By the time he turned sixty, Clive was filled with regret over the mistakes of his youth. Lately, memories of past errors haunted himperhaps a consequence of growing olderthough he tried to push them away, they stubbornly lingered.
From childhood, Clive had a fiery temper. His sense of justice burned fiercely, and he couldnt bear injustice, often leaping into fights without a second thought. As he grew older, he became the village arbitrator. Boys would seek him out to settle disputes.
“Clive, settle this for us,” one lad might say. “If Jake and Tommy snuck into old man Edwards orchard to nick apples, and Edward only caught Tommywho then snitched on Jakeshould Jake have thrashed Tommy for telling? And then Tommys dad walloped Jake in return. Whos in the wrong?”
Clive handled such squabbles often, earning the boys respect. But time passed, and in Year Eight, another injustice stung him. Clive was an athletic ladtop of his class in football, volleyball, and especially cross-country skiing. When the district skiing championship came up, the school held trials. Naturally, Clive won by a landslide.
“Course you came first,” his mate Jake said. “Coachll send you to the district racewho else?”
But the coach had other plans. He awarded first place to Ethan, the son of his friend, and announced, “Ethans representing the school.” Ethan smirked at Clive, triumphant.
The class erupted in protest, but the coach silenced them. Clive, fists clenched, confronted him. “Why the injustice?”
“Ethans leaving school this year. Next year, itll be your turn,” the coach replied, nudging Clive away.
On the walk home, Clive cornered Ethan. He didnt think he hit him hard, but Ethan ended up too injured to compete. Clive was barred too, and the fallout followed him. Ethans mother taught history at the school, and from then on, both she and the coach made Clives life miserable. By the end of Year Eight, hed had enough. He dropped out, ignoring his parents protests.
“Mum, stop nagging,” he said. “I wont survive Year Nine. Ill lose my temperyou know how I am.” She did, so she let it go.
In their village, work meant the local farm. Clive shadowed Michael, the vet, learning the trade. Michael saw promise in him.
“Shame you quit school,” Michael often said. “Youve got the knack for thiscouldve taken my place one day.”
“I like helping animals,” Clive admitted.
Yet fate mocked himEthan became a qualified vet and replaced Michael when he retired. Clive watched silently as Ethan fumbled through treatments. Theory was one thing; practice, which Clive had mastered, was another.
“Hes certifiedmust know best,” Clive reasoned.
Then the farm manager ordered Ethan to vaccinate all livestocka task Clive could do blindfolded. Ethan, overwhelmed, sought Michaels help, but Michael had a broken leg.
“Ask Clive,” Michael said. “He knows the ropes.”
Ethan had no choice. “Help me with the jabs. I cant manage alone.”
But bitterness over the school injustice still festered.
“Youre the expertyoull get paid for it,” Clive said, walking away.
The next day, the manager berated Ethan in front of everyone. Humiliated, Ethan sought Clive again, this time with drink-loosened courage.
“Clive Im sorry about school. I remember it too.” His voice trembled. “Please help.”
Pity softened Clives heart. “Cant hold a grudge forever,” he thought. “Especially when hes apologised.”
He helped Ethan finish the job swiftly, earning praise from the manager. But Ethans thanks? A bottle of whiskey. Clive stared at it, then shattered it on a stone. A bitter jokeeveryone knew he didnt drink.
“A simple cheers wouldve sufficed,” he muttered, walking off.
Years rolled on. When wages dried up, Clive raised bulls for meat. One day, elderly neighbour Hilda asked for a lift to the hospital. He refused payment, but she left cash on the seat.
“Take it for petrol,” she insisted. Word spread, and soon the whole village sought his help. He never turned anyone down, accepting whatever they could payor nothing at all.
Then Nicholas, envious, started undercutting him, charging steep fares and spreading rumours. When villagers complained, Clive confronted him.
“Since when do you fleece your own neighbours?”
Nicholas sneered. “I charge what I like. Jealous Im stealing your customers?”
Clives fist flew. Nicholas tried rallying the village against him, but no one listened. Clive kept driving; Nicholas slunk away.
Justice always drove Clive. Once, he and Alex dug septic tanks, hiring two lads when work piled up. When Clive fell ill, Alex finished the joband kept the money.
“Alex claims he paid you,” the client said when Clive confronted him.
Clive sought the lads. “Alex gave us pennies,” they admitted. “Told us not to tell you.”
Fury boiled over. He cornered Alex.
“Wheres the money?”
Alex shuffled. “Spent it in town wife needed things”
Clive struck him. They never worked together again.
But age brought remorse. Nights grew restless. The vicars sermons on sin gnawed at him.
“Fighting for justice but was it right to raise my hand?” He thought of his sons. “If someone hit my boys, Id rage. Yet I did the same.” Regret was a weight he couldnt shake. “Too late to fix it now.”
A lesson etched in time: violence solves nothingonly leaves scars on both sides.
(the end)
