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Many of us at some point in our lives have been helped by another person, to rescue us from peril, or impending emotional disaster. Often this help comes from the most unlikely sources and from people whom we hardly know. This is a story about such a life experience. Justin Blake was a 13-year-old boy growing up in the university city of Oxford, the only son of Marjory Blake, a single, hardworking mother. His whole life had been one of disruption, peer rejection, disinterest and utter loneliness. From starting school he had been labelled as a disruptive pupil. Justin would call out in class, ignore the teacher and inflict a variety of injuries on his fellow pupils through his own frustration and temper. On one particular occasion, causing him to be permanently excluded from his infant school, he repeatedly hit another boy in the playground for no apparent reason. As a dinner lady came to restrain him, he delivered a swift, yet powerful blow, to her stomach. The result was a swift transfer to another school but the problem just followed him like a bad and offensive odour. By the age of 13 his mother had almost given up on him. She dreaded any phone call during the day as they usually reported to her of another incident of Justin’s violence, disobedience and disruption. Justin could neither read nor write and he had devised singular and advanced avoidance strategies to hide his secret from the world. His favoured method was total avoidance and he regularly truanted from school without his mother’s knowledge. The teachers used to breathe a sigh of relief when he was absent and the curriculum could be delivered without disruption. As a small family the Blakes struggled to survive. During the month of May 1999 they were served notice to leave their small one bed roomed flat for rent arrears. Marjory Blake was not sure what to do next. She tried to negotiate with the landlord but he just dismissed her pleading with loathing. They had to subsequently move into a small bed-sit, one covered with damp and various life forms colonising the wall space. The place was disgusting sharing its fragrance of decay eagerly with the new occupants but it was all that Mrs Blake could afford. Justin made a conscious decision to spend his waking hours out of this room when ever possible. Justin used to deliver newspapers on a daily basis covering some twenty-five streets in the northern district of Oxford. It was during a routine newspaper delivery round that he met Mr Martin Down by fate’s own hand. Justin was walking up to the front door of 25, Amesbury Close and he noticed that the battered, blue, oak door was slightly ajar. Justin, ever the opportunist, pushed the door open to see if anyone was at home. If the property were vacant he would have to relieve the owner of various small, yet valuable objects for his own financial gain. This would not be the first time that he had enjoyed such an opportunistic moment. As Justin stuck his head cautiously around the door he saw a man of pensionable age sitting on a chair in the hallway. He was motionless and frail. "Who’s that?" asked the old man clutching his walking stick for personal protection. "It’s me, Justin Blake. I deliver your newspapers," responded Justin using his most posh voice to impress his client. "You will find that my letter box is in full working order. I suggest that you use it young man!" directed Martin Down. "Sure thing. But first, you owe me £5.50 for your newspapers. Can you pay me now?" asked Justin trying to remain polite until he had what he wanted. (This is regrettably a singular feature of most adolescents nowadays!) "There’s a £10 note on the table there in front of you. Help yourself but remember to give me the change and count it out for me." Justin looked on the table and saw a £50 note. He reached into his body belt and removed £4.50 in change. He handed it to Mr Down and carefully counted out the four-pound coins and a fifty pence piece. "Thank you, my lad. I appreciate your honesty. I bid you good day." With that the man stood and closed the door in Justin’s face. Justin quickly walked away full of pride as he had earned himself, by dishonest means, forty pounds. When Justin had placed at least three streets between himself and Amesbury Close he stopped and sat on a small wall outside the dilapidated Youth Club. His small voice of conscience kept nagging at him. He kept hearing Mr Down saying ‘I appreciate your honesty… I appreciate your honesty!’ Justin realised that he had taken advantage of an elderly and vulnerable blind man. For once in his short, yet miserable life he decided to do what was right, true and proper and return the money, confessing his error in the process. With a lighter heart he strode back to 25, Amesbury Close rehearsing his speech as he went. On arrival he knocked on the familiar door. A few seconds later bolts were drawn back, the door opened and Mr Down stood in the doorway staring vacantly into the street. His pale eyes stared to the horizon seeing nothing, neither light, shade, colour or texture, just eternal darkness. "Yes? Who’s there?" "It’s me, Justin Blake again. I’m sorry but I made a mistake with your change. You gave me a £50 note and I owe you this in change. My mistake!" "I know! You took your time coming back didn’t you?" said Martin Down with a slight edge to his voice; the sound of disapproval. "I’m really sorry for my mistake, Mr," pleaded Justin feeling rather indignant and loathing the trouble from his honesty. To read the rest of this story send me an email... ã 2002 Steven Longman-Marshall – All rights reserved.
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