waved me onto the bus ahead of him, and I accepted. He likes to sit up front by the driver; by the door. 

Four weeks later, Easter Friday afternoon,  I was queuing in the post office behind three men all of whom were there simply to buy a lottery ticket and a scratch card. The man at the front handed over £4.50 which he had ready as coins in his hand. I, still on mission, was tut-tutting to myself when my ear was caught by the conversation of two women behind me. One was telling the other that she knew of a chap who won a million pounds on a scratch card. Bought a house, the money soon gone. 

I realised that it was I that did not understand lotteries. Oh, I understood the maths alright. It was the hour or two of hope, of dreaming, that was beyond my emotional register.  No imagination, that was my problem.

As I packed my purchases into my bag I turned to the women.

"I was excited to overhear that your friend won a million pounds", I said; "One in a million, I suppose." 

"Yeh, literally!" she replied.

The Girl on the Bus

 The Girl on the Bus

I celebrated my retirement from Newcastle University by buying a round-the-world plane ticket, and arranging to work for a year in a biochemisty laboratory in Taiwan. A kind friend, gave me a 'Travel Diary' in which to capture my thoughts and impressions; though she by no means understood why I was leaving her for a year.  I found it, the other day, gazed at the cover for a few moments, before opening and leafing through a few pages. I stopped at an entry titled "The Girl on the Bus" where a book-mark fell out. The words on the page evoked forgotten memories. 

It was three days before Christmas. Though I had been warned several times that Christmas and New Year were foreign concepts and very minor days in the Taiwanese calendar, nevertheless there was a hint of holiday in the air. And it was a Sunday. I decided to make a modest trip out of the city of Taipei, perhaps to the extreme north of the island. I took the mass-transit-railway to its westerly terminus at Tamsui. From there I could catch a bus to take me round the coast to Shi-men. I would have no idea when to get off the bus except by keeping an eye on my watch and assuming the bus was running to timetable; an hour and 10 minutes to Shi-men.

The ramshackle bus set off from Tamsui bus-station shortly before 11.30. I, an obvious foreigner in his early sixties, had a good window seat on the left side of the bus. A considerable number of people got on at the next stop, and a local girl in her mid-twenties came and sat by me. 

I looked out seaward at the passing view, with my chin in my hand. We swayed against each other occasionally but it did not seem to matter; we had room enough; it was only momentary. 

After 20 minutes the girl started to search for something in her bag, and eventually brought out a little bookmark, or 'favour', made out of a dried leaf-skeleton decorated with bright yellow straw flowers, green straw leaves and a tiny blue straw butterfly. This she offered to me. I have it still, twenty years on, as this bookmark in my travel diary.

I am sure that my face fully expressed my surprise, gratitude, and embarrassment. I had become accustomed, over the months, to conversing almost without words, using glances, gestures, and guesses. Imagine me, in a barbershop,  requesting a trim and declining a massage, a shave, and a facial, all in gestures. 

"It is Chinese" she said in cautious English. 

"Indeed, very Chinese!" I agreed, delighted at the opening thus created. We got to talking, occasionally, and carefully. I told her I was was going to 'Shi-men'. She thought I would arrive at about 12.35. She was going to San-zhi. 

"I am meeting someone", she confided. "I have a 'date' ",  

"Really?", I asked, rhetorically.  I am sure that from my face she could read my pleasure, and perhaps my surprise. Though not, perhaps, their cause. For it was her trusting directness that surprised and charmed me. I am sure my face must have beamed my happiness, and gratitude; but could she read there my best wishes for her future happiness in this exciting development?

The Girl on the Bus

 The Girl on the Bus

The ramshackle bus set off from Tamsui bus-station at 11.30 (or shortly before!). I, an obvious foreigner in his early sixties, had a good window seat on the left side of the bus. A considerable number of people got on at the next stop, and a local girl in her mid-twenties came and sat by me. 

I looked out seaward at the passing view, with my chin in my hand. We swayed against each other occasionally but it did not seem to matter; we had room enough; it was only momentarily. 

After 20 minutes the girl started to fish for something in her bag, and eventually brought out a little bookmark, or 'favour', made out of a dried leaf-skeleton decorated with bright yellow straw flowers, green leaves and a tiny blue butterfly. And she offered it to me. I have it still, twenty years on, as a bookmark in my travel diary.

I am sure that my face must have fully expressed my surprise, gratitude, and discomfort. She said it was Chinese. "Very!" I agreed. We got to talking, occasionally, and carefully. I was going to Shimen. I would arrive at about 12.25, she thought. She was going to Sanzhi. "I am meeting someone; I have a 'date'". 

"Really?", I asked, and again I think my face must have shown my surprise and pleasure; but not perhaps their cause, for I was surprised and charmed by her trusting directness. But I also beamed my happiness for her and my best wishes. 

Heaven!