The Old Ragged Man on the Road

There’s a story that’s been told in our family for generations handed down from my Grandad: a proper Traveller man he was: horse and wagon; cast iron pan on the fire, always with a story for the road. One cold night, my Grandad was driving along the lane, not far from the next stopping place. You know the kind of night I mean: mist lying low, horses’ breath hanging like smoke, and the world gone quiet. The only sound was the creak of the harness and the steady clop of hooves on the frozen road. Up ahead, through the fog, he saw a shape walking: a man. An old ragged man, thin as a stick, with clothes hanging off him and his shoes flapping open at the soles. The kind of man you’d cross yourself for, not out of fear, but out of pity. Grandad slowed the wagon and called out: “Do you want a lift, sir ?” The old man turned, eyes dark, and deep, too knowing and said: “Aye, I’ll take a lift, if you’re heading my way.”

So, Grandad helped him up, wrapped him in a bit of blanket, and carried on down the road. For a while they didn’t speak; the night was heavy, too heavy, like the fog was pressing in close around them. Then Grandad noticed something strange. He looked down and the old man’s shoes, the ones with the flapping soles, were gone: bare feet. Bare feet, pale and cold, not touching the boards of the wagon at all. Still, he said nothing.

When they reached the next village, Grandad stopped and said: “here’s as far as I’m going, friend.” The old ragged man smiled a thin smile, quiet and said: “you’ve a kind heart. I’ll remember you.” Grandad reached in his pocket, pulled out his last shilling, and handed it to him: “here, get yourself something to eat,” he said. The old man nodded, took the coin, and stepped down. But when Grandad turned the wagon round to head back, he glanced once more at the road. The old ragged man was gone. No footprints in the frost. No sign of where he’d walked. Just the sound of the wind and the creak of the wheels. Later, Grandad looked down at his own boot, the sole that had been coming loose for weeks and it was fixed: neat, as if it had been mended that morning. The same sole that should’ve cost him a few shillings at the cobbler. From that night on, Grandad never drove that road after dark again – he said the old ragged man had been no man at all, just a spirit testing his kindness. Some say it was a warning, others say it was a blessing. All I know is this: on cold nights, when the fog rolls down, and you hear a footstep behind you though the road’s clear, it’s best not to look back. After all, you never know who you meet along the way, or what a simple kindness might mean to a stranger. The old ragged man may still be walking, still hoping for a lift, and in the end, a soul is measured by the kindness they sow.

Retold with respect by

Tommy Bennett