It so happened that both my husband and I found ourselves at home, locked away during quarantine. Our wallets had thinned out completely. With a week still to go before pay day, we were left staring at the paltry pounds rattling about in our bank account.
Naturally, there was no real need for concern; at least, not yet. The fridge still harboured some remnants of food. Wed muddle through somehow (though that seems a tad optimistic in hindsight).
Thats when we remembered one of our old debtors. The sum hed borrowed from us wasnt enormous, but it would have done the trick right then.
As I busied myself making tea, my husband dug out the chaps number and put the call through. He started off with all the bluster of an irate headmaster, demanding immediate repayment, but not a minute later I caught the sharp turn in his tonehis voice all soft apologies and gentle sympathies.
When he hung up, he explained what had happened. Apparently, the debtors mother had just passed away. Being decent sorts, we agreed we could wait a while for the money.
Weeks drifted by, not unlike clouds over the cricket green. One evening, my husband and I decided to cook something special, so on our way home we popped by the nearest greengrocers. Wed just gathered what we needed, and were turning to leave, when suddenly, there she wasthe supposedly departed mother of our debtor, fresh as a daisy by the tomatoes. My jaw nearly met the floor tiles.
In all our years together, Id never seen my husband so positively livid. Without another word, we clambered into the car and rolled off towards the bereaveds house, visions of outrage trailing behind us.
The sight that greeted us there was nothing short of absurdly dreamlike: our debtor laid out on the sofa, completely and undeniably drunk, insisting he couldnt, and wouldnt, return the money.
My husband looked ready to drag him onto the High Street and shake the shillings out himself. Suddenly, perhaps swept away by the odd logic that only exists somewhere between dreams and waking, the man broke down and confessed that lying about his mother had been his very first idea when he heard us calling. Then he stumbled off to his bedroom and returned, a little sheepish, pressing the money into my husbands hand.
We never saw him againnot in the shops, not by the park, nowhere along the winding lanes of our small town.
So tell me, after all this, how on earth are we supposed to trust or believe in people ever again?
