Mr Dibbs Fixes Bikes

8

Finally, he turned on to his knees and looked out of the front window, watching as the rain came down so fast and hard, that it looked like solid, black glass strings fell from the sky. The streetlights had switched on, which made it difficult to see the clouds above, to see if they would eventually pass overhead, bringing clear skies and sunshine in their wake.

It was then that Frederick saw something odd. The old man from next door, stepping out of his house, umbrella above his head, walking stick in the other hand. He passed through the gate, past the arsehole boy's bike resting to the side, repaired, though the kid didn't deserve it repairing. Mister Dibbs began to walk along a street where every sensible person remained huddled inside. The old man was a nutter, going out in that rain.

It looked weird, though. The way he walked looked stiff, and he walked too slow, as though he wanted the storm to make him as wet as it possibly could. If it were Frederick, he'd run the entire way, but he ran everywhere anyway. His mum said he was like a greyhound, born to run and run and run. He supposed a bloke that needed a walking stick probably couldn't run very far, or often, if at all.

As Mister Dibbs passed out of his line of sight, Frederick ran upstairs to look out of the window in his mum's room. From here, he could see right to the corner of the street, where the wall stood that the old man had sat on the day before and that was where Frederick knew Mister Dibbs was more than a bit mental. He sat down, on that wall, in the middle of this rain and even if the old geezer had an umbrella, he was still getting wet. But he just sat there, the rain pounding down around him, like a sailor alone on a boat, looking out to waves tall enough to swamp the ship. Just sat there.

"Mum!" He didn't take his eyes from the old man as he called over his shoulder. "Come and see this. I think something's wrong with the old geezer."

-+-

Why the old man didn't have a gas fire, like they had in their house, Frederick couldn't understand. Instead, he watched as his mum struggled to scrunch up old newspapers, pile on some sticks and a few pieces of coal to get a fire going for the old bloke. To say he felt amazed that his mum managed to get the fire burning was an understatement. He didn't know his mum could make a fire at all.

"Ee. The's no need for that, lass. I'll be fine." The old man, wrapped in ratty old woollen blanket that looked like something that should have been thrown out years ago, sat on his equally ratty sofa. "I don't mean to be a bother. Thee get thi'sen off. I'm sure thy's got better things to do than fuss over an old fool like me."

The bald top of his head still had beads of rain upon it, what little hair he had left sat wet and lank against his loose, mottled skin. He shifted to the edge of the seat cushion, as though wanting to stop Frederick's mum from making the fire, his forehead wrinkled, big, bulbous nose sniffing. Here, in his house, he looked smaller than before. Like a scrunched up gnome from a movie. Frederick's mum, of course, ignored the protests, adding more coal to the burgeoning flames, piece by piece.

"Nonsense, Mister Dibbs. You need warming up." That bright, comforting smile lit up his mum's face as she looked toward the old man. "Frederick, go make a cup of tea for Mister Dibbs."

"Nay! I say, the's no need." The old man's mouth clamped closed at the scowl from Frederick's mum. She had that ability to shut people up with a look, Frederick knew all too well. "Aye. Well. Mebbe a cuppa wouldn't be too bad."

Frederick left them talking as he stepped into a kitchen that looked like it hadn't been modernised in decades. An old cooker, stains covering the surface, a broken handled grill over the top. Not even an extractor above it. At least the old man had an electric kettle, and Frederick filled it, setting it going as he tried to find a clean mug. There wasn't one, so he chose the least dirty and dropped a tea bag into it.

While he waited for the kettle to boil, he peered back into the old man's living room. It looked empty. Or as close to empty as it could be. A table sat beneath the window and an old, dark wood sideboard against the back wall. The sofa had a small table to the side, with a remote control for a tv, that looked ancient, upon it. A tv with a curved glass screen, wooden surround and a stretched out back. Frederick had never seen a screen so small. Not even the tv in his bedroom was that small.

On the sideboard, he saw one photograph. Only one. Black and white, faded, it showed a rather stern looking woman, hair piled up on top of her head. She didn't smile, but she had kind eyes. And, beside that one photograph, Frederick found a medal. Not on display in a frame, only laid there, as though the old man had taken it out of a drawer and had forgotten to return it. About to take a closer look, he heard the kettle come to the boil and rushed back in to finish the tea.

"Are you sure you're alright? Sitting out there in that rain. My mum would have had me taking cough medicine just to be sure. And a hot bath." His mum laughed and had moved to sit beside the old man, her hand holding his, the differences in colour of their skins contrasting. "I could run you one, if you want?"

"Nay, lass. Thy's done more than enough for me already. Thee and thy lad and I'm grateful." The old man smacked his lips as he took a sip of the tea and then gave Frederick a nod. Probably thankful Frederick hadn't poisoned him. "I shall not keep thee, though. I shall be fine now. I tell thee, I thought it were lightening up, is all."

"Hmm." That meant she didn't believe him. Frederick had heard that 'hmm' a lot. That and the admonishing sucking of her teeth, but the old man hadn't done anything that deserved that. "Well, I'm going to have Frederick call on you later, just to see if you need anything. That's not negotiable, before you protest. It's what good neighbours do."

"Aye. Good neighbours're hard to find, and no mistake." He took another sip of the tea as Frederick's mum rose to her feet, patting the old man's knee like an old friend. "Thank thee kindly, love. I appreciate thee concern."

With a hook of the finger, Frederick's mum shooed him toward the door. He still hadn't managed to have a look at that medal on the sideboard, but he did see something on the way out of the living room. A piece of paper on the table in front of the window. The writing on it, 'Arthur died last night', caused Frederick to look back at the old man, huddled in front of the fire, and he could do nothing but feel sad for him.