An Unexpected Night with Tony Collins

A couple of weeks ago, I went out for the evening with a friend. It was a Tuesday, a school night, so leaping into the car and driving west across the county to Bury St Edmunds felt a little bit cheeky.

We had tickets for Graham Kendrick at the Apex in Bury, a fabulous venue with great acoustics. Seeing the writer of some of the most iconic Christian songs written this century and last standing on stage actually singing them was mind-blowing. Two charities shared the stage with him, one of them a local organisation working with the homeless in Bury. The packed house stood, sang, prayed and applauded. It felt like church, in the best possible way. 

The doors opened and hundreds of Christians streamed out, down the wide path past the restaurants and out to the car park. I saw a man, sitting on the ground, dressed in old, shabby clothes. Having spent the entire evening singing along to songs about love and praise and compassion, there was no way I was going to walk past him with my head down. I had no cash on me and wanted to buy him something to eat. I was distressed to see so many people not even acknowledge him, although some stopped to speak.

The evening took a surreal turn. Running around inside the Apex trying to find some hot food or a drink, I came up against barrier after barrier. Everything was shut. I couldn’t find the lady who ran the homeless charity. No-one that I spoke to seemed remotely interested. I was becoming more and more distressed. 

I tried the restaurants, but they too had shut their kitchens. Someone pointed me in the direction of a small Tesco. I grabbed a selection of food and ran back to Di. 

“He’s gone, Ruth,” she told me. “I don’t know where.” 

Sitting in the car, I ranted then we prayed. The phrase “manna from heaven” came to my mind. We agreed we’d drive around Bury until we found someone who needed food. This we did, for about three quarters of an hour, but there was no-one. I couldn’t understand why I’d been led to buy it when there was no-one who needed it, or at least no-one I could find. It was just before midnight before Di and I said goodbye and I started the forty minute drive home. 

The A14 towards Ipswich was closed. Normally, I’d work out a new route and take that, but something was going on that Tuesday night. I’m still not quite sure what it was or where it was coming from. I felt as though I was in a fog. I followed the diversion signs and ended up in the same place, repeatedly. I rang my husband who had had an early night. Sleepily, he suggested heading for Thetford and picking up a cross-country route. So I did. 

It was dark, and it was raining, and I was really cross. The bag of food sat in my footwell, reproaching me. I had failed in my attempt to help someone and now it was 12.30 and I was miles from home. None of the programmes on the radio were the right kind of listening for my mood. I drove around for ages and the satnav kept on trying to get me back on the A14. I was pretty sure that heading for Thetford wasn’t the right thing to do, but I had committed to it and would eventually be able to turn east and find a route that circumnavigated Bury. I missed the turning and attempted a three point turn on a dark lane. There was a bang as my tyre burst and I realised that I was alone, on a moonless rainy night on a tiny road just outside the fine town of Thetford. 

I felt utterly alone and helpless. 

The AA man came out at 1.00. He was delightful but couldn’t help as my husband’s company had decreed he couldn’t have a spare tyre (something to do with health and safety). I sat there for a couple of hours waiting for the next AA person and listening to Radio 4. At 3.00, I rang them again only to be told that I would be picked up at 4.15. Just then, I remembered that Tony Collins’ new book, “They’ll Never Read That: How to Make Mistakes in Publishing” was on the back seat. 

Dear readers, I devoured it. I forgot that I was alone, and scared, and cross and powered through his mellifluous prose. It’s a great read. I’d planned to enjoy it at home, on the sofa, with a cup of tea in hand, but it worked just as well in a stationary rain-lashed car. I hadn’t expected to spend the night with Tony, but I’m jolly glad I did. 

A lovely chap from the AA rang me and said that due to a very busy night, no one would be able to come out to me until 8 in the morning. By now, I was resigned to sleeping in the car, and I had Tony and a bag of food to sustain me. 

“I can’t leave you there all by yourself.” The man was having second thoughts. “I’ll ring a taxi and get it to you by 4.30.” 

I ate a banana and a Chunky KitKat and settled down to sleep under my coat. At 4.30 the taxi arrived and by 5.45 I was back home, my eyes stinging and my brain buzzing. 

It was no fun at all, any of it (apart from Tony’s book). The children ate the food and after a couple of days, I caught up with my sleep and stopped being grumpy. I still don’t know why it happened. I could feel the enemy at work, fogging  my brain and misdirecting me, but I don’t know why he did. 1 John 3:17 came to mind. 

“If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?” 

I tried. And sometimes, that’s all you can do.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a novelist and freelance writer. She is married with three children, one husband, assorted poultry and a kitten. She is the author of “The Diary of Isabella M Smugge”, “The Trials of Isabella M Smugge” and is currently writing “The Continued Times of Isabella M Smugge”. You can find her on Instagram, Facebook, Twitter and TikTok at @ruthleighwrites and at her website, www.ruthleighwrites.co.uk.