4/4/12

Don't judge a zebra by its spots
By Janette Perkins


Mena took the same route to work every day. Luckily it was within walking distance from her home so she did not need a car. Anyway parking spaces were at a premium where she worked, so she was grateful that she did not have to endure that daily hassle.

Her route to work was always the same, down to the end of the road, turning left, past three more cul-de-sacs and then she crossed the busy sometimes gridlocked main road at the zebra crossing.

She passed the same people every morning, the dog walkers, people going to the newsagent, parents taking children to school, and people like her setting off for work.
This routine was very comforting to her.

For some time now, as she crossed, she noticed a white van with an unusual logo painted on the side of it. She thought it looked like an anvil, with some tools and maybe horseshoes painted on the side. She must take a closer look tomorrow as it looked intriguing. No sign of the van the following day. Next day, as she got to the crossing, the van was there and stopped to let her across.
She nodded acknowledgement and the driver nodded in return.

She looked back after she got to the pavement. Yes it was what she thought – a mobile blacksmith. How unusual to come across one in this built up suburban area. As she turned into the gate of her workplace, she reflected and realized that craftsmen have to diversify these days in order to survive, perhaps he does other things. She will look out tomorrow for the van to see if there is further information.

Bryn was forty five going on seventy five; he was a blacksmith as his father had been. It was all he had wanted to do, he loved his job, he loved the variety it had to offer. It meant that he could travel about, repairing and visiting farms. He had a huge client base and was in great demand. Wrought iron fencing was his specialty and he was good at it. For Bryn, the icing on the cake for him was when he was approached by the local college to ask if he would teach smithying and welding courses to young students. This was a great honor for him, as it meant that he could pass his skills on.

So every Tuesday and Thursday he got in his van to drive to college. As it was often a stop - start journey through heavy traffic, and as the logo was so distinctive, his advertising strategy paid off. He was never short of work. Life was good.

Over time, Mena found herself looking out for the van every morning - some days there some days not. Eventually she worked out he traveled two days a week. If he stopped to let her cross she would nod and he would smile and nod. She thought he had a friendly smile. His face was very rounded, rosy cheeked, and he wore a cap.

She felt an inner glow lately every time he stopped to let her cross. Indeed it got to the point where she would try to calculate that she would get to the crossing the same time as him.

As she continued her route to the office, chastising herself for being a silly schoolgirl, she thought she might try a different route to work. She was forty after all, she felt utterly foolish because a man in a van was nodding to her and she was mildly excited.

Since her divorce seven years ago, she had not sought male companionship. Her friends at work had tried to fix her up with a few blind dates, but she had often felt uncomfortable, clumsy and eventually preferred the loneliness of her own company rather than the agony of another relationship. She had thought about on line dating, and had glanced at a few sites, but decided against. Yet here she was fluttering like an adolescent a couple of times a week. She must control the situation and pull herself together.

Mena did try a different route to work a few times. It did not take any longer, but she missed her regular faces and the dog walkers and the children. Most of all, she missed her van man! If all I am to get in this world is a smile from a happy face twice a week, then I’ll take that.

There had been strong winds overnight and Mena’s gate had snapped off its hinges, and had brought down the fence with it. When she bought the house after her divorce she knew that the fencing had always been a bit suspect, it was always a job she had meant to have done. Now she would have to!
She opened the front door, saw the damage. Instead of a look of horror, her face turned to a grin. She must get a blacksmith!

By now Mena knew that the anvil man (this was her silly name for him) came by on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She would look for his phone number on the side of the van and make a note of it. She would then ring him and ask him to come and give her an estimate. She somehow felt that this was quite a respectable thing for a woman in her position to do. After all, how many blacksmiths could there be in the area?

The nodding and crossing went on a few more times until she felt confident that she could phone his number. She tried a couple of times, got the answerphone, and on the fourth attempt decided to leave a message. She got a reply later that evening, Bryn phoned. Yes, he would call by on his way home from college on Thursday to inspect the damage and give her an estimate. Yes, he knew the area; he drove that way twice a week.

She thought that he had a friendly, honest voice, and gave him the address.

She rushed home from work on Thursday. She changed out of her formal working attire into something more flattering – her expensive cashmere sweater she thought. She tidied the hall way, and she made sure her front doorstep was free of leaves and those annoying leaflets. There, everything was neat and tidy!

Bryn’s van pulled up outside the house. He got out and before he rang the bell, paused to look at the gate and fencing. As he did so, she watched him through the vertical blinds. He was a lot shorter than she had imagined. He was still wearing his cap. His clothes seemed very rumpled and well… very dirty. As he walked up the path, she noticed his heavy boots and his awkward walk.

Her heart thumped. He rang the bell. She waited for a few respectable seconds before opening the door. As she did so, she held her breath. He looked straight at her, respectfully took off his greasy cap and extended his weatherworn, artisan hand. He gave her a wide beaming smile, and said ‘It’s you!’


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I have been writing books reviews for many years now, as a hobby really. I retired from full time employment a year ago, and amongst other things, have joined a writing group. We meet fortnightly, and it's great because you become focused, and you can really feel your own writing developing as the weeks go by. I love the zanier, sillier side of life, all feeding an imaginative brain.