No man Is An Island

A story triggered by looking at the the Robinson Crusoe statue in my home village of Lower Largo

No man is an island

Alex’s wife Peggy had passed away four years and four months ago at the age of seventy three. With his beloved Peggy’s unexpected death life for Alex had become as an endless diet of cold, grey, lumpy porridge. He hadn’t realised until that awful day that she had been the sun giving light to his cold circling planet. The possibility of her light being switched off and that he would be left on an endless voyage through the dark and cold of inner space had just never occurred to him.

 

Alex had always been the main breadwinner, a hardworking fisherman in the small Fife fishing village of Lower Largo. He was accustomed to working alone on his lobster boat, out in Largo Bay. If truth be told he was often described unkindly as a cold fish, but ‘introspective and comfortable in his own company’ would be a kinder description. However, there was no doubt that his spirits always lifted as the boat chugged into the harbour. After delivering his catch and tidying the boat his smile would widen as he made his way along Main Street and opened his front door.

‘It’s me, Peggy!’ Peggy had returned two hours before from her work as a home carer for the elderly housebound and would be in the kitchen preparing the dinner.

‘Who else would it be - how was the catch today Alex?

‘Nae bad.’ Alex was a man of few words!

‘Cottage pie tonight Alex - your favourite!’

‘Good.’

 

Alex didn’t really have any friends of his own. His social life revolved round Peggy. On Fridays they walked along to the Railway Inn where they would sit with Tom and Liz and chat about village gossip - or rather the other three talked and Alex gave an occasional monosyllabic reply when pressed.

On Sundays they went to the morning service at the Methodist church. Alex enjoyed the hymns and, indeed, it was a cause of local amusement that they could hear Alex singing them heartily (but out of tune!) when he out in the lobster boat. Getting out of the church was a bit of an ordeal for Alex as the minister would always exchange a few words.

‘And how are you today Alex?’

‘Nae bad, minister!’

‘And how’s the catch been this week?’

‘Nae bad.’

Alex wriggled away from these excruciating exchanges as quickly as he could and would sit on one of the benches at the harbour smoking his pipe until Peggy appeared half an hour later.

‘Don’t you think it was a good service today Alex - that was the best sermon he’s given for ages.’

‘Nae bad!’

Peggy turned and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t marry him for his conversation - that's for sure - but he’s a good man! Goodness knows how he’d manage on his own.’

 

The next day Alex returned from his day alone in the lobster boat. He opened the door, took off his boots and hung up his jacket.

‘It’s me Peggy.’

The radio played in the kitchen.

‘Nae bad.’ He answered, but realised he hadn’t actually heard her calling through.

Alex went through to the kitchen where he found Peggy lying dead on the floor. She looked peaceful. Alex was on his own!

 

The funeral passed in a bit of a daze. With both of them being only children and having few close relatives it was almost exclusively Peggy’s friends that came to the funeral. They assured Alex that they would be popping in to help but as the days turned into weeks and then into months there was not a single knock at the door. Returning to the house after the fishing became such an ordeal that Alex gave it up and sold the boat. After all, he was now into his seventies and could manage on his pension. Alex continued going to the church where he could sing his hymns but raced out at the end before having to meet with the minister.

 

Although Alex didn’t realise it he was spiralling remorselessly into sociophobia - the deeper he sunk the more difficult escape became. Of course he couldn’t articulate this; he just felt panic and anxiety when faced with any social interaction. People sensed this and the easy solution was just not to add to Alex’s obvious discomfiture by forcing him to speak.

 

On Mondays Alex would make his way along to the village shop where he was able to take his shopping trolley and pay by card without exchanging a word. On occasions where an interaction was needed Alex was able to let the other, such as the Doctor, interrogate him and reply with nods or shakes of the head. Sometimes his anxiety was so great that he would resort to passing over written notes and pretending that he’d lost his voice. It wasn’t much of a life!

  

As the years slipped by, each day passed for Alex as had the day before and so would the day tomorrow. His routine, unchangeable, was all that he had to give him purpose. The routine became the purpose. Sadly Alex had got into the habit of measuring the passing of his attenuated life by the span since Peggy’s passing away. It was almost like a castaway scoring marks on the cave wall.

 

Each morning he woke at 7am, as he had when he fished for lobsters. He ate a bowl of thick porridge made with water and salt at 8am and drank two cups of strong black tea.  In the morning he collected the Courier from the letterbox and read it from cover to cover. At 11am he had more tea and two digestive biscuits. Alex watched a little TV until lunchtime when he would have a bowl of broth with bread and butter. In the afternoon he put on his jacket and cap and walked along to the harbour where he smoked his pipe for half an hour. Willie, who had bought his lobster boat, always gave him a friendly greeting, but Alex would just force a smile or occasionally mouth a silent, ‘nae bad.’

 

On Tuesdays and Thursdays Alex used his bus pass to travel to the nearby larger town of Leven where he would visit the library and shop for any items that the village store didn’t stock. Back home Alex consulted his weekly list of what he would be making for dinner. He didn’t really need to check it but it was part of the routine.

 

Mon - mince and potatoes, Tues - m&p, Wed - m&p, Thurs m&p

Fri - fish and chips, Sat - m&p  Sun - m&p

 

After he had washed up the dinner dishes Alex would watch the news on TV and then make his way along to the Railway Inn where he would occupy his usual seat and Bert would pour him a half pint of lager. He enjoyed listening to the banter but was always aware of the ache of loneliness gnawing away within. At 8pm, before the pub got busy, he would return home and read a book until bedtime at 10pm.

 

As the years passed Alex’s arthritis gradually became worse and he was given a three wheeled mobility walker with handles and a seat to help him get around. One afternoon, four years and four months after Peggy’s passing, Alex was on his way to the harbour when he had to pause to take his breath. As he clung onto his walker something made him turn his head and look up at the familiar statue. When it’s there every day it just fades into the background but today something made him read the oblong metal plaque below. The details had been forgotten but as he read, its personal connection to his own situation slowly dawned on him.

 

In memory of Alexander Selkirk, mariner, the original of Robinson Crusoe who lived on the island of Juan Fernandez in complete solitude for four years and four months before being rescued

 

Alex looked down and, after a pause, continued on his way to the harbour. In the house beyond the fishmongers, Janet Wilson, who was in Alex’s primary class sixty eight years before, watched Alex pushing his walker slowly past and thought, ‘there’s Alex again - he’s never changed in all that time and he never will!’ But she would have been wrong - a trigger had been pulled in Alex’s brain and an unstoppable process had been set in train.

 

At the harbour Alex took his usual seat on the bench looking over the bay. He filled his pipe, lit it and puffed away. There normally wasn’t much going on in his head - he’d learned by experience that thinking was usually painful. But today he felt a bit different, quite a bit different. For one thing there was a smile on his face, a big smile. Alex started thinking about Alexander Selkirk - he was really just another village boy and he’d become famous by being on his own for four years and four months. Out of the blue, a moment of revelation struck Alex.

‘No man is an island, entire of itself.’

It was like someone had shaken his skull and exploded all his rigid ideas and hang-ups into smithereens. The fragments were for him to make of what he wished.

 

Alex sat for a while with his pipe, knew that something profound had happened, wasn’t quite sure what, had no plan of action, but knew that things were going to be very different. He stood up and made his way to the Railway Inn. Instead of sitting in the corner seat he went to the bar.

‘The usual Alex?’ Bert looked puzzled that he wasn’t in his seat.

‘No thanks Bert - I’m going to try a Guinness today and you have one yourself.’

‘Hi Bob,’ Alex shouted across to his neighbour, ‘do you mind if I join you for a chat?'

 

Alan Graham    December 28^th 2016

 

    

Reviews

[Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn..]

Alan (Alain?),

In Googling your locale of Fife, Scotland, my eyes witnessed beauty beyond description in the photos available for viewing, of the land in which you live … Having done this tiny bit of eye-sential research, your story takes on real life relate-able meaning …

In my life, I have known men like Alex: Quiet and somber, almost as though they were recluses and hermits situated in the midst of a society they truly wished to have no part in … In the weeks just past, I lost one such friend who was home and at peace, best of all, when he was all alone with his thoughts and his dogs and goats that he loved so much … It was not that he wasn't friendly, he was, but having grown up in the mountains of Vermont, he found comfort and solace in solitude … He is now ashes ...

Not all men are this way, with many self imposing their own private solitude out of simply not feeling comfortable around people, perhaps, some childhood event spawning this feeling of discomfort that somehow has not gone away with adulthood, even old age …

Your story is very contemplative and, yes, thought provoking … Your message (if I interpret correctly and I so often do not) is that, not only do all things change but, anyone can change when they set their hearts and minds to it … In this case, Alex was somehow touched by the fact that he was not alone in his solitude, and if the solitude of a historical figure truly came to end, his own self imposed solitude could also reach a conclusion that might just leave him a bit of happiness in his old age of missing the light of his life, a light that would have never wished him to pine away all alone … And so, life's chance at happenstance caused your pen to write hope for Alex within this beautiful tale, as none other than Janet Wilson … Though you chose to not go further in elaborating on what could have transpired after that moment of solitude ending enlightenment that miraculously overcame Alex that day, you do quite handily leave many paths of opportunity open to the mind's eye of your readers in wonderment of possible evenings set to sunset with Alex paying a cordial visit to Janet, sharing a walk or a meal, maybe even a silver haired touch of romance in old age to see the sun set upon their lives with both wearing a smile of having found peace and solace in the company, each of the other …

You could quite easily move this story forward into a continuation of Alex's new life, if you should one day so choose …

I really enjoyed this tale that spoke to my heart as an old man from Texas who is doing all he can, a second time around, to make things work again with a wife who divorced him after 39 years of marriage … We men do not like change, but if we refuse to change we often lose all that is worth the having …

Nicely done!

Marvin Thomas Cox-Flynn

[alanwgraham]

I'm glad you enjoyed this Marv. It was walking past the Robinson Crusoe statue in my village that triggered this story. Unfortunately loneliness is our great plague and unfortunately it is the men that suffer most. My wife works with older people and has many sad stories. Good luck in your own new start - it's too easy to take a partner for granted until it can be too late.
Regards,
Alan

[Jeff E]

I like your story. I wonder though, if he didn't notice the statue, was there anything else in his life that would have caused him to change? It seemed he was content being an island, and barring noticing the statue he would have died content. We can argue perhaps he didn't realize he was sad, something I think many people, myself often, go through. Passing by the statue everyday and not noticing it is a bit of irony that I appreciated as well. Often, it's the small things in our lives that can make a difference. Thank you for writing it.

[Samuel Dickens]

So, he was drawn out of his miserable rut and compelled to live! What a great, uplifting story, Allen. This sort of thing actually happens from time to time, and of that, I'm sure. I really like the setting, the characters, and the loving, gentle way in which you tell the tale.

[alanwgraham]

Thanks very much Samuel. The story germinated when I stopped to look at the Crusoe statue in my village and it made me think of the many invisible lonely folk among us.
Regards,
Alan