John Carter peered out into the darkness, the windscreen wipers doing their best to clear his view of the relentless rain. He brought his fist crashing down in anger on the steering wheel, not for the first time that evening. His temper seemed the only thing the January winds had failed to cool. "To hell with traffic jams." He said to himself. He'd had about as much as he could take of business conferences and high powered executive lunches. He cursed the day he ever agreed to spend a week on the 'sunny' south coast - two days had been more than enough, and if he'd learnt nothing else, at least he now knew that business conferences were not for him. He'd wasted a whole day hanging around, waiting for something of significance to happen. Needless to say, it never did. And now, to cap it all, he was stuck in an endless traffic jam, the rain pounding on the roof of the car and the chilling wind howling all around him. It had not been the best of days. By the morning the rain had stopped and Carter felt, if not a sense of optimism, then at least an acceptance of the situation. Not that the surroundings did much for his spirits: a dreary guest house on a dreary side of town, but it was a shelter from the elements. As Carter walked along the shabby landing, the paint peeling here and there, he wondered if there was anyone at all who could fail to be affected by the surroundings. They were, he decided, enough to depress anyone. As if in answer to his thoughts, he turned the corner and brushed past an old gentleman striding along sprightly with a smile spread right across the width of his face. His dress was smart, if a little old-fashioned: a waistcoat complete with bow-tie and pocket watch. Carter stopped and turned. The man had reached his room and had begun whistling to himself, apparently oblivious to the sombre setting. He couldn't have been more out of place. A maid emerged from an adjacent room and Carter turned to her. "Who was that?" he asked, intrigued by the sight. "Old Mr Williams? Don't worry yourself about him," the maid replied, barely looking up from her work, "he always looks like that. In his own little world he is. He's been living here for donkey's years, as much a part of the place as the peeling paint. You'd think he'd get fed up with it, but he seems to love the place. No one interferes with him, and he don't bother nobody." In the business world, Carter rarely came across any real characters, only "dull, tedious stuffed shirts" as he called them. As a result, the hint of a less than mainstream personality sparked an interest inside him. The maid, sensing a new audience for her stories, continued. "Don't tell anyone I said this..." she moved closer to Carter as if about to reveal some great secret, "but I reckon he's gone a bit senile. Every day it's the same: he goes striding out of that front door, rain or shine, with that smile on his face. Every day he takes the bus into town, and still comes back as if he's won the pools. You know, I was going past the bus stop the other day and he was there, just waiting. Pouring with rain it was, but it didn't stop him smiling. It's eerie really. I'd keep away from him if I were you." With that, the maid moved away slowly, muttering something about wasting time. Carter stood there for a few moments before setting off for another day at the conference. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he now had something of interest to occupy his thoughts. He had only glimpsed Mr Williams for a few seconds, yet the old man seemed to have made a lasting impression on him. Over the next few days, Carter's fascination with old Mr Williams grew, and he even succeeded in prompting a "Good Morning" from the man's smiling lips. Carter had watched the old man from his window. Mr Williams did indeed seem to be in a world of his own, quiet and solitary, yet certainly happy enough. Carter now found himself at the end of the conference, driving back in the rain for the last time. He had only one night left in the drab surroundings of the guest house. He couldn't say the conference had done him much good: his mind had been on other things. Carter would go from thinking about Mr Williams, to thinking about why the man occupied his thoughts so much. Perhaps it was because he was so used to the serious business world that he'd never come across real cheerfulness. Certainly he'd never known anyone who apparently was never angry, never displeased about anything. Carter resolved to find out more. He had little time, but whatever it was that made Mr Williams so happy was obviously something worth having. Or maybe the maid was right, he thought to himself. Maybe the old man really was just senile. Carter pondered the situation as he drove through the rain. He pitied the people hurrying along with umbrellas, and as he approached the bus stop he glanced at the figures there. One caught his eye. There was Mr Williams standing in the pouring rain, soaked, it seemed, to the bone, but with the unrelenting smile still spread across his face. Carter pulled over and, leaning across the passenger seat, wound down the window. "Mr Williams!" Carter called, "I'll give you a lift back to the guest house." The old man turned, "Oh, no thankyou Mr Carter. It's very kind of you, but I'm quite happy waiting." Carter looked at the smiling man standing in the rain. "Are you sure? I don't mind taking you." "No, really. That's very generous, but I'd rather wait." Puzzled, Carter wound up the window and drove on. "If he wants to stand in the rain, that's up to him." he decided. Naturally impatient, he couldn't imagine anyone waiting for a bus out of choice. Back at the guest house, Carter was still thinking about the situation. The more he thought about it, the less he understood it. He sat by the window in his room, watching and waiting, and in time the figure of old Mr Williams came striding up to the front door. Carter wanted his questions answered, and he made his way quickly along the hall to the man's room. Mr Williams soon rounded the corner, drenched, yet somehow still aglow. "Mr Carter," he said warmly, "may I help you?" "Erm, yes. I was wondering if I could talk to you." Carter suddenly felt uncomfortable. He realised he had no idea what he wanted to say. "I think you had better come in. I can't say I haven't noticed the attention you've been showing me over the past few days, and I think I can guess why." Mr Williams unlocked the door and Carter stepped inside cautiously, wondering if he was, after all, doing the right thing. The room was small and sparsely furnished, yet it seemed warm and welcoming. The old fashioned gas lamps on the wall were barely enough to light the place, but they gave the room a cosy feel. Mr Williams said nothing, but indicated to Carter to sit down on one of two old wooden chairs, taking the other himself. "So, Mr Carter, you want to know why an old man should go around smiling all the time. Am I right?" Carter was taken aback and a little embarrassed. "Well, yes, I suppose so." He replied. Mr Williams continued. "It never ceases to amaze me that people find it so unusual to be happy. People around here just leave me alone now. To tell you the truth, I reckon some of them think I've just gone a bit senile." The old man chuckled at this. Carter didn't like to say that he himself had considered it a very real possibility. "You see, Mr Carter, life's too short to be miserable. People get so worked up about wasting time. Doctors' waiting rooms, bus queues, traffic jams..." "Tell me about it!" said Carter. "We spend so much time doing nothing, and we have so little of it to waste." "So why be happy about it?" Carter said, no closer to understanding the old gentleman. "It's precisely because life is so short that people get worked up about wasting time." Mr Williams sat there, infuriatingly enigmatic. "Just think, Mr Carter, if you could take all those minutes, all those wasted hours of sitting in traffic jams, and store them up for when you really need them. For all those occasions when you wish you had more time. Just suppose, Mr Carter, just suppose that you could." "It's a nice dream, but life's not like that." "Why shouldn't it be? Why shouldn't it be more than just a dream? You know, when I was a boy I used to lie awake at night for hours - all that time wasted. I used to wonder why there was never enough to play at the park, to do all the things I wanted to do. Then I realised there is. There is enough time to do everything we want, but we spend it all on wasteful things, doing nothing." "You can't blame people for that. I don't choose to get stuck in traffic jams. I'd love to have more time to myself. Why, even you spend time waiting at the bus stop." Carter was beginning to wonder if Mr Williams wasn't senile after all. "You misunderstand me, Mr Carter. It's nobody's fault. We can't avoid wasting time, it's just the way of the world." "So what makes you so different? Why be happy about it?" Mr Williams said nothing, but got up and went over to a small writing desk. He opened a drawer and took out an old tobacco tin, placing it in front of Carter. "What's this?" Carter was puzzled. "Time." said Mr Williams proudly, as if presenting a much loved son. "You see, it is possible to save up all those wasted minutes. I always knew it must be, it was just a matter of working out how." To Carter, senility now seemed unlikely. Insanity was probably closer to the mark. "I didn't expect you to believe me straightaway. You're the first person I've ever told. No one has ever shown any interest before." He looked at the tobacco tin almost lovingly. "It was ridiculously simple really. It's just a matter of taking the piece of time and folding it up, like an old cardboard box. Then I put it in the tin, ready for when I really need it. It doesn't matter any more how long I have to wait for my bus. Every evening I just take the time and fold it away into my tin. Then, when I wish I had more time for something, it's ready for use again. If I decide our little conversation here hasn't been worth it, it really doesn't matter. No more worrying about wasting time. I don't have any more time than anyone else I just don't waste any of it." Carter looked at Mr Williams in disbelief, yet there was something about the gentleman that made Carter feel he was telling the truth. Mr Williams went on. "Of course, you have to be very careful. If you go packing away time with any bad feeling in it, the most terrible things can happen when you come to open it up again. I'm lucky to be alive after I found that out. That's why I have to be happy all the time. If I wasn't, I wouldn't be able to pack away any time at all. It's strange how people react when you're happy all the time. They somehow expect you to be bad tempered and unhappy sometimes. They may think I'm senile, but they're the ones missing out." Carter looked doubtful. "It all seems a bit hard to believe." he said. "But isn't it worth it?" said Mr Williams. "If there was even just the slightest chance of it, wouldn't it be worth believing in?" "I suppose so." "Then forget the closed minds of everyone else out there. Why worry about them when you never need worry about wasting time again. Just think how it would be if you could always have enough time to do exactly what you want." Mr Williams slowly reached for the tobacco tin and gently began to open it. The next day Carter left the guest house. This time it was he who walked out of the door smiling, apparently unaware of the peeling paint and shabby surroundings. He would still get caught in traffic jams, but this time would not lose his temper and hit the steering wheel. It would still be raining, and the wind still howling, but through the darkness Carter could be seen sitting there calmly, a tobacco tin on the passenger seat next to him, and a smile on his face. |
1989 The Tobacco Tin by Phil Gardner |
©
Phil Gardner 2002/3. |
