Galahad

A man finds that his name is not a complete waste of time after all.

Galahad

Lately, Galahad often reflected ruefully on the inappropriate nature of his name. What his parents had been thinking when they chose this moniker for their baby boy, mewling and puking in his christening dress, he had no idea. It seemed a heavy burden to place upon the shoulders of one so young, and so it had proved through his schooldays, the other boys being only too delighted to have such a name to play with and mock.

In adult life, too, it had proved more of a handicap than a blessing. Employers seemed to expect more from him as the bearer of so impressive a title, the few ladies he came to know were invariably disappointed that he proved incapable of living up to so romantic a handle, and his male friends merely avoided the issue by inventing silly nicknames for him.

A heavy burden indeed.

Yet, in one way at least, the name was indicative of a facet of Galahad’s character. In his dreams he wished that he had been born into the days of his namesake, in the time of King Arthur and the knights of the round table. Sir Galahad had been the purest of all the knights and the one who succeeded in the quest for the Holy Grail. Not one amongst his peers thought his name odd or laughable - they respected him as the fine knight that he was.

So that was the dream. In his mind, Galahad could ride gallantly to the rescue, slaying dragons and righting wrongs as he went, a superhero in a mediaeval world. He knew the reality was that he could never be the dashing character he imagined. In this world he was no more than a sad failure with a pompous name. But the dream gave him an escape for a few hours from the harsh facts of life.

And harsh they were for him at the time. In his forties now, with his hair greying and receding, his face wrinkled with the cares and troubles of too many years alone, he found himself homeless, without a job and in a general decline towards a silent, unremarkable death in the shadows.

He shook his head at the thought that it was he that needed a knight in shining armour these days.

As he approached the bridge that had become his latest home, he steeled himself to face reality again. The meagre results of the daily forage for food were in his pockets and it was time to share them with his only friend, Alberto. Down the slope towards the trickle that passed for a stream in the concrete culvert, the wall of the bridge on his left, Galahad stepped cautiously, keeping to the well worn path between bushes that hid the detritus of civilisation in their shade. He did not share the weakness that caused used and broken syringes to be the main item in that miscellany, and he had no wish to experience their sharp reminders of his frailty.

Turning the corner into the shadows beneath the bridge, he could discern the familiar lumpen shapes of his cardboard shelter huddled against the supporting wall. Beyond were the boxy forms of more refuges for the down and out and, down by the water, the dark shape of Alberto sitting on a brick and staring up at him in expectation of the gifts he brought.

Galahad stopped in front of his home and beckoned to Alberto. “Come on, Al. Been a good day down the alleys. Got a good haul.”

Alberto grinned and scrambled up to sit next to him on a flat piece of cardboard. He watched as Galahad emptied his pockets of the treasures he’d found.

Galahad kept the best till last. Producing a half eaten burger, he waved it in Alberto’s face. “Still got meat in it,” he assured the goggling eyes. “Go on, you have it. Found some french fries for myself.”

“Aw, thanks Glad,” said Alberto as he took the proffered burger reverently in his hands. “Been a while since I had one of these.”

“Yeah, well, fast food’s bad for you, they say. You’re prob’ly a lot healthier thanks to that.”

There was silence then as they worked their way through Galahad’s haul. From the other end of the bridge a man and a woman made their way to some boxes that seemed to be theirs. They sat down and watched the stream below, muttering inaudible comments at each other.

Alberto ceased munching on his burger to call out to the couple. “Alright, T’resa? And you, Tony? Anything happenin’ out there today?”

“Nah, nothin’ much,” said the man. “Just another day.”

They returned to their muttering and Alberto resumed work on his burger.

He and Galahad finished their meal and then sat there silently, watching the stream trickle past. The other pair, Tony and Teresa, were talking more animatedly now and Galahad could hear the odd phrase as one voice or the other rose to be heard.

“Well, I didn’t ask for you to…”

“That’s not what I heard…”

“...talk to me like that.”

Then they were standing and yelling into each other’s face. Galahad stood up and watched them, uncomfortable, hating the sight of so much anger and bile but aware that it was wise to stay out of it. Alberto grabbed his arm.

“Leave it, Glad. It’s their business and they’ll not thank you.”

But then the man struck her in the face and she went sprawling on the concrete. He stood over her, yelling almost incoherently, and Galahad moved by instinct, propelled by some force within. In a few long strides he was there and had flattened the man with a single blow. Teresa leapt up and stood protectively in front of the man as he struggled to rise. She turned on Galahad.

“Get out of ‘ere, you bastid,” she shouted. “What the ‘ell d’you think yer doin’ shovin’ yer nose in our business like that? You dare touch my Tony again and I’ll ‘elp ‘im beat the shit outa yer.”

Galahad stood there, his anger gone in that one aggressive move, amazed at her response. “I was only trying to help,” he said.

The woman sneered. “Oh, the great knight on ‘is flamin’ white horse comes to rescue the lady in distress, is it? Well, I don’t need no bleedin’ ‘elp, thank you very much. I can take care of meself, I can, and I’ll kick your miserable arse if yer don’t get outa here now.” She pointed out to where the sun shone in the outside world.

Alberto was already pulling at Galahad’s arm, dragging him away from the scene, and the pair of them retreated like crestfallen and beaten dogs, out from the shadows and stumbling up the path that led back to the highway and the city. Galahad moved like a man without purpose, astounded both by what he had done and by the woman’s reaction.

“I’m sorry, Al,” he mumbled.

“Nah, nah, don’t worry ‘bout it,” replied Alberto. “You just don’t wanna get involved with them two. They’re both nutters. Tried to warn you, I did.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Don’t know what came over me.”

Alberto was limping quite badly by the time they reached the first buildings and they turned into an alleyway to find a place to rest. They slumped down between two dumpsters, Galahad with head down in despair. His friend was talking away, trying to cheer him up.

“You weren’t to know, Glad. And anyway, it were a damn fine thing to do. Bloody good hit you got in, too. The bugger went down like a shot.”

“Shouldn’t have done it,” said Galahad.

“Yah, well, maybe. But he had it comin’ to him. Was about time someone knocked him down a peg or two.”

Galahad just sighed in answer and, for a moment there was silence between them. From an open window above them came the sound of a radio playing music. Mark Knopfler reflecting on the lives of appliance delivery guys.

Alberto suddenly piped up again. “Anyway, she was right when she said that, you know.”

“Said what?”

“All that about being a knight rescuing her and not needing it and so on. Whether she liked it or not, that’s what you done. Rescued her, I mean. If you hadn’t stopped him, Tony would prob’ly still be beatin’ the shit outa her now.”

Galahad’s eyes were fixed unseeing upon the other side of the alley as he considered this. “You might be right,” he said slowly.

“Of course I’m right,” returned Alberto.” There’s not one person in a hundred woulda done what you done today.”

The sound of the radio from the window changed to a new song. It was Paul Simon’s The Boxer.

I am just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told,
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocketful of mumbles,
Such are promises,
All lies and jest,
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.


Word count: 1,506
For Quotation Inspiration: Official Contest, February 2023
Prompt: "The eyes only see what the mind is prepared to comprehend." -- Robertson Davies