A Gift From Prague By William J Thirsk-Gaskill
He said his name was Petr. It was difficult to say how old he was. He could have been five: he could have been twelve, or thirteen. He had blond hair and blue eyes that seemed to drill into you. His clothes were very threadbare.
It was just after we had both retired, Ivy and me. We used to work for the Department of Work and Pensions, and we had been planning our retirement for years. The first thing we did was buy a big American-style camper van and go on a tour of Europe. We were having a great time. After six weeks, we had spent hardly any money, except on diesel and beer, and were in the Czech Republic. We hardly spoke any languages, except a bit of Spanish we had learnt at evening classes, but it did not seem to matter much. We got by. I think that was one of the first things that struck us about Petr: it surprised us that such a little lad in Central Europe would speak fluent English.
Ivy and I had agreed before we set off that we weren't going to pick up any hitchhikers, and we weren't going to give any money to beggars. Petr didn't ask for any money. He offered to give us a guided tour for free. Prague was the first big town we had been to for weeks, and it seemed very confusing: very old-fashioned and higgledy-piggledy.
'We aren't giving you any money,' I told him, and immediately it sounded cruel.
'I don't want money,' said Petr.
'We can't give you any food,' I told him, and sounded crueller still.
'I'm not hungry,' was all he said, but he looked famished. His skin had a weird kind of see-through quality, as if it was made of greaseproof paper. I expect he lived mostly on bread and potatoes - when he got anything at all.
'Where are your mother and father?' I asked.
'I not know. You want me to guide you round city?'
It seemed impossible to say no.
Two hours later, we felt that we had had a sufficiency of information about princes, and castles, and the Nazis and the Communists and the Prague Spring, and so on. It was funny, because Petr's lectures were so fluent and well-informed and so much like listening to a schoolteacher that they made us feel less uncomfortable. He can't have been all that malnourished if he could remember so much stuff and articulate it so well.
'Do you want to go to the toilet?' I asked him, realising that, at his age, our kids would have been desperate after all this time.
'I am fine,' he said. 'Have you had enough of tour?'
'Er, yes. Yes, we have. Thank you very much for that excellent commentary.'
'You come from United Kingdom?'
'Yes.'
'From England?'
'Yes, from England.'
'You go back to England now?'
'Soon. We are on a touring holiday.'
'You have no children of your own?'
'Yes, we do.'
'Where are they?' He looked around with darting glances, as if to see boys and girls coming out from behind corners.
'Oh, they are all grown up. They have all been to university and got jobs and families of their own now.'
'They not live with you.'
'No. One of them lives in South Africa, another in Edinburgh - that's in Scotland - and another in London. We live in a place called Stoke-on-Trent.'
We said goodbye to Petr. We both felt sad, but it couldn't be helped.
'I hope the little lad is going to be all right,' said Ivy.
'Mm. So do I.' I think both of us actually shed a little tear.
Anyway, we forgot about him for a while, because as soon as we got back into the camper, we realised that it was listing over and one of the tyres was flat. It didn't seem to be punctured, but it took me a while to inflate it with the foot pump. Ivy would insist on standing right over me while I was trying to put it right, like she always does when I'm doing jobs.
'You stand in front of the open door,' I told her. 'And make sure nobody nicks anything out of the van.'
'Probably a leaky valve,' I said to Ivy, after a while.
'What - like yours, you mean?' We laughed.
We were driving along, back in the countryside, and Ivy was content because I was going slowly and taking every corner like I was driving a hearse. The sun was shining and we were looking forward to getting to our next camp-site and having a good supper. And then we both heard a sneeze coming from behind the rolled-up sleeping bags and the suitcases in the back of the camper.
We hope Petr will be going to Oxford, next year. He's done very well, considering.
Copyright William J Thirsk-Gaskill 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/27805/a-gift-from-prague to download
It was just after we had both retired, Ivy and me. We used to work for the Department of Work and Pensions, and we had been planning our retirement for years. The first thing we did was buy a big American-style camper van and go on a tour of Europe. We were having a great time. After six weeks, we had spent hardly any money, except on diesel and beer, and were in the Czech Republic. We hardly spoke any languages, except a bit of Spanish we had learnt at evening classes, but it did not seem to matter much. We got by. I think that was one of the first things that struck us about Petr: it surprised us that such a little lad in Central Europe would speak fluent English.
Ivy and I had agreed before we set off that we weren't going to pick up any hitchhikers, and we weren't going to give any money to beggars. Petr didn't ask for any money. He offered to give us a guided tour for free. Prague was the first big town we had been to for weeks, and it seemed very confusing: very old-fashioned and higgledy-piggledy.
'We aren't giving you any money,' I told him, and immediately it sounded cruel.
'I don't want money,' said Petr.
'We can't give you any food,' I told him, and sounded crueller still.
'I'm not hungry,' was all he said, but he looked famished. His skin had a weird kind of see-through quality, as if it was made of greaseproof paper. I expect he lived mostly on bread and potatoes - when he got anything at all.
'Where are your mother and father?' I asked.
'I not know. You want me to guide you round city?'
It seemed impossible to say no.
Two hours later, we felt that we had had a sufficiency of information about princes, and castles, and the Nazis and the Communists and the Prague Spring, and so on. It was funny, because Petr's lectures were so fluent and well-informed and so much like listening to a schoolteacher that they made us feel less uncomfortable. He can't have been all that malnourished if he could remember so much stuff and articulate it so well.
'Do you want to go to the toilet?' I asked him, realising that, at his age, our kids would have been desperate after all this time.
'I am fine,' he said. 'Have you had enough of tour?'
'Er, yes. Yes, we have. Thank you very much for that excellent commentary.'
'You come from United Kingdom?'
'Yes.'
'From England?'
'Yes, from England.'
'You go back to England now?'
'Soon. We are on a touring holiday.'
'You have no children of your own?'
'Yes, we do.'
'Where are they?' He looked around with darting glances, as if to see boys and girls coming out from behind corners.
'Oh, they are all grown up. They have all been to university and got jobs and families of their own now.'
'They not live with you.'
'No. One of them lives in South Africa, another in Edinburgh - that's in Scotland - and another in London. We live in a place called Stoke-on-Trent.'
We said goodbye to Petr. We both felt sad, but it couldn't be helped.
'I hope the little lad is going to be all right,' said Ivy.
'Mm. So do I.' I think both of us actually shed a little tear.
Anyway, we forgot about him for a while, because as soon as we got back into the camper, we realised that it was listing over and one of the tyres was flat. It didn't seem to be punctured, but it took me a while to inflate it with the foot pump. Ivy would insist on standing right over me while I was trying to put it right, like she always does when I'm doing jobs.
'You stand in front of the open door,' I told her. 'And make sure nobody nicks anything out of the van.'
'Probably a leaky valve,' I said to Ivy, after a while.
'What - like yours, you mean?' We laughed.
We were driving along, back in the countryside, and Ivy was content because I was going slowly and taking every corner like I was driving a hearse. The sun was shining and we were looking forward to getting to our next camp-site and having a good supper. And then we both heard a sneeze coming from behind the rolled-up sleeping bags and the suitcases in the back of the camper.
We hope Petr will be going to Oxford, next year. He's done very well, considering.
Copyright William J Thirsk-Gaskill 2012
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/27805/a-gift-from-prague to download