Jon reported to the Manager at the flats at 1.50 on the Monday as arranged. He looked reasonably tidy, having found a shirt with collar and tie which he bought on tick, explaining that he would take the money back the next Saturday. The Manager guided him carefully round the large block, showing him all the exits that had to be checked twice daily, at the beginning and end of his shift. He was to be responsible for the whole building, a building which was divided into twenty large and gracious flats for the well-to-do. He was shown the various alarms.
"This is just the sort of place for terrorism," explained the Manager, "got foreign ambassadors, and professionals. Most could be targeted. Your jobs cleaning too, everywhere public, and deal with the rubbish. Should be fairly straight forward. But dont forget, clients are always right. Thats sometimes quite hard," and he gave Jon a small smile.
As the need for ready money was of paramount importance, Jon asked for a days wages in advance. Surprised for the moment, the Manager thought quickly and then agreed. He actually gave Jon the money for the day then and there, his cold demeanour relaxing.
"I'll have left the office before you knock off" said the Manager. "If you get into trouble here's the phone number of the Agents, but only phone if There's an emergency. Otherwise you're on your own. Now, I'll be away. I think I've shown you everything." The Manager left quickly.
Youre in such a hurry I expect you've got a bit of skirt waiting round the corner. Quite human underneath that coldness, actually got a smile from him. Doesnt seem too concerned about the place. Now lets take stock. One days pay for one week. Thats going to be tough. Should manage one meal a day. Can wash in the sink, thatll save the bath money. Have to go short on the beer. Will have a talk with the landlord, and see if he minds if I hang around with only half a pint. Wouldnt be for more than an hour. Lets see whats in the cupboard. Good, There's coffee and sugar. I'm well away. Can always fill it up next week. Now I must off on my rounds. Any bugger of a thief could break in here. Could do it myself. There's no stopping anyone from coming up the fire escapes at the back. How can I know that the residents have locked their kitchen doors? From the look of these soft carpets there must be lots of money around. Wish I could kip down just on the carpet! Softer than many a place I've had these last months.
Dressed in his new brown overall, Jon was bending down picking up some leaves fallen from a flower arrangement in the corner of the front hall. He heard an autocratic voice calling to him. "Now, whose newspaper is that by the door ? Newspapers shouldnt be left lying on the floor, my man."
Jon turned to see an elderly woman with blue rinsed hair, well wrapped up in a fur coat. From her accent he could tell that she was not British, but her manner aped that of the aristocracy. He replied slowly, "the paper is certainly not mine, maam, but I will of course remove it."
The furcoat seemed to glide passed him. "Will you call the lift please?" Jon pressed various buttons hopefully, he had not got his glasses on and hoped that the lift would not end up in the cellar. With her nose slightly tilted away she waited for what seemed minutes, grinding her teeth, and when the lift arrived embarked on the journey to her flat without even an acknowledgement.
Jon performed his duties meticulously and when his wages were delivered on the first Friday he felt like a millionaire, a weeks wages minus the day he had already been paid seemed a lot of money. That evening he left at 10 pm sharp, and went to the Cock and Sparrow where he was becoming a well known feature. People waited for him to pop in, then cornered him for a question and answer session. The landlord seem glad to have him there. Jon tried to stand a round of drinks to all the people who had been generous to him during the week. When time was up he left the pub and walked out into the night.
Good crowd in that pub, lift my morale. Sometimes I feel There's more rapport soul to soul during a spontaneous talk than with all the trappings of familiarity. Who says it breeds contempt?
Still I've chosen to go it alone, and I'm content at that. I can do without the hostility of my well-meaning acquaintances, the police, the do-gooders and the Bible thumpers with their authority of the deity.
I've got to find out in silence and contemplation whether there is anyone to report to, a kind of Supreme Intelligence. Thats going to take strength, strength to reach for the principle of awareness and pass it on when I speak. Not so easy when the minds disorientated by hunger and lack of sleep.
There's not much left in my pocket! Still its better than last week, and I've survived that. Now to concentrate on my speaking in the Park. Mustnt let it get around that I work in those flats. THEY could make it very difficult for me if they found out. Its a right crazy place there. Anyone could come in the back way. I'm glad I lock the front doors and they all have to ring to be let in. One old geyser fair took the pants off me, he did, because I kept him waiting a few minutes. Theyre so cocooned in their little shells theyve no idea what life is all about. Now, what chances of a kip in Hyde Park to-night? Shrubs look healthy round Peter Pan. No one around? Good. Now the bedding down ceremony. Dont have to use the bushes for a pee. Just went in the pub. Plastic bags, here they are. One for each foot and one for my bottom. Quite comfy to-night, thats fine. What a ridiculous situation. Here am I, sleeping rough, and rather hungry. In the day I work in exclusive flats, guarding the so-called elite. Bet theyve no idea that I either sleep under the stars, often in Cardboard Hall, or like the flotsam and jetsam use Rolling Stock hotel for the warmth. xpect Id be given the sack if they found out. Must keep myself tidy. Dont want to lose this job, could suit me well. Can write in the cubby hole, get my speeches ready for Sundays and I can keep warm for part of the day. Whatever happens, I am not going to take any tips, not like a servant. As long as they leave me my dignity I'll try and stick it. Must watch out for blue-rinse in the furcoat. She looks as if she could mean trouble.
With his shoulders hunched, and collar and scarf around his ears, sleep soon blotted out any more thought, and he only woke to the noise of the litter cart being trundled around. He let it pass, then unwound himself. Stiff and cold, with piercing pains in his legs, he took a little while before he could stand on his feet. Morale rose when he jingled his few coins in his pocket as he walked towards the lakeside restaurant where he ordered tea and toast.
The first month working at the flats passed quickly. The Sunday sessions in the Park were drawing more and more people; when he arrived they drifted away from the other speakers to listen to him. The sessions tired him and exhilarated him, and he was thankful to feel a sense of purpose. One mid-week afternoon, just after he had started his spell of duty and was on his rounds he saw blue rinse fumbling in her bag outside her flat. She looked really agitated.
"Can I help you, maam?" asked Jon.
"I can't get into my flat. I've tried one lot of keys, and now Im looking for another set. I think its locked from the inside." She continued to fumble. "I've no more keys to try. What shall I do?" Her face crumpled, and she was no longer the arrogant woman of the newspaper incident.
"Should there be anyone inside the flat?" asked Jon.
"My husband. Hes the Spanish Ambassador, and hes got a meeting later this afternoon. He was to have had a rest and a light lunch before his engagement."
Got to do a bit of quick thinking. Ambassadors are two a penny on the hit list these days. Just supposing someone has locked the door and is threatening him. Can see the back door open through the letter box. The old girl is in such a state, but I must try to do something. Ill have another go at turning the key, they get jammed sometimes.
He smiled re-assuredly at blue rinse, and gave the door a mighty push with his shoulder turning the key as he did so. The door flashed open. The flat was empty, but with the back door open the curtains were flapping.
Jon searched the flat and there was no sign of the Ambassador or any intruder.
"Ma'am, do you remember locking the back door? See, its open? And are you sure the Ambassador said he would be in?"
"No, I dont remember about the door," she said all of a fluster.
"Where could the Ambassador be? Has he a club?" Jon didnt like to ask if he went to a pub.
"Oh yes, yes," said blue rinse. "Ill phone the Club." Smiles wreathed her face when she heard her husbands voice. "Well, thats that. Perhaps I'm a little forgetful. No?" She tried to be cocquettish. Jon felt the stirrings of angry feelings. Blue rinse then fumbled in her bag as Jon was about to leave. Remembering her disdainful performance with the newspaper, he felt disgusted that she thought she could buy him off with the two pounds that she offered him. Supposing there had been a burglar, and the burglar had been armed. What would it have cost her then? Jon refused the money as tactfully as he could.
"Will you feel safe if I leave you now?" he asked.
"Yes, I will feel safe," she answered, and more graciously than before she asked, "why Won't you accept the money?"
"Because, maam, if I accepted it you'd be robbing me of something. Its a privilege to be able to help a lady for nothing. There are very few things that are left to us, like chivalry for instance."
He turned and quietly left her to her own devices. The only other incident that made a landmark in the dull cycle of his duties concerned a swarthy gentleman. Jon listened in the lift to this gentleman conversing with his fellow country man who was a temporary tenant of one of the flats. Jon assessed they were both from North Africa, presumably Libya. The visitor had asked Jon for his help to carry some packages to an awaiting car, and although it was nearly knocking off time Jon felt it was his duty to offer his services.
Im sure this is a lot of drugs. Feels just the right weight, all spongy and heavy. It makes me sick. Why all this night time movement? Why should I be involved in helping these crooks to undermine the morale of this country? We've had enough terrorism from you lot, and now this. Drug dealing. Wish Id the guts to quit. Tell them I Won't carry the stuff. But the job suits me fine to keep me going in the Park so I dont want to quit. But I feel really dirty inside. Why is it always decisions, decisions, decisions?
When the two men handed out a large note for Jon to accept, he refused saying angrily, "I know what is in those packages. You should be turned in for the Law to deal with you. Why should you get me involved?"
The two men looked bemused, then the visitor collected his wits. "You take damn care what you say and what you think," the older man said in a guttural accent.
"If I see it happening again, I'm off, and I'll be reporting it to the police. I'm not prepared to break the law. I'll not compromise again. Youd better watch it. Likes of you arent welcome in this country." The elder man shook his fist. Jon turned on his heel and left them.
After this encounter Jon went straight to the usual pub, and drank his pint quickly. He was flustered and annoyed that he had allowed practical wants to override his principles. It was pay day and he had money in his pocket. He felt the need to unwind. He started to talk to those around him and once again had a captive audience.
"What ARE you?" asked someone. "Are you an actor? A writer? You keep us all so amused with your stories."
"A writer?" echoed Jon. "No one in their right senses could serve up that hypothesis. I'm illiterate in two languages. You only put X to your name when you vote. X is my name, even when I write a cheque."
"Cash only, from you," joked the landlord.
"Alright, I'll explain," said Jon getting into his stride, "I come from a long line of headless jesters who either told the right joke at the wrong time or the wrong joke at the right time, but whatever the combination, they failed to keep their heads. With this very good beer, I find it hard to keep mine, so drink up, and have a bumper toast with an illiterate jester who doesnt want any drink back in return. Give them all a drink, Governor," said Jon with mock lordliness.
"Not till I've seen the colour of your money, sir," said the landlord without offence. Jon slammed down a note from his wages, as if he had no care in the world.
"And for your courtesy as mine host in a world of beer slingers, have a drink yourself."
"Thanks, mate. It must be your birthday," said one of the listeners.
"Birthdays only come once a year," replied Jon. "My good fortune is an everyday event."
"Then you must have won the pools," said the landlord, as he finished the round of drinks ordered by Jon.
"Not exactly. But I'm one of the few to make a success of failure." Jon realised that he was holding the attention of his small audience. "You see, gentlemen, there are so few of us who dare to admit failure." The bar went silent. Jon proceeded, his confidence primed with the beer on an empty stomach. "Now I have failed at everything I ever did, from the innocent ability of early childhood when failing to be able to spell the most basic four letter words, right up to this glorious summer, and you know how hot it has been. Recently, while sauntering for about a half mile in the Park and raising my hat to my creditors I had to be treated for sun-stroke." There was a ripple of laughter and a clink of beer mugs. "You see, gentlemen, I will tell you something I'm sure you Won't believe. I am a unique millionaire. I actually owe a million. My secretary works full time satisfying my creditors on one point alone, my health. For as long as I live they know theyve got a chance of getting their money back.
"Not as long as you continue to play the role of big spender," chipped the landlord pleasantly. "But as long as you pay in cash, why should I worry."
"There now," said Jon in mock dispair. "Here is another example of failure. I have failed to convince our genial landlord that Im credit worthy."
"But what do you really do?" persevered the same man.
"Like you, sir, I dramatize work for others."
"You asked for that," said the landlord chuckling. Jon excused himself and went outside to the toilets. On his return he found more beer lined up for him. He was no longer the focus of attention, and for this he was grateful. He put the liquid gun to his head, and listened to the conversation going on around him. The theatres and cinemas nearby had finished their evening performances and the pub was filling up. Sitting on his bar stool he found himself sandwiched between a talkative mercenary soldier and a formal elderly man who had the authority of a high powered executive. The mercenary related his experiences in a loud voice and made it appear that he was the only medal winner in each incident. Jon was silent, and the mercenary continued, "You know, I failed at Sandhurst. Didnt make the grade with the military. My father was furious, hes been a soldier all his life, and fought in the last war. He was right disgusted when I became a mercenary, inspite of all my successes. Hes a stupid old buffer. I just about hold respect for him, but thats all."
This remark angered Jon who interrupted and said, "if you had respected your father more you might have come to love him. After all, he was a patriot and did fight in the last war. YOU are nothing more than a mercenary."
"I am also a patriot," countered the mercenary, "for the country I choose to serve. I have their nationality as well as their medals."
Jon was getting angrier, the extra beer fuelling his feelings. "You must have murdered quite a lot of people to get those medals," he said provocatively.
"Watch it," said the mercenary. "You are insulting the honour of the unit I served."
"If we ever inhabit caves again," said Jon recklessly, "it will be because of men like you. A patriot I can understand, but a mercenary, never."
"I told you to watch it," said the mercenary, a big man and half Jons age. He raised his fist threateningly.
"I Won't punch you back," said Jon. Before Jon could duck away from his stool he found himself at the heavy end of the mercenarys fist. This opened up an old wound in his nose which splattered his face with blood. Three more blows followed which Jon parried with his raised arm.
With all the experience of his younger days on the Boxing booth when he took on all comers he knew that the great hulk of a man delivering the blows couldnt box. Fortunately the landlord intervened.
"You come on outside, I've not finished with you yet," shouted the angry mercenary now out of control.
"I've no intention of coming. You couldnt even burst a paper bag. Id floor you easily. Where is self-respect? You hit a seated man twice your age and subdue the truth."
A customer who disliked the look of blood asked Jon to wipe his face. "You can see it, you do it," replied Jon brusquely.
"You'd better go, were not used to having trouble in this pub," said one of Jons fellow drinkers.
"The landlord hasnt asked me to leave, and I've no intention of going. In fact, with the landlords permission, I'll have another pint." Silently, and so in sympathy, the landlord drew Jon another pint, turning away quickly taking no payment. Jon was given a damp cloth for his face, and the incident which had risen quickly ended. The tension was over, and Jon indicated to the landlord to fill the mercenarys glass. The truce was accepted.
As quietness was regained in the pub, so quietness seem to fill the night air. As Jon left the pub he felt the sharp winter tang was replaced by softer cool air, not bone seeking. The soil became damp and smelt of growing life, and when Jon dug his toe into the earth the insects scuttled busy with new urgencies. Jon found a corner in the churchyard in Hyde Park Crescent, and watched the dark sky dawning around the chimney pots of the tall buildings. He was not aware that he had slept deeply, but as he felt so refreshed and exhilarated in the early hours he presumed he must have had enough to satisfy his needs. He was in no hurry to get his first cup of tea, there was no unfreezing of limbs to do, so he made sure he was out of sight and wrote in his pad.
It is a beautiful day today. I slept on the right side of the turf in the graveyard of an old London church, and then walked with my bare feet on the good earth, as I did as a child, with only shillings in my pocket. I do not need more. You are rich with only a few bob, and poor with a fortune. Being is enough, not to be is not the question. Let real estate seek to shut out the sky for profit so that, in order to start their days, the whole world becomes slaves to expensive watches. If that futile song ever becomes true, let Britannia rule just one wave. May she never waive the rules. I shall never become a slave to protocol, convention and mindless lip service. Nor in the face of that one journey which we all take and where the destination is in doubt, will I shrink from new experience or take for granted the common place.
The innocent are swayed by verbal pressures and descriptions of standards and etiquettes that are supposed to be essential. Those who have regard for social progress are caught and declared a fugitive in their own environment to the detriment of untold well being by lesser intelligences. By mounting too many judgements on lies, our nation has suffered greatly. Techniques must be found to sustain the defensible and at the same time change yesterdays vulnerability. Can it be that now nobody cares? Is the lie factor not considered important enough to alter? Again I come back to the need for change. There was a time when a mans word was his bond, now the word is mans bond only when it pays to be.
But enough is enough. Thinking can be a crime against oneself, but to put some thoughts into print makes a forger look honest. The bank of human understanding, once lost, is hard to regain.