The enigmatic Angela Partridge entered my life in the small hours of a Friday morning. I had been fast asleep, dreaming of rail privatisation and wondering why vast new marshalling yards were being sited in the Outer Hebrides, when I heard two steam engines exchanging furious warbles like persistent mating birds. My diffused mind was already doubting the plausibility of this when I woke to realise my phone was ringing.
I leapt out of bed like an Olympic hurdler, stumbled over carelessly discarded shoes as I tried to orientate myself in the darkness, blundered through a doorway that wasn't quite where it should have been, and headed for the relentless phone. It was pitch black outside. Whoever was ringing at this hour was either the bearer of extremely bad tidings or some utter half-wit with no consideration for a working man.
I grabbed the phone and croaked into it like a toad with tonsillitis.
The caller was female, young by the sound of her watery voice.
"Oh, thank goodness!" she gasped in relief. "You've been engaged for simply ages - I thought I'd never get through ..."
She seemed so pleased to hear me that my annoyance gave way to an unaccountable surge of forgiveness, bordering on benevolence.
"I tried so many times," she went on, "and I am sorry to bother you again so soon, but you said I could if I ... if I needed ..."
Silence followed. Then came a quivering sob. I ask you, what was I to do?
"Look," I growled, my throat behaving like a badly blocked drain, "something's not right here. For a start, I haven't been near the phone since Wednesday. You must have dialled a wrong number."
I nearly added "Stupid woman!" and was on the point of slamming down the receiver when I caught a soft pathetic whimper:
"Isn't that the Samaritans?"
It struck me as a last desperate plea for help. I pictured pills in her hand, a noose around her neck and a large German pistol aimed at her temple - a shade fanciful, since she was presumably also holding the phone.
"Well, actually no," I felt bound to admit. "But you've snatched me from a highly improbable dream, so if you want to carry on talking I don't mind. I mean, I don't know what it takes to BE a Samaritan, but I guess all they do is listen and try to sound suitably sympathetic."
"Oh God!" she cried. "How awful of me. I dialled in the dark so as not to disturb anyone. Besides I didn't want to catch sight of myself in the mirror. I feel such a mess."
I said it was okay - that I probably looked a mess too. I told her I hadn't stopped to fumble for a light-switch either.
"You sound as if you need a friend," I added hopefully. "It's a feeling I know well, so think of me as a friend by all means - if it'll help."
The poor soul started sobbing again.
"Try the Samaritans if you'd rather," I suggested, "or alternatively take pot luck with me. Only please, don't do anything silly. It really isn't worth it, you know - suicide. Things are never quite as bad as they seem in the cold light of day."
That didn't sound at all the way I meant it, so I tried again.
"In the light of day, things and so on don't seem so bad. Am I making sense?"
With no response, I didn't know whether to ramble on like an idiot, or let her cry in silence. But as a lemon-hearted softy I found it unthinkable simply to put down the phone and crawl back to bed.
Besides, she sounded rather cute. Many a virile bachelor would give a week's wages to chat with a lonely girl in the middle of the night.
"I've never rung the Samaritans myself," I went on earnestly, "but I think what they aim to do is make the caller - that's you - talk to them, or in this case me - and tell them what the problem is. I'm here, so just let it come tumbling out, I don't care..."
As usual, my tongue was all thumbs.
"I mean, I DO care, of course I care, I'm a very caring person, and I'd be awfully upset if you chose to commit suicide. You sound a nice person, really, and I'd hate you to die without letting me try and help."
"I'm not going to die," she sniffed.
I expressed relief, saying I was sure she'd made the right decision.
"I never even thought of suicide," she added, "till you suggested it."
"Oh, God," I blurted. "Please, don't think I suggested it. Hell no, that's not what I meant at all. That's the very last thing you should do."
Hopeless! I apologised again.
"I'm sorry, I'm not used to this kind of situation. I mean, I only thought, since you wanted the Samaritans, you must have been about to do something pretty desperate so I ... well, I ... " I broke off as my inadequacy became more and more self-evident. "I'm not much good at this, am I."
"It's okay," she said warmly. "Would you like to tell me your name? You don't have to, but my name's Angela."
"Hello, Angela," I echoed, "I'm Richard. Dick if you prefer, but please not Dickie. My surname happens to be Bird and my parents had a bizarre sense of humour - it was no joke at school, I can tell you. I mean, if your surname were Mouse, would you call your son Michael? Do you have children?"
At this point I heard a distinct giggle, and felt I was being of some use after all.
"If you're a Bird, Richard, we have something in common. I'm a bird too - only my surname's Partridge. I've had to endure a life-time of jokes about being game or living in a pear-tree, but it's no longer funny, not after twenty-nine years."
"That long, eh?" A mere two years younger than me. This was getting more interesting by the minute. I looked at my watch, and couldn't see a thing. I was about to ask if she knew what time it was, when I realised it might sound as if I'd had enough. I hadn't, far from it.
"Look," I said, "this may seem a daft question - and it's really not important - not to me - but could you tell me the time? I can't reach the light without leaving the phone, and I really don't want to do that because I feel sort of ... needed here ... which is a nice feeling. But I'm not sure how much sleep I've had."
"It's five past three," she announced. "I'm so sorry I woke you. It was unforgivable."
I tried to assure her it was perfectly okay, but again I overdid it.
"Nonsense," I exclaimed, "this is fun. For me, that is, though not perhaps for you, since it was you who..."
I knew it was time I gave up, and reluctantly asked:
"Do you want to try the real Samaritans?"
"Not unless you want to be rid of me."
"No," I insisted, "of course not. But please forgive me if I keep saying the wrong things. My heart's in the right place, but my brain's still on Cloud Nine. Truly, I'm not as stupid as I sound. I'm just not used to doing this sort of thing, that's all. I usually try to project a more positive image, but at three in the morning my words don't seem to be coming out in the right order."
"Well, I think it's sweet of you to try, Richard. And if you want to sound more like a Samaritan, you're supposed to start by asking if you can help me."
I cleared my throat, and strove to sound more intellectual.
"Good thinking. So now tell me, how can I help?"
"Try making it a little more gentle," she advised, "and kinder..."
"You mean, sort of, fatherly?"
That did it - howls of distress this time. But how was I supposed to know her damned problem? It's bad enough talking to a complete stranger in total darkness without needing to be clairvoyant as well.
"I guess I said the wrong thing?" I pleaded. "Sorry, but if you could just tell me what's wrong - just a tiny clue? Please?"
There was a quivering intake of breath, released in a long and heavy sigh.
"Daddy died last Saturday," she said. "The funeral's tomorrow."
I tried to sound full of concern. "Oh, Angela, I am sorry. Were you very close to him?"
Another dumb question - most daughters adore their fathers.
"He was all I had," she confided between sniffs. "My mother died when I was born, so that left just him. I became totally dependent too. But now he's gone, and I've had to arrange everything for tomorrow, there are so many things I still need to ask him, and I don't know what I'm going to do afterwards."
While genuinely sympathetic, I felt as inept as someone hurling a sewing machine to save a drowning girl. I couldn't comfort her properly, not over the phone, not in the way I would have liked. Yet I wasn't sure what she expected a Samaritan to do either. It was tough for the poor soul, yes, but she would just have to get over it. The death of a parent hits most of us at some time in our lives, and this week it was Angela's turn.
What could I say? The whole process of coming into this world and going out again was not only natural but vital to the survival of the human race - cruel, yes, but as necessary as putting out rubbish on a Friday morning. But did she want to hear my philosophies?
"I always expected it would be his heart," she was telling me, "though he never listened to his doctor. All that cholesterol, but he wouldn't be told. He was sitting in the lounge watching TV, and when I went in with coffee he was gone. I thought at first he'd fallen asleep. Then I called the doctor, but it was no use."
I voiced an inadequate "Oh dear!" and asked what the dead man had done for a living.
"Daddy worked in the city," she went on. "I drove him to the station every morning to catch his eight o'clock from Leatherhead. I also had to be back to pick him up around seven."
"It's no fun, commuting," I sympathised. "I used to do the same from the west country, up and down for five years until it ..."
I managed to stop before saying it damned nearly killed me.
"Until I got a job in Leatherhead," I ended tamely. "Do you work locally?"
"I'm just a house-daughter," she revealed. "That's what Daddy used to call me. He didn't want me getting tied up with an outside job while he needed me at home. But now I've got no work experience - nothing ..."
I heard more tears, and hoped they were helping to flush away some of her sorrow. But was I of any comfort? Was it kind, inviting her to talk about her father so soon after his death?
I remember thinking though, when my own father died I wasn't unduly sad. Perhaps it was a sign that I wasn't particularly fond of him. Or maybe, once he reached Heaven, he'd bestowed on the rest of us the gift of not feeling too upset over his death, who knows?
But we were never close. My father tolerated me, but seldom expressed approval. I was his only son, so he had to make the best of what he'd got. Personally I think he had a damned fine son, but we didn't share any hobbies or outside interests. He was an energetic sports lover, while I preferred sitting indoors listening to classical music. He liked raucous parties; I enjoy quiet company and intelligent conversation. He liked gardening and kept coaxing me to pull up weeds, which I hated. Thankfully I now occupy an upstairs flat and possess nothing more horticultural than a potted cactus.
"Are you okay?" I asked, sensing that a real Samaritan shouldn't be distracted into self-analysis. "Is anyone else there with you?"
"My friend Betty," she said. "I'm staying at her house tonight but she's upstairs and she's... she's..."
Further information was swamped by another volley of sniffs and convulsive gulps for air.
I adopted a firmer tone. "Angela, listen. I realise it's tough, and I do understand. I went through a similar experience myself not so long ago, but it will get easier as time goes by - at least, it did for me. Haven't you got a special boy-friend you can talk to? Someone who'll be there tomorrow and share everything with you?"
"Not really. There's Betty, of course, but she's got other jobs to see to. I just hope I've done everything I should. I've told everyone where to come and when. Daddy's partner advised hiring caterers to feed those who'll come a long way, but it's not like a party, is it? I've never had to do anything like this and I'm totally out of my depth. That's what's so awful - there's so many things I used to leave to Daddy. He always knew what to do."
I expected more tears here, but she soldiered on.
"Luckily the doctor helped me arrange the funeral, and the vicar too, though I felt guilty about involving him because neither Daddy or I ever went to church. I know I should have gone last Sunday, but I couldn't stop crying and that wouldn't have been fair on the others."
Something made me ask where the funeral was being held.
"St. Saviours," she revealed, "eleven o'clock in the morning. I don't know - it seems so hypocritical having a church funeral when Daddy hated religion. He ridiculed the whole idea of God. Can I ask you something?"
She's going to invite me to attend the service, I thought.
"Will he go to heaven?" she pleaded, as if I had a say in her father's destiny. "You see, Daddy had certain peculiar habits and so on. He wasn't at all what God would see as a good man."
"Nevertheless," I said, "I'm sure he's in good hands now. And it'll make him doubly happy if he can look down from wherever he is and see that you're coping all right on your own. You're entitled to miss him, Angela, but don't be too sad. Remember him with fondness, not with sorrow. In my case, when anyone I knew died, I would dwell on all the good times we'd shared. Like old Ben, for instance - I was very close to Ben. We had lots of fun together, he and I, hunting for rabbits and chasing the dustmen."
"Was Ben your brother?" she asked in a voice like talcum powder.
I told her I hadn't got a brother, just two smaller sisters and a rather large mother.
"No," I explained, "Ben was our dog. A sagacious hound with a keen sense of humour and a thoroughly misguided sense of duty. We used to tease him by pouring warm gravy down rabbit-holes and getting him to dig them out, that sort of thing. But now I can look back on Ben with fond affection, and even though he's gone I still enjoy talking about him. You may enjoy talking about your father in the same way."
"Daddy wasn't one for rabbit-holes or chasing dustmen," Angela admitted. "I'm afraid his interests were far less endearing than your Ben's. I don't want to start remembering half the things Daddy did ..."
She hesitated, and quickly changed the subject.
"Once again, I'm desperately sorry I woke you. But Richard, you have been a great help, honestly. You've occupied my mind with interesting thoughts instead of me just lying here, dreading tomorrow. I really enjoyed our chat, thank you."
"I suggest you try the real Samaritans next time," I advised. "I'm sure they'll be much more helpful. I know I kept saying all the wrong things over and over again. Sorry about that."
"Don't be sorry," she insisted. "You did very well for your first attempt. Maybe you should join the Samaritans? Think about it, seriously. But I'll let you get some sleep now - you've earned it. Good night, Richard, and thanks for putting up with my miseries. You've got a lovely voice and I think you're a very kind-hearted man. I wish there were more in the world like you. Well - good night."
And that was it. Before I could phrase an eloquent farewell, she was gone. Our two paths had crossed briefly in the dead of night. Now all I had in my ear was a dialling tone.
With glum frustration I realised Angela didn't even know my number. If she tried to phone me again, she'd surely get the Samaritans. Besides, I was a newcomer to Leatherhead, not yet listed in the directory. Without my address Angela would have a hard time trying to get my number from Enquiries, even if she'd wanted to.
In a futile attempt to prolong my association with Angela Partridge I looked up the Samaritans' number, which differed only marginally from mine. Impulsively I dialled it, hoping to leave a message they might pass on. But their line was engaged, probably by Angela, now repeating her woes to a trained listener, someone with a heart of gold and a head full of just the right phrases to offer comfort and solace where it was sorely needed.
God bless the Samaritans! Maybe if I joined they'd teach me how to avoid dropping bricks. With a happy yawn I crawled back to bed, hoping to be reunited with my steam engines.
But no Hebridean trains ran that night. I lay awake, my turbulent mind focused entirely upon Angela Partridge. After a restless hour I went to consult the phone book again and found a whole brace of Partridges, none of whom I could risk phoning at four in the morning.
Besides, she'd said she was staying overnight with a friend. And even if she were to return home, her phone might not be listed. Maybe her late father opted for an ex-directory number to deter young men from wooing his precious twenty-nine-year-old. Logic suggested she would have had many hot-blooded admirers - yet I had the impression she was unmarried. Perhaps at twenty-nine she only SOUNDED attractive. With her lights full on, maybe she had a face like a bulldozer?
At five o'clock I was still awake. Resigned to insomnia, I got up and made coffee. I had slept for barely three hours before Angela had brought my dreams to a premature end with her nocturnal cry for help. Those precious few hours would now have to suffice till nightfall.
And what help had I been with my tactless utterances, my inept stab at comforting the newly bereaved? No, I decided, I'd be a total disaster as a Samaritan. I'd probably cause more suicides than I could hope to avert.
I knew it would be tough trying to keep awake at the office, especially on a Friday. After finishing work I would have sixty hours all to myself. I had merely to remain alert until tea-time...
With this daunting thought I yawned like an early morning hippopotamus and dozed off in the armchair. The morning paper flopped through my letter box at six-thirty, but I didn't hear a sound. At eight o'clock my milkman left two pints outside the door of my flat, while I slumbered on.
Two hours later when the postman delivered a cascade of junk mail, I woke with a jump. Stiff with cramp, I stretched my limbs and rubbed my eyes, puzzled by the brightness and wondering why I wasn't in bed. I knew I'd had a very stimulating dream, involving a distressed young lady I'd met in the Hebrides...
Angela! I pictured my nocturnal friend, dressed in black, alone in tears at her father's graveside. It was five minutes past ten.
By the time I'd shaved and dressed it was ten fifteen. Having blown all chances of doing a fair day's work, I phoned my office in a pathetic voice and assured my boss I'd be in perfect health again by Monday. And thus having shelved all other duties for the day, I sat back and thought some more about Angela. If only she'd given me her address or a phone number. But she'd left not a clue, not even the town she lived in.
Eventually my brain began firing on all cylinders. Of course Angela lived locally - people seldom phone the Samaritans long distance. Besides, she'd talked of driving her father to Leatherhead station. Today she'd be driving to his funeral, and whether by accident or intent she'd definitely told me when and where it was taking place.
I knew with absolutely certainty what I had to do next. I found a suitably dark suit and hurried over to St. Saviour's churchyard.
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