THEY ALSO SERVE
WHO ONLY STAND AND WAIT A
short story
“Here he comes again! He doesn’t look well, does he?” muttered Jo-Jo
to his fellow mule as they stood in the bright sunshine of an April day.
It wasn’t that warm, but the mules were too busy enjoying the spring
air and the daffodils nodding in the frisky breeze to worry about the
temperature. Criss agreed that their
visitor looked pretty woebegone as he approached them.
“I suppose it’s because he’s confined to a wheelchair,” mused
Criss. His real name was Criss-Cross, as
sometimes he was Criss and sometimes he was Cross, but Jo-Jo had got on well
with him ever since they had been put together in the park. The wheelchair passed them slowly without
pausing. This in itself was unusual as
most people stopped and read the inscription on the wall close by.
Next there came a little boy, also
in a wheelchair, gabbling cheerfully to his mother. Though he had no movement in his arms or
legs, his head and neck were fine and were like the daffodils, bobbing all the
time, constantly attracted to whatever was going on around him. After stroking each of the animals on her
son’s behalf, the mother pushed the chair away and strolled off towards the
trees.
“Well, look who it is!” exclaimed
Criss-Cross one morning several weeks later.
Jo-Jo looked and
saw the wheelchair man approaching. They had seen him a lot during the winter,
always looking defeated and care-worn, but now he looked altogether brighter.
“I recognise that look,” said Jo-Jo.
“I saw it hundreds of times in
Italy when new mules would join the army train and spend weeks depressed and
morbid with the stress involved. Then
one day they’d make the transition and could cope with the work; they made
friends, adapted to the poor food and never looked back.”
“Yes, we saw it in Burma too,” agreed Criss-Cross. “Poor things – having their vocal cords cut,
so that they wouldn’t betray the army’s
presence to the enemy, was a terrible shock to the system. And what with the endless humidity and the
raging thirst – ”
“We agreed we’d never discuss it,” interrupted Jo-Jo firmly. “Look, he’s actually coming over to say
hallo.”
The young man with his clipper-short hair-cut and powerful arms,
wheeled his chair as close as he could and read the inscription dedicating the
monument to all those animals who had served in wartime. He looked at the two mules, standing there so
patiently, their feet planted firmly to
support their heavy loads, their heads drooping with weariness and distress;
and two huge tears rolled down his unshaven cheek.
“ ‘They had no choice’,” he read out from the stone. “They had no choice, but I did. And I can at
least still choose.”
“Was that a good sign or not?” muttered Jo-Jo to his bronze
companion after a few moments of respectful silence.
“I’m not sure,” pondered Criss, “but it’s usually a turning
point. I remember once –“
“No, you don’t,” interjected Jo-Jo more forcefully this time, and
the two mules stood thoughtfully in the sunshine, concerned for their visitor.
So they were thrilled when the next time they saw him that he was
accompanied by a dog. The man had
certainly turned a corner – he was smiling at the dog trotting by his side, and
speaking to one or two people who congratulated him on getting himself a
helper.
“Actually, it’s the companionship that makes such a difference,” he
said.
 |
| 'Animals in war' Memorial, London |
He wheeled up to the memorial and read the inscription again, and
Jo-Jo and Criss held their breath in case he was upset once more. But not on this occasion. He gazed intently at the two mules and this
time he was looking outward instead of inward.
Jo-Jo and Criss didn’t know the name for the emotion on the man’s face,
but it was compassion.
“Is that your dog, Mister?” came a
chirpy little voice and the man swung round to find a small boy in a wheelchair
gazing wistfully at the silky haired spaniel, who ran to the end of his lead in
order to make a fuss of the child.
“Yes – I’ve only had him a couple of weeks. He helps me to do all sorts of things. Do you
like dogs?”
“Yes, but I can’t have one.”
And then with remarkable resilience for a child deprived of so many
childhood pleasures, the boy beamed and said, “But I’m going to ride a donkey!”
“Are you?” Half disbelieving him, the man looked at the mother for
confirmation.
“That’s right,” she smiled warmly.
“Donkey rides are wonderful therapy for disabled children.”
“Is this here in London?”
“No, in Birmingham, where we live.
We’re going home tomorrow when we’ve seen the specialist again.”
And still talking together, the three humans moved away from the
monument and left the two mules to gaze fondly after them.
“I like new beginnings,”
Criss sighed with satisfaction.
Jo-Jo agreed happily: “Yes, for him, too, the war is now over.”
-- 000 --
Inspired by the 'Animals In War' memorial, Hyde Park, London.
Donkey riding therapy is available through the Donkey Sanctuary Trust see http://www.thedonkeysanctuary.org.uk/donkey-assisted-therapy/
