During the next few weeks while the winter evenings were drawing in, Jon stayed quietly at Trevors flat, trying to keep out of the way of the photographic equipment lying around in odd places. After his last poor effort at Speakers Corner he vowed he would not appear till he felt strong again and able to withstand the emotional and physical demands that public speaking put on him. But he was not idle. He made use of the time to scrutinize the work in the rucksack that he had left in Trevors care.
I'll only keep what I can use, notes and facts for my speeches. Leave Trevor the rucksack. Of course I'll keep the finished poetry and plays. Took me ages that did, sometimes years. The rests too untidy. Must have been mad to keep it, just scribbled words on any old bit of paper. I wrote what I felt and saw. Here goes. Thats torn up now, memories of fucking Gloria in the churchyard. And here, Ah me. Thats my warning about the rain forests. Look at this, my ode to a new life, my daughters. God, There's everything here that I've thought or felt, but no one else could understand it. I hope I'm right chucking it all into the basket. But I must travel light. Just going to have my one holdall with all the best stuff collected together. Dont want to have to rely on Trev any more. I love him as a friend, but he doesnt really understand what my ideals and ideas are for. Just got to keep this lot safe. Perhaps I'm a bit too suspicious of peoples intentions when they see my holdall. Its so dirty and could easily hold a bomb. Maybe the ideas are a bomb, and thats what they want.
Six weeks after his injuries Jon found himself back outside, one leather holdall and a bundle of clothes in double plastic bags his sole possession. His small bank account was nearly empty, the fine imposed by the Courts having been paid. He was dependent on his wits and his frail state of health.
His first project was to see Matilda and explain what had happened. Matildas round face shone when Jon wheezed into her kitchen area.
"My goodness, man. Whats you been doing? Worried mad we were. Heard you werent coming back, but didnt know why. I miss you, man, I miss you." The familiar plate of sandwiches quickly appeared with a mug of tea. Jon sat on a tall stool and recounted his story as Matilda continued with her work.
"You look like a ghost," she flustered. "Wish you could come back. Got a new girl now. Shes all the while a giggling. Pop and see me when you've time,, and if that there holdalls trouble, leave it with me." Refreshed from that encounter Jon walked on down the side streets. His heart was pumping, and his breathing was very shallow.
Im not as fit as I thought I was now I'm moving around. Got to play my cards carefully. Health Won't stand too much of a shake-up. Hello, whats this? Help wanted, hours by arrangement. Nothing venture, nothing win. This might just be the ticket for me.
He had seen a small advertisement in a bakery shop window. He went into the shop which had a counter along one side filled with rolls, buns, and bread. There were no fancy cakes, just plain wholesome food. But the smell! He could feel the saliva in his mouth. Bread, glorious bread. He hitched himself onto a high stool and waited a moment.
"Vot can I do vor you?", a voice came from a side door, and following the voice came the baker, with tall white hat, white coat and floury hands.
"I need part time work, but I'm ready to do any hours that suit you." Jon did not mention his injuries.
"Are you vell?" asked the baker looking suspiciously at Jons face.
"I'm usually well, but I've had an accident. I want to get back to work as soon as I can. I can assure you I'll give good service, even if I am a little slow to start with."
"O.K, lets huv a try," the baker replied. He was white haired, with bushy eye-brows slighly powdered with flour, and his face was creased with worry lines. When he smiled his eyes softened, but a guarded look quickly hooded any signs of emotion.
Looks as if you're a fugitive. Probably from a damned repressive regime. Seen that look before when I was on the run in Poland. People were afraid to let their feelings show, too dangerous when they didnt know who was friend or foe. Think I'm going to like him. God, I hope I can keep going. I'm dead beat already.
Jon was to work a moving shift of six hours out of the twenty-four. There was a tiny cupboard at the back of the premises where he could leave his holdall, and a toilet and basin for use of the four other staff. Again his duties included washing up and cleaning the tables, as well as humping the heavy sacks of flour. Later he helped to knead the dough but the baker, and never anyone else, did all the measuring. It was hard and hot work.
After three hours on the first day Jon found sweat was pouring off his face. He was breathing fast. The baker looked at him anxiously.
"Vot iss the matter?" he asked. "Are you not vell?"
"I'm alright, really I am," Jon panted. "I Won't let you down. It will be better to-morrow and better still the next day."
There were two coloured men on the shift, both well over six foot. They were the kindest gentlest creatures that Jon had met for several years. Together they nursed Jon through the first few days, lifting the heavier pieces of equipment for him and finding him a stool to sit on by the sink. Together they talked over mugs of tea and Jon heard of the difficulties they faced living in an alien land. Their aim in their lives was to earn enough money for their families to be comfortable while they were in a foreign country, and to save enough to send back to their own homes. They were both intelligent and were working well below their capacities. Jon enjoyed working at the bakery, and felt his limbs strengthening with the physical work, but he was still hampered by bad circulation and shallow breathing.
Cardboard Hall was inviting disaster to a man in his state, so he settled for Rolling Stock Hotel and tried to keep a low profile. This proved impossible for night after night he was hassled by the Railway police to move on. Sleep, that most precious of commodities, was hard to get. The eternal tussle was on. The vagrants needed the warmth of the station concourses, the police had to keep the areas clear of begging, stealing and disruption of the flow of the travelling public. Violence on the vagrant was unnecessary, and when Jon saw glaring examples of this brutality on the homeless he decided to act to alleviate the continuing stress. He phoned the Railway police headquarters and reported three separate incidents of violence where firm words and patience could have been used. The result of this conversation was a flea in his ear, and he was now known by name to the authorities.
Victoria Station six nights in a row. Shouldnt do it again, but Im just too dead beat to go further afield. Know they will pick on me cos of reporting them. I know theyve got to do their job, but why do they have to use violence? Here am I, open to voilence from both the law and the unlawful. Suppose, if I had to make a choice, Id settle from violence from the law. Illegal violence leads to chaos....Ah, Here's a good corner, well tucked away, and nobody else wanting it. Quite dark too. Hope they leave me alone.
He dropped into an uneasy sleep. Later he woke to find something cold and wet on his face. It was the muzzle of an alsation, a police dog on a chain.
"You come ere quick," said a coarse voice. "I've a bone to pick with yer. Knew wed find yer some place. Damned cheek reporting me. Wot yer doin ere?"
Jon straightened himself up slowly, cramped and stiff.
"Selling cloud space to prospective angels, and that doesnt include you. Now get off my back. There's real crime being committed all round here, and you waste your time accosting me."
"Put yer foot in it, and shut yer trap. You'll pay for reporting me. Good mind to set dog on yer. That ud larn yer a lesson."
Jon found himself in an arm-lock and was marched unceremoniously to the police station office. He was thrown into an empty room, and losing his balance fell on the floor. Too weak to get up quickly he was prey to the venom of the offended policeman and a mate who joined him. They kicked him savagely, head, ribs and legs. All he could do was to cover up.
With one final jab the policeman shouted, "that'll teach you not to report us again. Now get off that floor, you bastard, and come with me." Slowly Jon struggled to his feet, and when charged with trespassing all his protests fell on deaf and unsympathetic ears. He was shoved out on to the street as the morning sun rose in the sky. Back at the bakery he was given tea and buns and sympathy, and soon felt less aggrieved, though his body ached from the beatings. That evening was pay-day, and the baker graciously commended Jon on the effort he had put into his first weeks work.
Quite pleased with myself, I am. Legs have stood the strain. Breathing is still a problem, and I know I'm an awful blue colour still. Everything else seems in working order, but dont know about sex. Havent had a shiver of an arousal yet, sppose I've not seen the right bit of fluff. The old bakers a real aristocrat. Wonderful manners. Should like to have met him in his own country. More suited to running an estate than running a bakery. Now I'm off to get stoned. Done enough of self- disicpline just to get well. Then I'll get myself together and start off at Speakers Corner.
He walked slowly to The Rose and Thorn, where he was known and well liked. Drinks were swapped and the talk became animated. Jon knew the company well enough to ask them to watch his holdall during his frequent visits to the outside toilets. Soon he was thoroughly pissed, care and need leaving his troubled soul. At closing time he staggered out into the night refusing the landlords helpful offer to look after the holdall till the next day. The chill of the night entered his boozed frame, and inspite of his frequent visits to the toilet in the pub he tottered down the first alley-way to relieve himself again. He was watched by the law in a police car. They stopped Jon as he came out of the small mews.
"Excuse me,sir, what were you doing down that Mews?" asked the sergeant.
"You know effing well what I was doing," retorted Jon. "If you live on the streets you have to piss on the streets."
"What have you got in your bag?" asked the sergeant.
"Not bombs, if thats what you think," replied Jon, his drunken state making him feel reckless. "And if you are going to charge me for something, do so. Even with a knuckle sandwich from you, a night at your expense is better than one on the streets."
"Would you please show us whats in your bag?" The sergeant was scrupulously polite.
"If you want to look inside, then do it yourself," and Jon dumped the holdall at the sergeants feet, who sifted through the papers and notebooks with care. He found nothing that interested him.
"That's O.K, sir. Now dont let me find you somewhere where you shouldnt be." The car sped away.
"Bloody fool," Jon called out. "Midnight in London, you show me somewhere where I should be."
Ruffled, angry and exhausted through fatigue and drink, he slept soundly in the passage of a shop doorway, making a pillow of his holdall. He was obscured from prying eyes by the heavy refuse boxes which the shop had discharged for collection. Awaking cold and sober the next morning he felt something was different. His first re-action was fear.
My holdall. Christ, where is it? Its gone. Someone must have nicked it while I was drunk. Damnation. can't be a thief. Too many police around and theyd see someone carrying a heavy bag. Look too suspicious. Must be the law wanting to see into my thoughts. Do they think I'm a terrorist, or even inciting terrorism? Must get it back. Must report its theft. God, this is worse than the attack on me. Why must I have all this just because I'm looking for honesty and justice?
He disregarded the heavy pumping of his heart as he went to the nearest police station. He stood by the desk, ignored for minutes by the constable. Eventually the constable looked up, saw Jon and the condition he was in, and showed his contempt. Jon knew he would get little support from such a man, but saw to it that the incident was recorded. All that day Jon prowled the streets, asking after his lost work in the nearby shops, asking the dustbin collectors, asking the foot patrol police, asking anyone he could. He was distraught and felt totally bereft. He did not know what to do next.
"Vot iss the matter wiv you?" asked the baker, when Jon turned up for his shift. "Haf you seen ghost? You haf not blue face to-day. You haf green face. Come. Haf some tea. Haf some roll and butter. Vot hass been done?"
"My work, my work in my holdall. Its been stolen. I'm sure its the police. All the work of years gone in one night. Sorry, governor, Ill pull myself together in a minute. Thanks for the tea. Won't let you down. Will start off ..."
Jon didnt finish his sentence. His work mates crowded round him, eyes agog at his dilemma. Their concern and sympathy calmed him down enough to fulfil his duties, but his heart was leaden with dispair. He had only his pad in his pocket left with a few of his most recent notes. Speeches in the Park would be more difficult without his back-up material.
When Jon left the warmth and camardarie of the small bakery he walked towards St Jamess Park. The air was still, heavy with brooding black clouds. He was neither hungry or thirsty. The baker had supplied more than was needed.
Think I'll doss down before the rain comes. Looks as if even the Gods are against me. Am I on the right path? Is all my speaking in the other Park doing any good? Damn it, this is the first time I've had any doubts at all about my purpose. Give yourself a kick in the pants and get on with it, old man. Whats this? An enormous plastic sack. Perhaps my luck is turning. Now for a corner and some boxes.
He found a space he had not used before, tucked in between a mobile vendors van, and the railings of a large house which was broken into flatlets. It was well before his usual bed time, but he settled down in his plastic bag which covered him from top to toe, and surrounded himself by an assortment of boxes. The sky cracked intermittently with thunder and lightening illuminated the fury of the night. The wind rose to a cresendo, rattling the vendors van, sheets of paper danced through the air. The storm broke with violence, water gushed all round him and into the drains. Without the plastic bag he would have been soaked, but tired beyond endurance, he suddenly and serenly lapsed into a peaceful sleep. The storm continued to rage, tiles dropped from nearby roofs, branches fell to the ground, but still he slept. When he woke he found the hood of the van had landed inches away from his head. While he was straightening himself and his plastic bag three young people came down the steps from the flats. They were complaining of the noise of the storm, how frightened they felt, and how they couldn't sleep.
Well, well, well. A sleepless night for the three of them, well tucked up in a warm bed in a warm house. Here am I, sleeping like a baby in the open. What a cosmic joke! And now after a cuppa, off to Speakers Corner, see how the land lies, and then do my first speech after the blasted attack. Will gun for the I.R.A. again, and snipe at the unions. Can do that without having to refer to my notes. I only feel half a man without my written work. Bloody police. I'm convinced it was them. Who else would want to read my stuff?
He approached Speakers Corner slowly, trying to get the feel of the place again. He was instantly recognised. Sporadic hand clapping started and a pathway was made for him. The welcome made him feel both glad and humble. He found the attendant, and made the transaction for the stepladder as before. It was a strange feeling to mount the steps, waves of nauea swept over him as he remembered the attack. He opened his speech by greeting the crowd, explaining the reason for his absence. He touched on the loss his work.
"In spite of losing my holdall, which I am sure the police have taken, the thin blue line of law and order is an essential part of the fabric of our civilization. They must be respected, but on their part they must not get corrupt. Law must be upheld. What goes on in Northern Ireland cannot be accepted. The crocodile tears they cry over their dead add up to hypocrisy. They should start crying for the unborn, and stop jumping around with guns. Guns, guns everywhere, with the finger on the trigger, and Hail Marys going on over the coffins, crossing this way, crossing that way. Its the double cross they're suffering from. I accuse them of betraying the human race. O.K, they can put me on the bleeding spikes, but they must stop this road to social suicide."
"Bravo, bravo," came calls from one side of the crowd. "Fuck off, we've had enough of you," came shouts from the opposite corner.
"I have one more thing to say, then I will stop. Out of the continuing disaster, one undeniable fact emerges. We are personally and collectively at the cross roads of history where the time fuse is set, and combustion is reaching proportions of alarm. Incisive action must be taken to establish the well being of all people and thereby create a diversion towards undreamed of goals of progress. If this fails to happen I fear for the future of humanity."
With these solemn words, Jon eased himself off the step ladder, and inched his way through the crowd refusing to answer questions. He was intolerably tired, aching in his limbs, with his chest burning. He realised he was nowhere as strong as he used to be, and viewed the remaining winter weeks with apprehension. He was not sure if he could survive in his present condition.