The Good Samaritan

Short story by Sharon Riley - 27/6/2014

Walking in Princes Park on a sunny, autumn afternoon and 'It's oh so quiet' now – as in Bjork's song title – but I remember the Brouhaha Festival in July when the multitudes gathered see the parade enter the park followed by live music and a riot of colours.

Then, seeing the tennis courts, I give a wry smile recalling how I first learned how to cycle there in 2005! Also that February when the park was covered in a white blanket with the snow flakes drifting down from the heavens, making it look not too dissimilar to Narnia.

There's only a small group of youths gathered near the playground, in stark contrast to the ever-popular Sefton Park. Still, majestic Victorian villas enter my view leading towards my destination. Intrepid, I continue seeking the object of my journey: a gallery named 'Beatnik'. Finally I find the address, a Victorian semi-detached mansion secluded by oak trees as aged – or possibly older – than the house. But search as I do there's NO sign indicating a gallery. I realise it must actually be in the artist's home!

Apprehension and shyness take hold of me and I'm torn whether to walk up the drive and ring the bell; it looks very private, not like an art gallery at all. My intuition warns me this could happen as I walked there from Lark Lane, after going jogging in Sefton Park! I really ought to trust my intuition by now, as it's always been proved right.

Tiredness overcomes my sense of adventure and I begin to walk away. But still quite determined I ask a man with a kind face sat in a car nearby, “Do you know if there's a gallery here? This is Devonshire Road isn't it?” I have to repeat the address, I may appear rather like a damsel in distress but fortunately he's a Good Samaritan as I tell him. He drives to the house after telling me it's not far to walk and he offers to ring the bell himself, unable to understand why I wouldn't.

Meanwhile, I remain standing where the man was parked and notice another man walking on the other side of the road looking at me, clearly wondering what I'm doing standing in an elegant area of Liverpool 8.

The benevolent man returns and tells me there was no reply. He suggests I leave a written note, even finding an envelope and pen in his car for me to write a message, with my telephone number.

“He doesn't know what he's missing” I state annoyed, and the man agrees. “I feel like writing ‘I'm Knackered’” I exclaim, which he mocks slightly, so I explain. “I've been jogging in Sefton Park before walking here, and still need to get home.” He's surprised at this and returns in his car to the house to deliver the note for me.

I repeat, “You're a good Samaritan”. And he replies, “I am a bit”. I'm very surprised at his offering to ring the doorbell for me and asked “Are you sure you didn't mind, and have nothing else to do?” I notice he's a tracksuit on so had recently returned from playing sports and lived nearby.

He asks “Aren't you from round here?”

“No, not originally, but Merseyside, as you can probably tell. Why where are you from?”
“Warrington” he replies and smiles.

Earlier, when I was writing the note and asked what the date was, he had asked me, “Don't you work?” Then found me the date from his IPhone.

I replied, “I'm a writer of short stories”.

Then came the inevitable “Have you had any published?”

“Yes, with other writers” I said, which he looked surprised at, but I quickly add “I'd really like to get a collection of my short stories published, but there's more to it than you might think”.

I ask him, “You definitely posted the note for me?”

“Yes, just don't blame me if he doesn't call you” were his final words to me as I shout after him, “Thank you”.

Later I returned home with the feeling of wonder at the kindness of strangers.

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