Dave takes up Rose's Storytelling Challenge

A few week's ago, at the end of her talk on 11 January, Rose left the congregation with a challenge to:

Write a story entitled ‘Telling’; the only constraint is that it must be a maximum of 700 words. It can be in any genre, tense, historical period, etc, etc 

Well Dave has taken up her challenge and here is the result

TELLING

Richie was a retired probation officer who had heard it all. Big-hearted, he was yet too hard-bitten to cry much. But one Thursday that is what he did, and, strangely, he did so because of a play on words by a man for whom English was a second language, and whose grasp of the language was not strong. As usual on a Thursday morning, he taught an English lesson at his local asylum centre, in the tattered, rambling old presbytery of a Catholic church. His bright, smiling, hard-working group included four Sudanese men, two Eritrean men and an Eritrean woman, two Syrian men, a Libyan man, a Chinese woman, and Hassib, an Iraqi who had become more a friend than a pupil. 

The group were not beginners, so occasionally he did a session on words with more than one meaning. That day, he used it as a filler for the last ten minutes of the lesson. First, he covered "bowl" and "stick". "Yes, I know", said Yohannes, one of the Eritreans. "I stick stamp on letters, I throw stick for dog. No problem, " he smiled. "Ah", said Richie, "but do you stick at it? Do you stick at a job?" Yohannes looked baffled, but Richie explained, as he had so often. "Yes!" said Mohamed, one of the Syrians. "Stick at it! This I like very much. We stick at it! Very good."

And then, for some reason, Richie moved on to the more obscure words "tell" and "telling." He explained how one could tell someone to pass on a message. How one could tell a story or tell what someone was meaning. Or how a child can 'tell tales'. He covered telling off and telling the time, telling votes - the group seemed interested even though he knew he was beyond the comfort level of some. And then, lastly, he described how something could be too telling. It could be too much for someone. Too emotional. For some reason he had their attention, all of them, even though they were tired and hungry.

But then the class next door began noisily milling around outside and it was lunchtime. Hassib was last out, and stopped for a chat, as usual. After exchanging pleasantries and snippets of news, Richie was struck by a thought. As he occasionally did, he opened his mouth before thinking. "You know Hassib, we were taking about telling stories. You should be telling yours. People should hear it. The world should hear it."

Hassib stopped. Stared hard at Richie, and then after two or perhaps three seconds, said "telling my story? No, Richie, that would be too telling."

Hassib slipped away with a sad half-smile on his face. Richie stood there stunned. How could he have been so stupid? He knew Hassib's story. Yes it was dramatic. Yes, people would be fascinated and it might even get them giving to worthwhile causes. But it was so painful for Hassib. Hassib, who had seen his corruption-exposing journalist older brother cut down in front of him. Who had received credible death threats himself. Who had numerous stories to tell of hair-raising run-ins with militia and the representatives of various armies. Who had seen dreadful scenes of death and injury in the streets around him. And who, above all, had finally fled the country after enduring three days of torture, the scars of which he still carried.

And Richie wept. Partly out of annoyance because of his own stupidity. Partly because he had never wept since Hassib had first told him. Partly because he was - as he always was - tired and strung out after the lesson. And partly he wept for all the Hassibs. All the people who had seen family killed in front of them. All the torture victims. All the righteous, good-hearted men and women who had to live looking over their shoulders fearing violent zealots.

His tears stopped and he began to busy himself with mundane tasks. Closing windows, wiping the board, putting the register away. He stopped at the door and looked back at the empty room. Well, he thought with a rueful smile. It was a bloody good play on words, anyway. They must be learning something.