Short Story By Jackie Brewster
Morris stared at the contents of his wardrobe, and knew he had a problem. Not only was the man from the park six inches taller than him, he was also considerably broader. Dorothy always said he made dreadful decisions under pressure, but this time he had to get it right. Time was ticking, and before long the Sunday morning joggers would begin to arrive at the park. With every passing second the risk of detection, not to mention hypothermia, became ever greater.
It was lucky for the young man that Morris had been the first to find him. Morris was walking the dog at his usual time, and as heโd passed the shelter by the lime trees a strange voice had hailed him hoarsely from the shadows within. Morrisโs heart had nearly leapt from his chest. It was a classic fight or flight situation. Considering neither he, nor his basset, Broadstairs, were getting any younger, flight wasnโt really an option. To his utter relief the voice did not belong to a mugger but to a young man, who was stark naked, save for a battered Indian headdress.
โI donโt suppose you could lend me a couple of quid to catch the bus home?โ the man had asked politely, yet desperately. โAnd possibly some clothes?โ
It was an understandable request Morris reflected now, looking at the suits in his wardrobe. After all, thereโs no point having the correct fare if the driver wonโt let you get on the bus.
โDo you live nearby?โ the man had said. โCould we nip to your house for a coat, some trousers and shoes? I promise Iโll return them.โ It turned out that the young man had been on something called a stag night, and that his friends had abandoned him an hour earlier, taking all of his clothes. Time to get some better friends, Morris thought.
Morris had insisted that the young man wait there. It was too risky to have him brazenly walking through the park, and besides, Morris didnโt want a naked man in the house disturbing Dorothy. He looked over at Dorothy snoring contentedly under the eiderdown. The less she knew about this sorry business the better. If he could just find some suitable clothes then it would be a secret he and Broadstairs could take to the grave.
Even in this dim light Morris could see that nothing he owned would fit. His jackets, his shoes, and even his trousers would be far too small. The man would get some funny looks on the bus squeezed into those. His eyes strayed across the rail to Dorothyโs clothes. Dorothy was by anyoneโs standards a large lady. In fact, Morris realised, a pair of her slacks would fit quite nicely. She also had size ten feet, a source of much frustration when shoe shopping.
Morris pondered the ethics of lending the stranger his wifeโs clothes. The biggest problem was how to avoid Dorothy ๏ฌnding out. Would the man return them promptly? He had to lend him something that Dorothy would never miss, something she rarely wore and wasnโt likely to need in the foreseeable future.
Morrisโs eyes alighted on the perfect choice. Delighted by his excellent decision making, he stuffed the clothes in a carrier bag and left the house without once disturbing Dorothy.
He and poor Broadstairs, would, however, be enduring a deeply disturbed Dorothy two days later. Thereโs no easy way to explain to your wife why youโve received a parcel containing her peach satin motherยญ-ofยญ-theยญ-bride outfit, her matching slingยญbacks, two pound coins and a battered Indian headdress in the post.
