By the time he turned sixty, Clive was haunted by regrets over the reckless choices of his youth. Lately, memories of past mistakes kept resurfacingperhaps an unwelcome side effect of aging. No matter how hard he tried to push them away, they clung to his mind like stubborn shadows.
From childhood, Clive had a fiery temper. His sense of justice burned fiercely, and he couldnt stand unfairness. If he saw injustice, he lashed outsometimes with his fists.
As he grew older, his reputation as a defender of fairness stuck. Even the lads in his village would come to him to settle disputes.
“Clive, settle this for us,” theyd say. “If Mike and Vic sneaked into Old Teds orchard, nicked his apples, and Ted only caught Victhen Vic snitched on Mike, and Mike thrashed him for itwhos in the wrong? Then Vics dad gave Mike a hiding too!”
Clive was their judge. The boys respected him. But time passed, and in Year 9, another injustice tested him. Clive was athleticfootball, volleyball, cross-countrybut his best sport was skiing. When the district ski championships came up, his school held trials. Naturally, Clive won by a mile.
“No surprise you came first,” said his mate Mike. “The PE teachers bound to send you.”
But the teacher had other plans. He awarded the spot to Edward, the son of his old friend, announcing: “Edward will represent the school.” Edward smirked as the other pupils muttered in protest.
Clive, seething, confronted the teacher. “Whys this fair?”
“Edwards leaving after Year 11. He deserves his chance. Youll get yours next year.” The teacher patted Clives back dismissively.
On the way home, Clive cornered Edward. He didnt think he hit him hardbut Edward couldnt compete. Neither did Clive, of course. The fallout was brutal. Edwards mother taught history at the school, and soon both she and the PE teacher made Clives life miserable.
By the end of Year 9, Clive had had enough. He dropped out, ignoring his parents protests.
“Mum, lay off,” he argued. “I wont last in Year 10. Ill lose my temperI know I will.”
His mother knew his temper too well to push him.
In their village, work meant the farm. Clive shadowed Martin, the vet, learning everything he could. Martin saw promise in him.
“Shame you quit school,” Martin often said. “You couldve taken my place one day.”
“I like helping the animals,” Clive admitted.
But fate had other plans. Edward, now a qualified vet, replaced Martin when he retired. Clive watched silently as Edward fumbled through his dutiesbook-smart but lacking experience.
He never interfered.
“Hes got the diploma. He must know best.”
Then came the vaccination order. The farm manager instructed Edward to immunize all the livestocka task Clive couldve done blindfolded. Edward panicked and went to Martin for help, but Martin had a broken leg.
“Ask Clive,” Martin suggested. “He knows the ropes.”
Swallowing his pride, Edward did.
“Help me with the jabs. I cant manage alone.”
But Clives old resentment flared.
“Youre the expert. Youll get paidkeep it all.” He walked away.
The next day, the manager berated Edward in front of everyone. Humiliated, Edward approached Clive againthis time with an apology and half-drunk courage.
“Clive Im sorry. About school. I remember it too.”
Pity softened Clives anger. *Holding a grudge this long is pointless.* He helped Edward finish the job. The manager praised them bothbut Edwards thanks was a bottle of whisky. Clive smashed it against a rock. *A cheap gesture. He knows I dont drink.*
“Just say thanks next time,” he muttered, walking off.
Years passed. When wages stopped coming, Clive started breeding cattle for meat. One day, elderly Mrs. Clark begged a ride to the hospital.
“Take this for petrol,” she insisted, leaving cash on the seat.
Word spread. Soon, half the village relied on Clives kindnesspaying what they could, or nothing at all.
Until Nigel, jealous, undercut him with fixed fees. The villagers grumbled to Clive.
“Youre robbing them,” Clive accused.
“Charge what I like. Jealous Im stealing your customers?” Nigel laughed in his face.
Clive swung. Nigel tried rallying the village against himbut no one cared. They stuck with Clive.
Justice was his compasseven when it led him wrong. Once, he and Alex dug septic tanks, hiring extra hands when work piled up. When Clive fell ill, Alex kept the profits.
“Alex claims you never paid him,” Clive confronted their client.
“Paid in full,” the man insisted. “Ask him.”
Clive didand learned Alex had shortchanged the lads.
“Wheres our money?” Clive demanded.
Alex squirmed. “Spent it. Wife wanted new things”
Clive hit him. They never worked together again.
But age brought remorse. Nights grew restless. The village priest spoke of sins, and Clive wondered:
*Did my justice ever help anyone?*
Alex drank himself to death. Not Clives faultbut the guilt lingered.
“Shouldnt have raised my hand,” he whispered to the dark. “Even when it felt right.”
His sons were grown now. *What if someone hit them?*
Regret was a bitter pill.
*Too late to fix it.*
