Espresso Tales

He had spent a very satisfactory hour practising on the St Giles’ organ and was pleased with the Olivier Messiaen and Herbert Howells which he planned to perform at a “St Giles’

at Six” concert the following Sunday. There was such quiet in the music, such calm; it was the perfect antidote to the frenzied pace of modern life. Now, returning to the Academy for afternoon chamber-choir practice, he thought of what lay ahead of him. No Messiaen or Howells for the choir – at least not today – but a quick run through of Stand by Me and So it Goes, which the chamber choir had sung before and would respond to well; tear-jerkers, both of those pieces, if one were in a sentimental mood – which parents often were at school concerts.

He had reached the point at which Cumberland Street meets 114 Halfway Across

Dundas Street when he realised that something was happening.

He had glanced at his watch – a quick check to see that he was still in good time for choir practice – and for some reason, perhaps through an unconscious prompting of things seen but unseen, he looked over to his right and saw a small boy, wearing strawberry-coloured dungarees, suddenly run out into the street. For a moment, Peter Backhouse thought that the boy had kicked a ball into the road and was rushing out to retrieve it – it was that sort of purposeful, darting movement – but then the boy hesitated, took a few more steps, and stopped again.

Oliver Sacks has pointed out that those who are involved in moments of extreme peril often report a slowing- down of time.

They see the danger, they may even see impending annihila-tion, but they often feel that they have plenty of time to react.

The quick seconds of peril are slowed, become minutes in the minds of those involved. This is how it seemed that afternoon.

For Peter Backhouse, the boy seemed to be standing still for an inordinately long time, quite enough time to step from the path of the bus that was approaching him as he stood, momentarily frozen, in the middle of the road. The bus lumbered past, some faces at least peering out from the window at the sight of the small boy, statue-like, in the middle of the traffic. Then there were cars, one of which slowed down and swerved, avoiding a small movement that the boy had made.

Peter Backhouse shouted out to the boy, “Don’t move!” He looked up the road at the approaching traffic; a red light on the corner of Great King Street had changed and a stream of vehicles seemed to be hurtling down towards the boy while at the same time more cars came from the other direction. He looked behind him and decided that he should step out into the traffic and hold it up, hoping that it would heed him and allow the boy to complete his journey. But a car had already reached the point where he was standing and had shot past the stationary boy. Perhaps they could not see him; perhaps they thought that he was waiting to cross and knew exactly what he was doing.

And then, quite suddenly, a car careered round the corner Halfway Across

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behind him and launched itself down the road, going far too fast, the driver, distracted perhaps, unaware of the boy in the middle of the road – the boy who now seemed on the verge of overcoming his panicky indecision and launching himself into the rest of his interrupted crossing of the road. Peter Backhouse shouted, and began to leap forward, but he had been anticipated by another, a man on the other side of the road. This man, who had been walking up Dundas Street, had also seen what was happening and had acted. With a quick glance behind him, he darted forward, narrowly avoiding a passing van, and ran into the middle of the road. There, he seized the frightened boy and lifted him up bodily, right out of the path of the oncoming car.

Then, still holding him in his arms, he strode back to the edge of the road and to safety. A car squealed to a halt and a motorist shouted something out – a compliment, an expression of relief, an offer to help – but the rescuer indicated that all was well and the car drove off. On the other side of the road, Peter Backhouse shook his head, but breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then he strode off to choir practice. Stand by Me indeed! How very appropriate.

Bertie, quivering with fright and on the point of tears, stood abjectly on the pavement, his rescuer beside him.

“That was rather too close for comfort,” the man said. “You should stick to the crossings, you know. That’s what the green man’s for.”

His tone was not unkind, and Bertie looked up at him for a moment. His face looked familiar, but Bertie was not quite sure.

The man smiled. “Where do you stay?” he asked.

Bertie pointed in the direction of Scotland Street.

“Well, I think you should get back home,” said the man. “Will you be all right, do you think?”

Bertie nodded. He had always been taught to thank people, and now he remembered. “Thank you very much,” he said.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“That’s all right,” said the man, smiling. “I’m sure that you would have done the same for me if that had been me stuck out there!”

116 Ramsey Dunbarton

“I don’t know,” said Bertie.

“I’m sure you would.”

Bertie returned the smile. Then he began to walk back along Cumberland Street, turning once to wave to the man, who was watching him set off safely on his way. It had been a dreadful, humiliating experience – and a terrifying one, too. And had he not been saved by that kind man, whoever he was, he would be crushed by now; perhaps in a wailing ambulance, being carried off to hospital. Or would they take him to Dr Fairbairn’s office first, where he would be asked at great length why he wanted to cross Dundas Street in the first place? That was possible, thought Bertie. Nothing was ever simple.

In Dundas Street, things had quickly returned to normal, as they do in cities when something untoward occurs. Few people had seen what had happened; Peter Backhouse had, but he had missed one detail. That detail had been spotted by an elderly woman who happened to be looking out of her window more or less immediately above the