**Diary Entry Reflections at Sixty**
Its strange how regret creeps up on you with age. At nearly sixty, I find myself haunted by memories of my younger daystimes when my temper ruled me, and justice, as I saw it, was something I fought for with my fists. No matter how hard I push those thoughts away, they linger, like shadows I cant outrun.
Even as a boy in our village, I couldnt stand unfairness. If I saw it, Id step in, no matter the cost. The other lads would come to me to settle their disputeswho was right, who was wrong. Clive, settle this for us, theyd say, and I would, blunt as a hammer. Thats how it was.
Then came the skiing competition in Year Eight. I was the best in schoolno contest. Everyone knew Id be chosen for the district race. My mate Mick even said, Course itll be you. Who else? But our PE teacher, Mr. Harris, had other ideas. He picked his mates son, Elliot, instead. Smug little git, grinning at me like hed won something.
The whole class muttered, but Mr. Harris shut them down. I walked up to him, fists clenched. Hows this fair? I asked.
Elliots leaving school this year. Youll go next time, he said, nudging me away.
Later, I cornered Elliot. Maybe I hit him harder than I meant to. Either way, neither of us went to the race. There was a row at schoolhis mum taught history thereand by the end of Year Eight, Id had enough. I left.
Mum argued, but I wouldnt budge. You dont know what its like, I told her. Id lose my temper again. So, I went to work on old Thompsons farm instead, helping the vet, Mr. Wilkins. He saw I had a knack for it. Shame you didnt stay in school, hed say. You couldve taken my place one day.
Lifes cruel joke? That same Elliot qualified as a vet and took over when Mr. Wilkins retired. I watched him fumbleall theory, no practice. But I kept out of it. Hes the expert, I told myself.
Then came the vaccinations. Elliot couldnt manage alone, so he went to Mr. Wilkins for help. Ask Clive, the old man said. He knows how.
Elliot swallowed his pride and asked me. But the old resentment flared. Youre the professional, I said. Youll get paid for it, not me.
The next day, the farm manager tore into him in front of everyone. Elliot came back, reeking of drink, near tears. Im sorryabout school, all of it. Just help me.
Something in me softened. Cant hold a grudge forever, I thought. So, I helped. We finished quick, and the manager even praised us. But Elliots thanks? A bottle of whisky. I smashed it against a stone. A cheers wouldve done, I muttered, walking off.
Time passed. I drove villagers to town when the buses werent enoughold Mrs. Clayton first, then others. Never asked for money, but they left what they could. Then bloke named Nigel started undercutting me, charging steep. People complained, but I lost my temper againone punch, and that was that. No one sided with him.
Worse was Sandy. We dug septic tanks together, good money. But when I fell ill one job, he kept my share. Archie paid you, I said. Sandy swore hed pass it on.
Archie looked puzzled. I gave him the lot.
Turned out Sandy had shortchanged the lads working with us and pocketed the rest. Spent it in town, he mumbled when I confronted him.
I hit him. More than once. Never worked with him again.
Now, at sixty, I lie awake, guilt gnawing at me. All those times I thought I was setting things rightwas I? The vicar speaks of sins in church, and I wonder. Sandys dead now (too much drink, not my doing), but it doesnt sit right.
If someone had laid hands on my sons, Id have been furious. Yet I did just that, believing I was fair. Too late to mend it now. The weight of it keeps me up at night. Maybe thats the price.
