Short story: His Jewel by Tony Burgess

Tony Burgess

Over the months,  perhaps even a year, the hunched, windswept figure of an elderly man had again been walking the tideline of the beach. He would occasionally stop to kneel briefly before carrying on his ever-so-slow shuffle.

That day my curiosity got the better of me. After watching him day in and day out repeat his ritual, I just had to ask him what he was doing – especially as even the most inclement weather did not deter him.

I stepped onto the beach and walked down on the shingle carefully avoiding all the detritus that had been washed up on the last tide. My approach was clearly audible as each step crunched aloud in the shingle. I was about five yards away when it became evident that this man was frail and unkempt. His long, thinning lank grey hair whipped across his face. Nicotine-stained fingers tried but failed to brush it from his eyes.  

Threadbare

About him hung an old navy-blue woollen overcoat much worn and even threadbare in places. The brass buttons on the front were green, one loose epilate on his shoulder flapped in the wind while a length of bailing twine acted as his belt around the waist of the coat. What was once a white shirt hung loosely around his neck, a black tie that was now shiny after probably years of undoing and doing up each day held his collar closed. His right hand held a coffee mug with no handle.

He didn’t look directly at me immediately but when he did, I noticed that his face was deathly pale. Despite the wind, he had several days growth of stubble. His eyes looked lifeless – I believe he didn’t want to acknowledge me or even accept my presence. I just wanted to explain to him that I was only intrigued by his daily routine but before I could say a word, he raised his coffee cup and indicated for me to look inside.

At the bottom of the coffee-stained sides of the mug was an inch or so of fine coloured glass pebbles and he muttered the words “My jewels”- nothing else and carried on with his shuffle and kneeling whenever he saw another to add to his cup.

Jewels

I understood now exactly what he was doing every day – collecting these minute glass pebbles that are washed up or revealed by the waves. The glass pebbles started life as coloured bottles, discarded into the sea eons ago, the forces of tides and storms shattering them and eventually smoothing their sharp edges into what look like small jewels. I shouted after him whether he would like money for a warm drink but he ignored my offer.

It was some months later when I was parking the car alongside the old church that overlooked the sea at the top of our small town. The church, in embracing new forms of much needed revenue had turned the old unused cemetery into a car parking area. They had carefully removed all the ancient headstones and had repurposed them to be the outer wall of the car park.

My initial opposition to this development had long ceased as I, like many other locals took advantage of this new facility to park ever so conveniently to town. I did amuse myself each time I parked there though as there had been one particular headstone shaped like a bottle.

Special Brew

Its new resting ground faced the only public bench in the car park which more often or not was occupied by many people all drinking from their cans of Strongbow or Special Brew.

This particular day as I opened the boot after another successful shopping trip to buy so called essentials I noticed a hunched figure in a familiar heavy overcoat across the road and standing in a corner of the new cemetery. I immediately recognised him and I was genuinely pleased that he was still alive.

I watched him for a while. He appeared to be talking but I couldn’t see anyone else nearby. He then knelt down briefly, then stood up and shuffled off.

I walked over to where he had stood. This area had black, shiny new granite headstones and surrounds, but I then noticed in between two of these plots an outline of white stones that marked clearly another plot.

These white stones were all smooth and round and clearly carried from the beach. In between the white stones was a brilliance of small coloured glass pebbles while a small jam jar had some fresh thrift in it. A piece of old flat drift wood adorned the head. An inscription had been carefully carved by hand – it read “Grace Jones – My Jewel”.