Stroke of luck

Phil Rochester was a Jamaican and, like many Jamaicans, he endured his share of prejudice. Well, more than his share in truth. He came from one of the poorest areas of Kingston. In Jamaica, the social groups are clearly defined: At the very top are (Surprise! Surprise!) the rich white folk. A little further down the scale are the rich black folk. Further down still are the poor black folk but, at the very bottom of the heap, spurned by all, are the poor white folk. Phil belonged to this latter category. Life in Jamaica had not been great for poor old Phil so, despite the menial, low-paid work that was available to him, he always managed to keep something back to go into his savings. It had become his life’s ambition to come to England where, he concluded, he wouldn’t be spat on for being poor and white. It took him thirty years to accumulate the fare but Phil had the tenacity of his Scottish ancestors.

His bright ginger hair –– almost orange –– and deep green eyes together with his pink complexion, mottled with auburn freckles gave him a rather startling appearance. This and his broad, Jamaican patois stood him out from the crowd. He referred to the black community as “coloureds” which was probably a bit rich coming from someone who could be picked out in a football crowd from a helicopter.

He had initially lived in Bristol when he came to England but, within a year or two, he decided to move to Gloucestershire, which is where I first encountered him in the early Seventies. He was the unluckiest man I ever knew. If anything heavy fell over, Phil would be under it. If there was a hole anywhere, he would fall in it. He once experimented with hallucinogens and had taken LSD at a party. About two hours into his “trip”, he decided that he’d made a mistake and resigned himself to a further thirteen or so hours of seeing, hearing and feeling things that weren’t actually there. He resolved to endure it by ignoring anything that struck him as a probable hallucination and felt he would be more comfortable sitting this out at home so he left the party.

On the long and rather surreal journey back to his bedsit, he encountered a large, triangular hole in the middle of the pavement. It appeared to be full of a green and slightly luminous slime. This, he concluded, was another hallucination so he ignored it..... and fell in it.

He worked for a time as a steeplejack and had managed to draw a reasonable income repairing church roofs in general and spires in particular. But this was a hazardous occupation and probably not the wisest choice for one with Phil’s track record. Consequently, it was short-lived. I met him in Gloucester Royal Hospital where he was recovering from being struck by lightning...... for the third time. I was in the next bed recovering from a broken leg (for the first time).

Fascinated by his striking appearance and incongruous accent, I fell into conversation with him. It was clear that his career as a steeplejack was over and I asked him what he might do now. He shrugged “Aint nottin’ ‘round here, man! Me oon-em-plwayed!” It took a couple of repetitions before I realised he was saying unemployed. His patios was really hard to follow.
“You’d have been better off staying in Bristol” I suggested “At least there’s work there”
“Ya, man. Bot there too many coloureds. Aint so many coloureds ‘round here”
“You don’t like black people?” I asked
“Na, man. Me gat nottin’ agee-inst ‘em bot they tink me tee-ikin’ the piss so they beatin’ me op”. I could see how that could happen. We’ve now got used to people of West Indian descent in the UK having local regional accents. But a white man with a West Indian accent was still something of a novelty.

Phil had recovered before I was ready to be discharged. He really was a resilient chap which, under the circumstances, was just as well. We exchanged contact details and I promised to look him up when I was back on my feet.

It was actually some time before I fulfilled that promise. I’d gone through the snappy I-can-do-it-for-myself! phase, passed sublimely through the Sweeeeeeet-heeeeart!-Couldya-get-me-another-beeeeeeeer?-I’d-do-it-myself-but... phase and was in the Oh-it’s-coming-along-fine phase having milked all the sympathy I could from the situation. I was breaking in a new walking stick and having to exercise my leg by taking regular daily walks.

I wanted a beer. I was in town and needed to get some cash from the ATM. I pulled out my card and this slip of paper with Phil’s address on it fell out. His bedsit was nearby and I thought it would kill an afternoon.

“Oh, ‘e’s in ‘orspital” said his landlady “Got ‘imself chucked orf of a roof, ‘e did. Silly sod!”
I was beginning to think that perhaps catching Phil between hospital admissions were what could be described as windows of opportunity. His bedsit may have been close by. The hospital, on the other hand, was a bus ride away and there were no seats available.

The landlady had been wrong. He hadn’t been thrown from a roof; he’d been thrown through a window. Unfortunately, the window had been three storeys up so it had been a little like being thrown from a roof. As luck would have it, a truck piled high with raw animal hides had been parked directly under the window. As Phil’s luck would have it, the truck pulled away seconds before Phil hit the tarmac.

“Y’know what piss me aaff, man?” Phil said as the nurse adjusted his pillow “Every time me go to the ‘ospital, they keep sayin’ me loocky!”
I could see their point. It’s people like me who break legs. People like Phil escape within an inch of their lives. Phil doesn’t fall over and break a leg. Phil gets struck by lightning three times. Phil gets thrown through windows three storeys up. The miracle is that what Phil doesn’t do is die. They were right in that Phil was lucky to be alive. He was, however, extremely unlucky to be Phil.

He’d applied for a job at a day centre for people with mental health issues. The job advertised was for a keyworker for a six foot, three inch Jamaican patient called Winstone. Winstone could only relate to his previous keyworker because he, too, was Jamaican. Winstone was hard to handle and was inclined to exhibit “challenging behaviour”. When Phil phoned for details, he was given the job on the spot on the strength of his Jamaican accent. No interview. No references. The day centre was desperate and had decided that the first Jamaican applicant would get the job. Phil turned up for his first day at work and the rest is history.

It’s not that I actually liked Phil ...... not that I actively disliked him but he was, perhaps understandably, the most pessimistic person I’d ever met..... but it’s hard to turn your back on a man that would be in a wheelchair for the next six weeks.

I spent a considerable amount of time with Phil, fetching him beers, blending his lunch, listening to his life story and becoming more and more depressed. It then occurred to me that perhaps Phil was attracting bad luck. Nobody can be that unlucky by default. Phil needed professional help. He was in no position to afford private therapy or a ‘Life Coach’ so we decided on a self-help book to start with. There are an alarming array of self-help books available.

We rejected Dance Your Way To Self Knowledge, at least for the time being. The Frequency Of The Inner Being involved a degree of vibrating which, with anyone else, I’d say was fine. But I’d seen cell phones vibrate themselves off tables and.... well, this was Phil after all. It was getting late and I did have a life beyond Phil so I left him to browse through the plethora of literature we’d got from the library. I promised to get in touch in a few days.

Well, the ‘few days’ stretched into a couple of weeks. I know I know! And I should feel terrible but, to be honest, I was rather enjoying the break. Phil called me. It was strange to hear his voice sounding so.... well, optimistic:
“Hey, Raan! Me gottit swaarted, man!”
“You got it what?”
“Swaar-ted!”
“Swar.......? Oh! Sorted! Great! You found the right book then?”
“Na, man! Me gwaana wraat a book. Me gwaana ba a aathor!”
I could feel myself breaking out into a sweat at the thought of it “Let me get this straight, Phil. You are going to write a self-help book??”
“Ya, man. Me bin waarkin’ it out. You know there big money in this ma-lar-key!”
“Phil!” I said “I hate to sound negative but you’re the unluckiest man I’ve ever met!”
“Ya, man! Pre-cisely! Aint nobody know mwaar about bad loock than Phil Raa-chester! Oh man! Me gwaana be bringin’ ‘ome the be-aa-caan!”
“Beer can??” I said, a little confused
“Be-aa-caan!” he repeated
“Oh bacon!” he really is going to have to do something about that patois I thought.

I know I should have offered my support. I should have been around. But the thought of Phil becoming a published Life Coach...... I would only have been a negative influence. I decided to keep my distance for a while.

Weeks drifted into months and it was a good six months later that I opened the local paper and there was a photo of Phil staring back at me. The headline ran: “LOCAL MAN TAKES PUBLISHING WORLD BY STORM” Whaaa.........?? I thought and began to read on. I’d barely got past the first paragraph when the phone rang. It was Phil:
“Hey man! You see the peeaah-pah?”
“Yes! I was reading it as you rang. What can I say? Congratulations!”
“Thanks, man. Me get me cheque fraam the po-oblisher today. Me want you to be there.”
“Me??” I was a little taken aback. I hadn’t even been in contact for six months “I don’t understand” I said “Why do you want me there?”
“You ‘elp bring aall this about, man! You che-ange me loock!”

Well, I felt rather ashamed as I’d actually been avoiding him. He’d pulled this off alone and now he was crediting me with the change in his luck. Still, I felt I owed it to him to be there so I caught the train to Cardiff. The publisher was in City Road, next door to the music shop. To my surprise, Phil was outside on the street, waiting for me. He was still clearly having trouble with his legs as he hobbled excitedly toward me, holding out his digital camera. “Me want you to te-ake a photo!”
“Of what??” I said, taking the camera
“Me, man! Ho-oldin’ me cheque.”
Well, he looked so pleased with himself, I could hardly refuse. I pointed the camera.
“Naat here, man! Outside the po-oplisher’s aaffice!” and, with that, he turned and hobbled back to his position directly outside the door of the publisher’s office. I looked at the viewer as I aimed the camera. Phil stood, holding his precious cheque with a huge grin on his face. His bright, ginger hair stood up almost erect, his face pinker than ever. It was hard to imagine that, a short time ago, he had been such a pessimist.
“Say Cheese!” I commanded.
“Cheee............!!!!”

I really hadn’t seen that piano coming! The clues had been there and, knowing Phil as I did, I should have had at least an inkling. The piano delivery van had been parked in the road just outside the music shop and, had I looked up, I’d have seen the grand piano being hauled up to the huge window through which it would have been gently guided..... had the block and tackle not given out. It was an untimely and tragic end for which I can’t help holding myself partly to blame.

The actual photograph made me an absolute fortune! It was the kind of photo that the paparazzi can only dream of. I often think of Phil. Sometimes I see his book in Watersons or WH Smith and wonder about buying a copy.............. then again, I think I probably won’t.