Spring brought a fraction of ease to those in the twilight world. Tired and bedraggled scraps of humanity seemed to grow and stretch out, offering their cramped limbs to the warmth of the sun. The parks and benches along the Embankment were there for those who just wished to relax.
One anxiety had been removed, the fear of the intense cold and the need to find the will power to combat the paralysing discomfort. Sleep came easily in the warm freshness, it was very different to the foul air breathed in the Undergrounds or in Rolling Stock Hotel. Jon knew that in many of the hostels open to vagrants the beds were so close together that the air was equally foul, heavy with the smell of dirty feet, unwashed bodies, urine and bad breath.
Glad I've kept away from the hostels. But remember, old cock, I've had two breaks when I've had no need to look for a roof, once in the cells, and once down in Devon. Twice I was fed and warmed. That helped to set me up. But its been a bloody long winter, but not as long as for these other poor buggers. Its worse for them, most seem to have lost the will to want to work. Just living to survive or surviving to live, what hope can they hold? Specially when they withdraw from human contact. God, I am fortunate. Just being alive is enough for me, There's so much I need to do. Its better with grub now and again, but the freedoms I have! Wouldnt give them up for a million pounds. Many people around the world, in concentration camps or gaols or whatever, would jump at the chance to be in my boots, defending the inarticulate. I am making no great sacrifice, thats for sure.
He pushed open the door of the block of flats and went to his cubby hole. There was a note on the table saying that the Manager would be calling that afternoon to speak to him.
Cant think I've done anything wrong. The only fly in the ointment is blue rinse. I'm getting a bit fed up with her. Always finding excuses to get me to her flat. Wants me to stay and talk to her, and then gets annoyed when I refuse. Wanted me to have a drink with her yesterday evening, silly old bitch. Why doesnt she act her age, instead of fluttering her eyes and trying to be coy. She gets under my quicks. Otherwise its all a doddle, and I've done a lot of good work on my speeches from here. Crowds are swelling with the silent police still pretending to be ordinary people. I wonder they can't assess the situation better. I'm not anti- the realm in any way. I want a silent revolution for change, change from the inside of people. I want less aggressive thinking, for more harmony man between man. I Won't advocate bomb dropping, terrorism or the like. But I Won't accept corruption, or the so-called truth based on lies which is fed to the public through the media.
He was boiling the kettle for his mid afternoon coffee when the Manager appeared.
"Hello, sir. Havent seen you for ages. Nothing wrong I hope. Its usually bad news that brings employer and employee together. You've left me to my own devices for so long that I thought everything was going well. Not coming to offer me a rise are you?" he added jokingly.
"No, not that." The Manager seemed embarrassed. There was only one chair in the cubby hole, so both men stayed standing.
"Have a cuppa?" asked Jon. "Its only black, can't be bothered with milk. It goes off so quickly in this stuffy place."
The Manager raised his eyebrows a fraction. "No thanks, no coffee. The matter of fact is," and he paused. "Well, its like this. The Ambassadors wife in the top flat is missing some money. Shes quite sure she left it in her bag in the hall. She says you came in, and while you were there she went into the kitchen for something. She says no one else had been to the flat. Shes very upset and thinks the Ambassador will be angry when he gets back tonight. She asked me if there was any way that there could be a check put on the property quickly. Its an embarrassing position I'm in," the Manager saw Jon's eyes harden and his lips tighten.
"Shes not actually saying you've taken it, but shes making it pretty obvious that shes pointing the finger at you."
"That damned old bitch," Jon exploded. "Ill tell you what happened. The whore has kept asking me to her flat under the most flimsy of pretexts. I had a cup of tea once, then never again, as I guessed what she had in mind. She painted her face and minced around and tried to make a pass at me. Because I refused a drink yesterday the old cow has turned sour. Concocted this little story. I'll be damned. I'll have you know, sir, that I will not stand by and be accused. I am going to leave this minute, and will call at the office tomorrow for my wages. You can explain what you like to the Ambassador. He might as well know what a tart he has married."
The Manager started to mutter, the problem was well beyond him.
"Its O.K," said Jon, "I know you can't deal with a situation like this. So just go back to work, and advertise for another janitor." Jon started to pack his small bag, and hooked his overall on the peg. "Sorry its got to end like this. Most of the job suited me well. But there isnt a job thats too good to leave if principles are involved. I'll say good day, sir, and I hope you will sort this matter out to your satisfaction. There's no way I could touch that woman's money. Please give that message to the Ambassador. Good-bye sir." With a brief touch of his cap, John turned and climbed the stairs. The Manager, ill-equipped as he was in these matters, went slowly to confront the Ambassador and his wife.
Jon started to walk. It was still only early afternoon, and he had a long evening ahead of him without the usual work. As the evening drew in, he slipped into a tiny cafe off the Kings Road, and ordered tea and a bun. He slid into a narrow space by a long thin table scarcely looking at the customer on the other side.
"You look a bit glum," said a croaky high pitched voice. Jon looked up and saw a wizened old man with a white hair going yellow, gaps between his teeth, and the brightest pale blue eyes that seemed on fire. His army great coat was many sizes too big for him.
"Not too bad," Jon replied. "Just given myself the sack after being accused of stealing."
"Whats wrong with stealin? Wouldnt be ere if it wasnt for a bit on the side." From the old mans accent Jon could tell he was from across the waters, the emerald isle. "Look at me, not much of me left, is there?" The old man grinned. "Been in the front line in two World Wars, and here I am left with nothing. Cross my heart, this is my last cup of tea for me. My pal, hes eighty five, I'm only eighty. We had a bit of a shindy last night in yon bar. Young uns were laughing at us. They noo we were in the wars and were proud of it. They said theyd never fire a gun at another man, and that we were murderers. Albert, thats my pal, Im Arthur. Well, Albert, he got all worked up and threw his mug at the gang. Four of them set on old Albert, hit him mighty awful. Nose was bleedin, glasses broken. Then they scarpered. Had to get Albert to hospital. The boss at yon pub called a taxi, and we emptied our pockets. Taximan took one look at Albert, and said hed take us whatever the cost. Alberts still there. Lucky bugger, broken nose and all, getting three meals a day. I've got to wait till Monday. But," and Arthur leaned his small frame across the table. "Albert and me, weve gotta place to sleep."
"Well, thats something," Jon nodded approvingly. He was beginning to admire this tough little dosser.
"Its not a bleedin Buckingham Palace. And I'm not really wanted. I know, you come wiv me. I'll show you the set-up. Rum place, it is. All going on underneath the 'ouse of God. Hed turn in His grave, or fall off his Throne, if He could see it. Come along now. Its getting dark. You can ave Alberts place. Nothin to pay. His Lordship up there is footin the bill."
Arthur skuttled rather than walked down several minor roads. "My, you move fast for an eighty-year old," laughed Jon, striding out to keep up.
"Had to," Arthur chortled, "moving fasts saved my skin several times. There's us that live like this, keepin out of the way is what its all about. Not like them younguns. Drawing attention to themselves, flashy this, flashy that. If Id money in my pocket what they spend on their looks, I wouldnt be sleepin in this bleedin place."
Arthur led Jon down a cobbled path overgrown with shrubbery. A large red bricked church was on one side, and a square red bricked house down the other.
"Thats where they come to say sorry for what they're goin to do down below. They have to appear up there sometimes. All part of the bargain." Arthur waved his arm towards the church. "Preacher lives in there, with his wife." He pointed to the red house. "Funny man, he must be blind and deaf. Hes certainly not dumb."
As Arthur opened a wooden door, noise assailed them, loud high voices mingled with pop music. They went down a wide spiral staircase into an old room, it was a large square shape with a low ceiling. "This is the crypt," explained Arthur. "The Preacher has opened it for young people o e thinks are omeless. Thats rubbish in most cases. They pay a few pence a night, get free hot drinks, and the Preacher turns a blind eye to anythin that they bring in. Drink flies about like it was a pub. Some of them stay all night coupling on the floor, all in public, just like wild animals. Preacher thinks its good for them to have a roof, rather than sleeping rough. Ah, ere e is."
A portly gentleman, with egg down the front of his black cassock, approached the two men. "Evenin, Preacher. This is my friend. es comin for one night. Alfred has met wiv some friends. That O.K by you, Preacher?" The Preacher offered Jon a limp hand, there were two heavy gold rings on two of his fingers. He smelt of port. Jon said nothing, but took the hand briefly. He felt more and more uncomfortable yet interested at the outcome of his situation.
In an oily voice the Preacher said, "Good evening, Arthur. May you and your friend sleep well, and thank our gracious Lord for his goodness."
"Bullshit," muttered Jon under his breath. The two old men watched the crowd of young people, laughing, drinking, cursing and making love.
"This is supposed to be a young peoples club. Its just a bloody brothel. No supervision except for that gold ringed drip. Whats he doing it for? Get a good mark up for a large congregation? God, it makes me sick. How did you get in here, all of eighty?" Jon asked angrily.
Arthur twinkled. "We Irish can spin a good yarn, dont forget. Promised wed acknowledge our sins, and spread word along the road of Preachers good works. Give up my sins. My foot, Id rather die. My money goes on my whisky, and even then There's not enough either of money or whisky. I've worked hard all my life. Not like some them in there. They dont know what hard work is, I say. Preacher said Alfred and me could doss down in passage. The crypt was for the young. Were not allowed to sleep in the crypt. Got a rug and a cushion each hidden behind curtain."
Arthur poked behind a large thick curtain. He produced the bedding, and proudly laid it down along the side of the wall opposite the door. He managed to keep a silent dignity. "Got to stay along wall. Youngsters come along this passage to toilet."
With an effort the old man lay on the rug, pulling half of it over his body and over his head. Soon he was snoring. Jon stayed sitting up, his arms arund his knees.
Just then a group of inebriataed youth charged through the door and along the passage to the toilet. They bumped along Alfreds sleeping form, having no regard for the old man. It made Jon angry.
What a God damned awful place. An old man of eighty left to sleep in the passage, the young drinking and goodness knows what in the warm.
When they returned he called out, "Mind your feet there. You know that the old man sleeps in this passage. Give him his due respect. Id like to walk over you lot when you're fast off. Just to show you what its like." The youngsters, all still in their teens, either stuck out their tongues or raised their two first fingers. Jon did not sleep that night.
Directly Arthur woke up, Jon said, "Come on now, were off to have something to eat."
"I told you last night, I'm skint. I'll just have to wait for charity of Preacher. Cup of tea this evening, and maybe a sandwich or two."
"Dont you believe it," Jon replied. "To-day I'm going to see you get a proper meal. I havent enough money now to buy you one, but you meet me at that little cafe this afternoon, and I'll see what I can do. It makes me boil to see the way you are treated."
"Dont fash yourself, young man," said Arthur. "I'm still alive. What do I care what them scum think? They dont hurt me, they only hurt themselves. But I'll be there, this aternoon."
Jon rose to pavement level, glad to have left last nights sordid scene. He had to have instant work, just four hours work to raise the cash for two lunches. He would be alright himself when he had collected his wages but late afternoon was a long way off.
He walked towards the city, first Kings Road, and then across to the Fulham Road, asking for work at the small cafes as they were opening along the way. He came to a large place on a corner, chairs and tables already on the pavement. Breakfasts were being served. He went in, and approached a foreign man behind the desk. After moments of wild gesticulations and play acting Jon gathered he was accepted, and was to start immediately behind the scenes, washing up and clearing the tables. He was shown a row of dirty white aprons, and it appeared there were several absentee staff.
"Whats happened to everybody else?" he ventured to ask a man, sweating heavily over the frying pan.
"Some coming later. You go work. Quick, quick. I no stop to talk. I want coffee, I want hot milk, I want clean plates. Now quick, quick."
"So thats the game," thought Jon. "Staff coming in late. I'm on my own. Well here goes." He toiled and toiled, washing, clearing, stacking, to and fro, to and fro. He saw some other staff arriving at various times.
At ten oclock the cook called, "Vot for breakfast? And boiling water now. Quick. Boiling water."
"Bacon sandwich, please. With coffee." Jon expected a short lunch break and was exceedingly hungry. After half an hour, cook said again, watching with a smile the mountains of crockery, jugs, silver ware, glass ware and cutlery that were piling up, "Vot for breakfast? Vere is my boiling water?" Jon took no notice, keeping his hands busy. He heard a chanting from the other employees. "No bacon for the staff, no bacon for the staff." He reckoned he was being ridiculed as he was the only British worker, and the others were waiting for his reactions. He kept his cool but slid a pan of cold water along the cooker top.
"Vere is my boiling water?" asked the cook angrily when he saw the cold water.
"Where is my bacon sandwich? You gave me nothing, so go and get the blinking hot water yourself." Jons quick retort brought smirks from the junior staff. It seemed a battle had been won, for a large sized bacon sandwich appeared at the double. At the end of the shift Jon had enough money for a hot lunch with Arthur. It was the last time he met the old man, dosser exemplary. He walked to the Managers office and collected his wages, and felt a free man again.
That night, sitting under a light at Victoria Station, he felt depressed. The thought of Arthur, the sight of his fellow dossers flitting round the station trying to look occupied and trying to find a bedding down place, and the incomprehension on the faces of some of his audience in the Park all made a sense of hopelessness flood over him. He wrote in his pad.
Why has this moment of depression assailed me when last week I felt like a million dollars? I use my breath only for breathing and speaking, I can claim I have the very earth under my feet, I could claim I was marking time and taking stock, but in reality I appear to be doing nothing.
Have I joined the masses who have lost interest in life? Is my outlook reduced by the discomfort it gives to my senses or has the heavy weight of hypocrisy become part of my own diet? I have stopped applauding argument erectors as they brilliantly demolish their hypothetics with mental gymnastics. Has silence ceased to become productive and just become dumb insolence? Or is it my inner weariness, the continual effort to keep clean, to sleep, to eat, to keep warm, that gives me a feeling of impotence when I survey the social climate around me? But as I am a servant of divine principle I must leave myself open to the influence of the Supreme Intelligence. Lifemanship not only requires an increasing self containment, but it demands the ability to overcome physical hardship. If standards are lowered by accepting social diplomacy then awareness is harder to find, and before awareness is re-won we wallow in negatives and lose opportunities to elevate human denigration. I must look for areas of tolerance to allow lifemanship to work.... . Forward, enough of brooding.
That night Jon walked down to the Embankment and along to Waterloo Bridge. It was well past midnight when he arrived and he could find no spare box for his nights rest. He propped himself against an archway, and dropped in and out of a light doze. The birds had started to sing when Jon heard the sound of a heavy lorry coming towards him.
Its that damned council again. Washing the road down. The blighters seem to turn the water on faster when they come to the sleeping bodies under the bridges. Then they laugh back at the down and outs who yell their anger, their sleep broken. Reminds me of my dungeon cell, in Poland during the war. Middle of winter, starving I was, and covered in lice. Doing ninety days solitary after an escape. Warders hated me. Threw cold water over my cell floor every morning, and laughed when it froze and I slipped. Only had a thin sweater and two thin blankets. These monsters get the same sadistic pleasure, safe in their truck.
He approached the vehicle. He called up to the driver. "Hi, there. Couldnt you do this later on in the day? Sleep is hard enough for these poor buggers to find without you coming along and waking them up. Its too wet for them to doss down again when you've gone."
"Orders is orders, and that lot shouldnt be here anyway. Just a nuisance they are. Id be glad to sweep them off the street altogether." The driver spoke with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, he seemed rolled in fat, his chin, the back of his neck and his hands.
"When have you been uncomfortable? Never, I should say. Youre covered in fat from over-eating. can't you begin to understand the difficulties of these fellows, they're already tragically handicapped by their conditions. Why not start your cleaning at seven or eight in the morning in places where there are sleeping people?"
"Fuck off," shouted the driver, and he started up his vehicle, making the pressure of water even greater. Jons legs and boots got a soaking. "Youre completely inhuman," shouted Jon, but the noise of the machinery drowned his words. He watched silently as the vagrants tried to collect their sodden bits of belongings. His heart went out to them, there was little he could do.