Someone to Watch Over Me - Ken Cooper

I must have been four years old when I first met Marlene. In those days both my parents worked, so on her way to school my big sister would leave me with my childminder. I loved my Auntie Queenie. She wasn’t a relation, but I called her Auntie, and Queenie was a common nickname for women whose real names were Victoria, Mary, or Elizabeth. Almost every day Auntie Queenie took me and her baby Sandra shopping – to the butcher, the grocer, and the greengrocer – it’s what most housewives did then. The home freezer was some way off, and even refrigerators were considered luxuries. Many post-war homes used larders or pantries to store foodstuffs and during the warm months most perishables had to be bought and consumed daily.

One summer’s day we had to visit the butcher’s shop. Normally I would have run ahead to be first in, tracing roads with my shoes in the sawdust.  On this occasion I’d been distracted. The shop next door was the greengrocer. A ginger cat had decided the shop’s window-sill was an ideal sleeping place, and he was stretched out along this impossibly narrow bottle-green ledge, soaking up the sun’s rays. Some thoughtful human had placed a biscuit next to him, but pussy was clearly not interested. He’d left the biscuit for me. I hung back until Sandra’s pushchair had disappeared into the butcher’s shop.

I was just about to take possession of the bequest when an awful screeching made me jump and caused me to turn round. Further up the street a motor car was literally grinding to a halt, with sparks flying up from the end of its front wheel hub as it gouged into the road surface.

Even more alarmingly, the car’s wheel had become detached from the hub.  Pier Road had a noticeable downward incline, and this had encouraged the maverick wheel to gain speed. A couple of bumps in the road gave added impetus and the wheel had now become a bouncing bomb. And I was in its way!

What people say about things happening in slow motion is sort of right, but for me these few seconds were a period of indelible photographic clarity. Sixty years on I can still remember the shape and colour of the car – an odd pinky-beige colour – and the number plate – RKP 714. Normally I have trouble remembering my own car’s registration number.

One yard from death my arm was grabbed and I was snatched sideways away from the deadly trajectory. I turned my head and saw a woman. The wheel bounced on into the green canvas awning hanging down from the greengrocer’s sun blind. Making an awful sawing sound as its kinetic energy dissipated to zero, it suddenly toppled over as if it had fainted with exhaustion.

Everyone from the nearby shops came out to see what had happened. A second contingent had gathered near the stricken car with its shaking woman driver. Auntie Queenie bent down to see if I was alright. Her face was white – her usual rosy cheeks had deserted her. It was clear I had suffered no physical damage. An old man with a walking stick hurried across the road and described how he had seen me at the last second jump out of the path of the wheel. I looked around for my saviour, but I couldn’t see her.

Auntie Queenie related the incident to my mother when she came to collect me after tea; how at the last second I’d had the presence of mind to dodge the wheel. I’d had a lucky escape, but had come to no harm. Auntie Queenie, on the other hand, found large clumps of her hair coming out with her brush over the following weeks.

That night I was put to bed about seven. It was still light. I was nearly asleep when I heard my name being spoken softly. I sat up and saw the woman who had saved me standing there. She was wearing a dress with a frilly collar – very different from the flowery dresses most women were wearing. She had a pretty face – the kind every four year old boy could fall in love with.

“Hello Kenny,” she said, “Are you alright?”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“My name is Marlene. I’m pleased I was able to help you today. Now go to sleep.” I tried to fight off the sandman, but I lost.

Naturally, I’ve never forgotten the wheel event, but I could never be sure that I hadn’t dreamed the subsequent meeting with Marlene. It was a later incident, in my early teens, which really convinced me that she was playing a part in my life.

One winter’s morning I was standing in the school playground with a bunch of my classmates, waiting for the school bell to start the day. We’d probably be talking about last night’s television highlights. Suddenly a scarf was flung round my neck from behind and began to be pulled tighter. Instinctively I grabbed at it, but I was a little too late. Very soon I felt myself being strangled. My head started to throb. I looked at my fellow classmates but it was if we were all in a swimming pool. Their faces and voices were distorted but I could see they were laughing and grinning. They clearly felt I was acting the fool! I was becoming desperate. Close to passing out I saw Marlene in front of me. She reached out and pulled the scarf from my neck. I collapsed onto my knees, still gasping for air. I could see that my friends now realised I was not playacting. Billy Evans, the perpetrator, was contrite. “I’m sorry, Kenny,” he pleaded, “It was only meant as a joke. Good thing you managed to untangle the scarf in time!”

Five minutes later I had recovered from the potential homicide. I was mystified about Marlene’s timely intervention, for she was nowhere to be seen. I thought better of mentioning her to my friends. That night I waited for her appearance at my bedside, but she never came.

Many years have passed, and I have experienced Marlene’s protection just one more time - during a close encounter with a dubious electrical installation in Nairobi where I was installing a computer network. I was in the process of connecting up some equipment to the main power circuit. I had double-checked that the power was off. I was about to work on the main connection when my arm was tugged away. I clearly heard Marlene say “Check it again, Kenny!” I was sure that even if there was mains power there, the fuses would harmlessly trip out if there was a short circuit. As a final test I placed the blade of my trusty Swiss Army penknife across the terminals. The fuse did not trip out harmlessly. There was a sudden loud bang, followed by a short ghostly decrescendo, as computers, ceiling fans, telephones and printers were drained of their life force and fell silent. The knife blade had melted half way across its width. The incident blew the main fuses of the offices together with those of the floor above. If Marlene had not intervened I would not have been able to relate this story.

Marlene remained a mystery to me all these years, but a conversation I had with my mother last month shed some light. We were looking through a bundle of photographs she had come across in one of the half dozen biscuit tins that held her life story. One of the snaps was of me when I was a teenager. “Such a handsome boy,” she declared proudly, adding “considering you were ugly when you were born!”

“What do you mean, Mum?” I asked.

“You were born black. Did I never tell you?”

“Black? What on earth are you on about?”

“When you were born, the cord became tangled around your neck, and you were being strangled as you came out.”

I’d heard about the nuchal cord. It’s not that unusual for the umbilical cord to become wrapped around the baby’s neck. Trained doctors and midwives know they have to check for it and will slip the cord over the baby’s head if necessary. Sometimes, if the cord is too tightly wrapped, it has to be clamped and cut. But I was born at home with no midwife or doctor in attendance.

“If it hadn’t been for Marlene, you wouldn’t be alive today.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood to attention. “Who is Marlene, Mum?”

“Marlene always helped me out whenever I was in trouble. She asked if she could help with the birth. It was lucky for you she did! You might say she was my guardian angel – and yours too!”