My Best Friend's Umbrella

Our walking route starts on an old railway line, now tarmacked and used by dogs and their owners, horses and riders, bicycles and pedallers.

In July and August, raspberries grow in tangled clumps, with a little stretch, my best friend is rewarded with their sweetness and a vital dose of vitamin C.

Parallel to the path, beyond the trees and fields are the rolling Ochil Hills. I never get tired of this walk, there is an abundance of interesting nooks and crannies to investigate and a profusion of smells.

Walking with my best friend is one of my selfish pleasures. When his wife joins us, she chats incessantly stealing his attention. We don't walk as far or as fast with her.

Mostly, we’re happy to walk in silence.

When my best friend talks, I listen. I'm a good listener. It's rewarding.

We're mature cheeses, but when we get to the tower there is a grassy area where we sometimes play ball and it feels like we are fresh curds again. He laughs like a schoolboy at my antics. I imagine the people passing are jealous. People are like that sometimes. I sense their bitterness.

Sometimes we have to move to the side to let people whizz by on their metal frames with spinning wheels. “No problem,” my best friend calls to them, even if they don’t say “Thank you”.

There is a plastic milk container hanging from a tree. Its sides are cut out and it spins when the wind blows. My best friend drops in a handful of seeds and we stop and watch the birds feed. One time, a red-breasted robin landed on his hand and gorged itself. It flitted off when I came for a closer look.

Today, the drizzle turned to rain. Up went my best friend's umbrella. I don’t bother. I don’t mind the rain.

We came to a bench. Wooden, in need of varnish. A big bin sits beside it, people don’t know it is there, judging by the papers and tins and plastic bottles I see sticking out of the hedgerows.

A man is sat on the bench, head in his hands.

I stop in my tracks, wary. No one sits on this bench next to a smelly bucket. My best friend stopped. Then he walked towards the man sitting on the wet bench in the rain with his head in his hands.

“Are you okay?”

The man said nothing. Didn't move. He smelled of burnt leaves and broken bottles.

"Are you okay?" My best friend asked again and he moved forward and touched him on the shoulder. I was ready to warn the man if he tried anything.

“… No,” the man said without looking up.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

This time he looked up, a boy not a man, nearly, but not quite. His eyes red, cheeks puffy. He took a moment to focus.

“No man. I’m just nothing.”

“Do you need an ambulance?”

“No.”

“This rain is getting heavier. You’ll get soaked sitting here, maybe you'd better head home.”

He was already wet through. I think he’d been there for a while.

“There’s nothing to go home for.” He sunk his head back into his hands.

“I’m just concerned about you, you know.”

“Nobody cares about me.”

"I care or else I wouldn't be asking."

He remained silent as if he didn't hear.

“I’m going around the tower, then I’ll be back to check on you.”

We walked around the loop, back onto the path the way we came. Not too long.

He was still there, the boy on the bench. The rain was heavier now — but not as heavy as his head. My best friend went close to him, his umbrella stopped the rain from falling on the boy. I felt sad for him.

“What’s your name?”

“I can’t tell you my name, I’m just a nobody.”

“Look, you are wet and cold. I think it’s time you went home.”

“There’s no one there who cares. They think I’m a waste of space.”

“If you are heading this way, you can walk with me under my umbrella.”

“What’s your name?” He asked.

"Malky," my best friend told him.

The boy said, “I’m Kevin, you have done more for me today than anyone else in my whole life.” He stretched his hand towards my best friend.

This was when people avoided touching people and handles and used wipes on their hands that smelled like rotten garbage. But my best friend took his hand.

I let the boy touch me too. He patted my head and when I looked at him, he smiled a little.

He still didn’t want to come under the umbrella.

After a while, we left.

We pass by that bench on the old railway line every day.

My best friend sometimes says, “I wonder what happened to Kevin?”