On the road to elephant and castle - an easter story from anne dixon

She was cycling home, the memories of the long weekend still fresh in her mind, sustaining her through what had been a stressful day back at work. Just a few minutes more and this day would be almost over and she could relax, enjoy a quiet supper. It looked as though it might rain any moment. She should get a move on.

She turned into a back street, less frequented by traffic. Still wary of any oncoming vehicles, she stopped at the T junction ahead, just a moment, just to check…and heard someone calling out.

It took only a moment to register that the call came from one of the two people standing on the opposite side of the junction - a man and a woman - but it was long enough to realise there was something odd, something ‘not quite right’ about the picture she saw.

The man was young, smartly dressed for work, possibly also on his way home after a long day. The woman was elderly, carrying a handbag, but inadequately dressed for the impending downpour. What were they doing? They didn’t ‘go together’. What was going on?

”Can you help me please?! It was the young man who spoke.

To stop and get off your bike in this quiet part of town might not be the wisest course of action, she thought, but a direct appeal for help is hard to ignore, especially when it comes from an unexpected source. Warily she crossed the road to join them.

”I’ve just met this woman,” he explained, “she is lost and wants to go home but doesn’t know where that is. Can you help us?” She had stumbled upon one of those random acts of kindness. The young man had stopped to help when he saw the older woman’s distress. He was very gentle in his questioning but it only highlighted the problem. The woman knew she was near home, she recognised the street, but didn’t know her address.

”Do you think there might be something in her handbag to help us?” He asked. Now the cyclist saw the problem. He didn’t want to upset her further by looking in her handbag, or arouse the suspicions of anyone passing by who might misunderstand what was happening. They both asked her respectfully if they might look in her bag. She agreed. Inside was a note with the name and telephone number of her daughter, “just in case she ever got lost.”

”Do you think you could ring the number?” The young man asked the cyclist. She did, but also wondered why it felt as though this young man was prompting her, almost teaching her, how to live, how to love, even. He smiled encouragingly at both of them. It was a warm smile which seemed to recognise them for who they were - not an old confused woman and work-harassed mum, but the real them, deeper within, where the beautiful girl still lived.

It was going to be alright now.

Within a few minutes a car arrived and a younger woman jumped out called “Mum! It’s ok, I’m here”. She turned to the cyclist saying “Thank you so much for calling the number. Mum just forgets sometimes. She lives just here.” They were standing at her own front gate all along!

The cyclist protested. “Oh, it wasn’t just me. This young man was looking after your mum when I arrived.” And she turned to introduce him…

But he wasn’t there.
It was as if he had vanished from their sight.
And then her eyes were opened.
And she recognised him in the compassion and kindness shown to a suffering older woman. And in the warmth of that smile that had melted the worry and weariness of a long working day.

And she climbed back on her biked and cycled home, eager to tell her family all that had happened on that South London Road.