**Monday, 12th June**
At sixty, Clive finds himself haunted by regret over the choices of his youth. Lately, memories of past mistakes keep resurfacingperhaps an inevitable part of growing older. He tries to push them away, but they linger stubbornly in his mind.
Even as a boy, Clive had a fiery temper. His sense of justice was unshakable; he couldnt stand unfairness and would fly into fights without hesitation. As he grew older, that same stubborn righteousness stayed with him. Other lads would seek him out to settle disputes they couldnt resolve themselves.
“Clive, settle thiswhats fair?” theyd say. “If Tommy and Billy snuck into old Mr. Edwards orchard to nick apples, and Billy got caught while Tommy ran offthen Billy dobbed Tommy in, so Tommy walloped him for it. Then Billys dad gave Tommy a thrashing too. Whos in the wrong?”
Clive would weigh in, and the boys respected him for it. But time moved on.
In Year 9, another injustice set him off. Clive was sportyfootball, rugby, and in winter, the best cross-country skier in school. When the district championships came around, the PE teacher held tryouts. Clive won by a mile.
“Course its you going, Clive,” his mate Tommy said. “Who else?”
But the teacher had other plans. He awarded the spot to Edward, the son of his old friend, smirking as he announced it. The class erupted in protest, but the teacher cut them short. Clive, fists clenched, confronted him.
“Whys this fair?”
“Edwards in Year 11his last chance. Youll go next year. Now move along.” He gave Clive a nudge toward the door.
On the way home, Clive caught Edward alone. He didnt think hed hit him that hard, but Edward ended up too bruised to compete. Of course, Clive was barred too, and the fallout followed himespecially since Edwards mother taught history at the school.
The teachers made his life miserable. By the end of Year 9, Clive had had enough. He dropped out, despite his parents protests.
“Mum, lay off,” he said. “I wont last in Year 10. Ill lose my temper again.” She knew his temper well enough to let it go.
Work was scarce in the village, so he ended up at the local farm, shadowing old Michael the vet. He had a knack for it, and Michael saw promise in him.
“Shame you didnt stay on,” Michael often said. “Youd have made a fine vet.”
“I like working with animals,” Clive admitted.
But fate had a bitter twistEdward qualified as a vet and took Michaels place when he retired. Clive watched from a distance, noting Edwards inexperience. Book learning was one thing; practice was another, and Clive had plenty of that.
Still, he kept out of it. “Hes got the certificate. Must know what hes doing.”
Then the farm manager ordered Edward to vaccinate the livestockwork Clive could do in his sleep. Edward, out of his depth, went to Michael for help.
“Ask Clive,” Michael said. “He knows the ropes.”
Swallowing his pride, Edward did.
“Give us a hand with the jabs, will you? Cant manage alone.”
But the old school grudge burned.
“Youre the professional. Its your payday, not mine.” Clive walked off.
The next day, the manager tore into Edward in front of everyone. Humiliated, Edward came back, half-drunk, near tears.
“Clive, Im sorryabout school, all of it. Please help.”
Pity softened Clives anger. *Cant hold a grudge forever.*
He pitched in, and the job was done in no time. The manager even praised them. But Edwards thanks? A bottle of whiskey. Clive took one look at itknowing full well he never touched the stuffand smashed it against a stone.
“A simple cheers wouldve done.”
As years passed, Clive melloweduntil pay delays at the farm forced everyone to scrape by. He started raising calves for extra cash.
One day, old Mrs. Clarke from the village asked for a lift to the hospital.
“Cant manage the bus at my age,” she said.
He refused payment, but she left cash on the seat anyway.
“Petrol money, lad. And I might need you again.”
Word spread, and soon half the village was knocking on his door for rides. He never turned anyone down, taking whatever they could spareor nothing at all.
Then Nigel, a neighbour, got jealous and started undercutting himcharging steep prices and badmouthing Clive. The villagers complained, and Clives temper flared.
“Youre robbing folks blind!” he snapped when he cornered Nigel.
“Whats it to you? Charge what I like. Theyll pay if theyre desperate.”
Clives fist flew before he could stop it. Nigel tried making a scene, but no one backed him. The villagers stuck with Clive.
Still, the older he got, the heavier the guilt weighed. There were other fightslike the time he and Sam dug septic tanks. When Clive fell ill, Sam pocketed his share of the earnings.
“Sam, wheres my cut?” Clive demanded.
“Bloke didnt pay proper,” Sam mumbled.
“Fair, is it?”
Sam shifted awkwardly. “Spent it all in town. Wife and I”
Clove hit him. They never worked together again.
Now, nearing sixty, Clive lies awake at night, tormented. Church only made it worsethe vicars sermons on sin gnawing at him.
“All those times I thought I was right but I wasnt. Shouldve kept my hands to myself.”
Sams dead nowbooze did him inbut the guilt remains.
“Too late to fix it now.”
He sighs, staring at the ceiling.
“Suppose thats why I cant sleep.”
