Mr Lonely

By Sue Whitaker

The journey of a man racked by deeply hidden hurts and grief at the loss of his wife to Cancer sets out on an unconventional journey of self-discovery. Trevor Lonely has always been something of a lost soul, searching for something that had always eluded him. His wife Christine knew this and on her deathbed and fearing that he would not be able to carry on life without her made sure that her final words would spur him on to find out his real purpose in life. What follows is a life so far removed from the life he had led that not even Christine could have imagined it. On a journey that takes five years, Trevor survives loneliness, depression, breakdown and occurrence that shape the man he will become. He overcomes adversity and strange supernatural tests on a journey that day by day establishes the life that he was born to live. Mr Lonely is a book that demonstrates that whether you are a man or a woman you are never too old to come of age and find the real purpose of your existence. The reader will find so much to relate to and inspire them on their personal-life journey as they read this entertaining and thought-provoking book which promises to evoke unexpected emotions in all genders and ages. Mr Lonely is a book readers will want to read over and over again.

BOOK REVIEWS
"I really enjoyed this book, it made me want to read more and more."-BooksaremyPassion101, 5/5 stars.

Walking and sleeping his way through churchyards to find his new niche in life ~~ A 5 star read
By Richard and Liz on 4 July 2017

This book is an unusual but uplifting read. The author knows how to describe a place/scene so that the reader can "see" it. In that way the book is excellent. Homeless by choice and a widower, Trevor Lonely is an educated man and monetarily stable, yet he chooses to spend his nights sleeping in church graveyards. Why? Lonely? No! Afraid? No! However "an alien sensation was cruising through" Trevor's veins. Will he face it or run?

A rather ungainly man with large feet, it has never occurred to Trevor that he might give folks quite the fright if they meet him in the churchyard after dark! One evening, tripping over a tree root brings him into contact with two shady characters. Do they think he is an apparition? The author manages to make the reader smile as she tells the story in first person through Trevor. This is one of many, many interactions that Trevor has as he wanders through the countryside going from church to church.

"My wife, God rest her soul, thought I needed to find something, so I took to the road to find it." The question keeps going through his mind that if he doesn't know what he is looking for how will he know when he finds it? What guilt is eating Trevor up? Who helps him bring it out into the open? Trevor talks to his deceased wife frequently. Those who have lost a partner will likely identify with this.

Powerful and poignant stories in this book! A lesson to us all that life's interactions can have more impact than we may ever know despite our circumstances. You can still be a help and encouragement to others no matter what life takes you through or where you find yourself. Trevor declares himself to be a Christian but not a religious man. The ending is done well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ETA Publishing House
• Release date: Apr 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781907978562

Sue Whitaker

Sue admits to being a ‘big kid’ herself and likes nothing more than walking in the rain and splashing in puddles (if no one is looking). The inspiration for most of her writing come from spending time in the North York Moors. The region where both her 'And Other Tales' short stories and the ‘And Jake Makes Three’ series of books are set. Sue is passionate about animal welfare and conservation to protect natural habitats. Her writing is compared to best selling author's such as Enid Blyton and Jeffrey Archer to name a few.

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Mr Lonely

MR. LONELY

Copyright © 2014 © 2017 Sue Whitaker

This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

The Author has asserted the right to be identified as the creator of this work. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored, in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold, subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including the condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All rights reserved.

A CIP catalogue copy of the book is available from the British Library

Epub edition ISBN 978-1-907978-56-2

First Edition

First printed 2014

By ETA Publishing House

Reprinted 2017

By ETA BOOKS

ETA BOOKS is an imprint of

ETA PUBLISHING HOUSE LLP

22 Greenbank Road, Greenbank

BRISTOL, United Kingdom, BS5 6EY,

Company Registered No: OC373475

Customer Service: 0843 289 2274

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www.etapublishing.com

Sue Whitaker

Mr. Lonely

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

About the Author

For Summer, The Granddaughter I waited so long for,

But could only briefly hold

If I give away all I have, and if I deliver my body to be burned,

but not love, I gain nothing...’

Corinthians 13: vs 3

Chapter One

The uneven surface of the Yorkshire stone archway tinged with black, was like treacle topped peaks of over baked bread; each loaf precision placed some two hundred years previously to form the entrance to my overnight accommodation.

St. John the Evangelist Church stood proudly within the gathering gloom but seemed to be slowly fading at the edges, like a water colour painting tends to do, forcing one to do a double take and look more closely at the statement of intent within. The hour was around 10 pm, and very soon a shroud as dense as black velvet would veil the imposing church throughout the hours of darkness as if tenderly tucking up for the night every emotion the building had ever witnessed.

I had approached the archway on that balmy night in mid-June with a certain amount of uncharacteristic hesitancy, which at the time had surprised me; after all, it was not the first time that I had spent the night in a graveyard. Having no fixed abode I often snuggled down amongst the granite headstones of the deceased, preferring their cold shoulders to those of my peers.

Lonely? No, I do not do lonely. It wasn’t the fear of being alone. Shunned by society, at best looked down upon as a second-class citizen, I have asked myself many times, what possible reason could I have to want to place myself in the company of bigoted individuals? The answer to that, like many other similar questions, is a concept which is rapidly losing any importance. Being a loner is far removed from being lonely!

Fright? No, I was not afraid. However, I do remember the last time that I was frightened. I would have to cast my mind back to the time when I had a 9 – 5 job as a respected librarian, a mortgage and a wife who was breaking my heart as I watched her slowly dying of lung cancer. Those times did scare the living daylights out of me. I was afraid of what was happening, of my own emotions and the inevitable outcome. There have been many occasions when I have weakened and forlornly longed to have the power to alter a destiny that I believe is already mapped out. But if by some miracle I found that I could have changed the course of my life, I doubt if I would have done things differently, said anything more passionately, or trusted anyone more freely than I had previously. I guess some things are just meant to be. No matter how much one wants things to stay the same, they never, ever do.

So, I was neither lonely nor afraid; nevertheless, an alien sensation was cruising through my veins, and I had to make a decision. Do I turn around and walk away from whatever may be waiting for me there that night, or do I meet it head on?

I bit down hard on the parched lump in my mouth which was my tongue and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. What was I? Some kind of wobbly invertebrate afraid of its own shadow? I think not!

My first few footsteps through the archway were peculiar, to say the least. The long winding path meandered through a host of last resting places that protruded from the ground at staggered intervals, but the sensation which shadowed me was not distressing. I felt an instant calm wash over me as I was embraced by an all encompassing hush, which at first hurt my eardrums; as if I was going slightly deaf. Even the raucous rooks which were perched high in the clusters of the ancient reach-for-the-sky oak trees, sounded as if they were squawking through cotton-wool masks. It was a unique sensation, one which was growing in intensity with every footstep that led me further into the darkening void.

The path was of dark tarmac, with traces of green moss clinging to edges which fell away at a steep angle to where path met stone edging, a barrier between the guiding path and the damp springy grass beyond.

I remember smiling ironically at my thoughts just then. How could an insignificant stone hold back the forces of Mother Nature? Moss and grass would soon be joining forces, I thought. Some things were just meant to form a bond, a marriage which was part of their destiny.

Such natural, everyday objects I know, but such things inadvertently had the subconscious influence to crumble my carefully constructed inner defences, and I found myself flinching and protectively hugging my arms to my chest as the haunting whispers of my late wife, Christine, re-played through my mind. As I listened, I felt the familiar tightening in my throat, which always attacked me during flashback moments. This was always followed by a predictable cough and characteristic rub of my rather crooked nose.

Go and find it, Trevor, Christine had said in a pain-filled voice which had been barely above a whisper. Whatever you have been searching for all these years, go and find it. You may not be able to see me, but I will be with you all the way, and we will find it together.

I coughed and rubbed my nose, not forcing Christine’s words from my head, more absorbing the vibrations of her soft tones into the core of my heart, but alas my memory banks of our many profound conversations had reached over-spill not long after her death some three years back. However, I had eventually come to terms with the fact that there would be no further memories credited to that account, merely withdrawal transactions.

My process through the maze of stone slabs was slow. I had left the path behind both in a literal and spiritual sense, and I was taking my route through life and the churchyard.

Somehow, I suppose by functioning solely on autopilot, I had managed to sell the home that we had shared for almost twenty-two years. Throughout all the red tape processes, I had not once dwelt on self-pity, remorse or sentimentality. I had remained focused, with steadfast tunnel-vision. My goal? To leave the past behind and walk away from all the pain.

It had never entered my head that there was a strong possibility that the pain I longed to alienate was about to be my best friend and a lifelong companion.

I can hear some of you asking why? Why at forty-five years of age, with a university education and a more than healthy bank account, would I want to live my life under the radar, without the creature comforts of modern society? As I mentioned previously, the answer is not important anymore; it just happens to be one of those life choices that we all have the freedom to make. I am not a sponger, beggar, or free loader. I neither cause nor look for trouble, my only requirement is peace.

Where better then to find what I was looking for, than the places where we are all eventually laid to rest in peace. For the past three years I have been moving from churchyard to churchyard, living with my memories, the recently departed, and the long gone relatives of the locals. The tranquillity of a churchyard, held in seclusion from the real world, often by a gateless archway, is the one true place I could guarantee a peaceful, uninterrupted nights rest. Or so I thought, until that night in mid-June when the beginning of a chain of events changed the course of my life yet again, and steered me towards the light.

My name is Trevor Lonely.

Chapter Two

It was still with me, that now commanding sensation of impending change, but what kind of change, and how was I going to react?

Tiny butterflies were dashing their wings against the pit of my stomach in anticipation; in fact, their frenzied dance distracted me to such an extent that for a moment I became lost in the feeling of insecurity that their dance generated. As I tiptoed through the gravestones in search of a space for the night which would be large enough to accommodate my 6’2" frame without causing any disrespect to the residents, I failed to notice the boy who was sitting at the foot of a grave, head in hands, eyes downcast. It was not until the kid took a deep shuddering breath that I stopped studying the ground space and looked up in his direction.

It was as if I had hit a brick wall. My emergency stop left me breathless and confused, and I hastily looked around for the rest of his gang, his parents, or any other form of life which would mean that I could walk away and not get involved. A quick scan of the surroundings, however, brought up hardly anything. Darkness had fallen quickly upon suburbia, and the graveyard had succumbed even faster.

I was aware that parts of the nearby village were very old. But as is the norm in this day and age, this particular village was spreading like chickweed and had now stretched all the way into the next village, which once would have been maybe half a day’s journey away in the days of horse and carts. The kid could have come from just about anywhere, but I guessed by the look of his shabby clothes which hung from him like flabby skin, that he did not come from that, more affluent part of the village.

I have to say he even made me feel overdressed. I know that my long grey hair looked like a haystack at times, and my size both vertical and horizontal could come across as somewhat overpowering. But my voice has always been able to compensate for my size because when I speak, I have a voice like lubricating oil (or so I have been told).

Hello there, I eventually said, concentrating on making the soft tones of my baritone voice neither intrusive nor threatening.

I thought that by suddenly materialising from out of the darkness like some sort of mythological monster. That I would have caused at least a slight reaction of surprise or fear, but apparently, the kid must have been accustomed to over-sized man mountains approaching him in churchyards, for he merely gave me a cursory glance, and then went back to his intricate study of the ground.

I did another quick surveillance of our surroundings but again failed to find anyone who could be with the kid.

Dilemma time!

Should I walk on by and later regret my selfishness, or should I engage in further conversation to try and help the kid and risk the possibility of a whole host of unpleasant come-backs, which a man approaching a young lad in an isolated place should really think carefully about?

It’s almost dark, I said, shaking away the negative voice in my head, and making sure my own voice held just the right mix of balanced unassuming normality. I can see that you are upset, so it would be foolish of me to ask if you are alright because I can plainly see that you aren’t.

Okay, I thought, when I received no physical or verbal response. I took a deep breath and tried another tactic.

Isn’t there somewhere else you would rather be?

The contours of my face held the question as the seconds passed without a reply, but I wasn’t fazed. I had the bit between my teeth now, and I was determined to get the kid to at least acknowledge my presence. Pretending that he couldn’t see me was an immature reaction that would have grated against my patience if I had let it.

I decided to get down to the kids level, but I made the descent down onto the dry ground quicker than I had intended and landed with an undignified heavy thud, causing a major dust storm to billow outwards from my colossal frame. I quickly glanced at the kid, hoping that I hadn’t frightened him, and caused him to run and hide. A game of hide and seek with the kid was definitely off the agenda. That was a game far too understated in my opinion; a dangerous game that had the potential to bring to the seeker much more than he bargained for.

Go and find it, Trevor. Whatever you have been looking for, go and find it.

I rubbed my nose, instantly aware of the exaggerated bump which made it look like a hump-backed bridge. This was followed by a cough which I inevitably knew would tighten my throat, as it did whenever I thought of Christine. For the millionth time, I mentally asked my late wife, if she knew what I was seeking because I still had not seen the light. What had she meant when she had whispered those words to me? What hidden message was in there for me?

I had to believe that listening to the words and emotions that I felt were growing from the seeds which she had planted in my mind, was the right thing to do. I had given up everything to enable me to find the true meaning of Christine’s last words, and the rest of my life depended on my reactions to the developing thoughts of humanity which were quickly transforming from seeds to saplings and forcing me to look at life from a different perspective.

No pressure then.

Despite the rumbles of an earthquake caused by my overzealous landing, a possible seven on the Richter scale, the kid had seemingly not moved a muscle.

Sorry about that, I said to the kid, as the rising dust decided that it was now safe to head back down to earth. I’m not the nimblest of men, but I can do a hilarious belly dance! I laughed at my own joke, my eyes never leaving the back of the kid’s head. His dark hair matted to his head, had obviously not seen a comb in days, probably longer, and I suddenly wondered if, like me, this kid was from the streets.

You know, to be honest, there aren’t many places that I would rather be tonight, I said slowly becoming more confident with my one-sided conversation. It’s a beautiful mid-summers night, who wants to be locked away in a house? You know, I believe that we are the lucky ones. You and I have all the riches that many people do not even realise the true value of. We have fresh air. We have warmth. There is fragrance and life all around us, even here in our choice of overnight accommodation this evening. Look at the stars above us. Do you think that we are the only ones using the sky for curtains? No way my friend. Millions will be casting their eyes in the same direction, but at the same time, there will also be millions wishing that they could lift their heads and drink in those flavours. When I look up there, I taste eternity and beyond, with an aftertaste of gratitude for being given the ability of appreciation.

I stopped rambling abruptly, suddenly aware that I was probably freaking the kid out.

I didn’t have a problem chatting to a bent head and sagging shoulders, and I hoped the kid didn’t have a problem listening because I felt that he needed some kind of guidance, but how could I help a mute shadow?

I tried a few direct questions which required direct answers.

I’m Trevor, what’s your name?

Silence.

That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me, but that means that I will have to give you a name, one which you may not like. What about Moonlight, or Stargazer?

Silence.

No? Well, what about Granit, or Marble, like the headstones?

Silence.

Very well then, Granit it is.

No reaction, but no adverse reaction either, which I told myself was a good thing, so I continued.

Are you in pain, Granit? Why are you upset? Is there anything at all that I can do to help you? Just please don’t tell me to go away and leave you alone, because I don’t think that I could do that.

Eureka! Although his features remained obscure in the darkness, the kid lifted his head slightly as if he was listening. If it was to my voice or some other sound that he had picked up I wasn’t sure, but it was good to see him animated, even if it was only briefly.

I heard what sounded like another shuddering breath and then he began to shuffle into a different position by the side of the grave. I silently watched, noticing the patches on his knees and the ripped pockets which yawned like gaping wounds as the kid slowly stretched out his legs.

I wondered if he did actually have a problem with speech or hearing