wombat football

The Corner House

Dr Campbell lived at the very end of the street, in a tall old house with high privet hedges, which were always neatly trimmed. His garden, or at least what could be seen of it through the front gate, was immaculate in every respect; the colourful flower beds were completely free of weeds, and the edges of the lawn were set-square straight. If it were not for the fact that nobody had ever actually seen the Doctor do any digging, weeding or watering, we would have thought him a fine gardener. As it was, he was something of an enigma.

All I knew of Dr Campbell was that he was a widower, and that he had retired from general practice several years ago. I would occasionally meet him along the pathway, while strolling in the park, but only the most cursory of greetings ever passed between us. Not that he was rude, you understand; he was a scholarly type, and always appeared somewhat preoccupied with other thoughts.

It seemed to me a lonely life for an old man to lead, and I often found myself wondering how he passed the time of day. On my way to work, I would walk past the Doctor’s house and imagine what the rooms inside looked like. In my mind’s eye I could picture his bookshelves, stuffed with dusty journals and medical texts, and perhaps an old writing bureau against the wall; in the corner, a large red leather armchair and a side table. I formed a mental image of him poring over sheaves of notes and occasionally taking a puff on his pipe, while the gentle ticking of a grandfather clock blended with the crackle of an open fire.

One particular night I was returning late, and in passing, I noticed a light on in the Doctor’s porch. Something about it struck me as unusual; I had walked this way countless times at night, yet never before seen it lit. I stopped and looked in through the narrow garden gate. The porch was large, more like a small conservatory, with a sloping glass roof. Inside I could see Dr Campbell, standing on a kitchen chair and reaching upwards. He seemed to be fiddling with something that was tied to the ceiling. Then it dawned on me: he must be attempting to hang himself. I reached for the gate latch, fumbling nervously in the darkness. I felt I had to intervene and try to make the man see sense; however, I was by no means sure what I would say when I got to him.

I had only made it as far as the bird bath in the centre of the lawn, when I saw the Doctor step down from the chair. He walked to the porch door and pushed it open with a foot. He had not seen me, and I must say that at that moment I froze, uncertain of how to proceed. Should I turn and try to sneak away? Or casually greet him from the darkness, and risk the shock of my intrusion causing a heart attack? I retreated slightly, back toward the shadow of the hedge, and crouched out of sight behind a shrub.

Peering around my cover, I watched Dr Campbell proceed slowly outside, in my direction. I noticed then that his hands were oddly cupped together. He raised them toward the moon, and opened his palms. I didn’t understand at first; though the moonlight was quite bright. Then I saw it: a large hawk moth, crawling out over his finger tips. The moth paused, probably tasting the night air with it’s antennae, then took flight, silhouetted against the night sky. I watched as it fluttered wildly around, seemingly reluctant to stray too far from its rescuer. Finally, it disappeared into the darkness. The Doctor smiled sadly for a moment, then shook his head and walked back into the house.

I managed to escape unseen and continue my journey home, and I never told anyone of that night, least of all Dr Campbell himself. Perhaps I was worried that my reputation would be damaged, if it were known that I had been sneaking around in other people’s gardens; more likely I was ashamed, that I had jumped to such grim conclusions about a man who so obviously valued life.