CHAPTER THIRTEEN - the Proposition

Through the cold winter months and on till Spring Jon managed to cling to life, his routine, his ideals and his tenacity. There were several moments when death through cold and fatigue seemed an inevitable outcome. He disciplined his thoughts away from pain and discomfort and managed to rise to the challenge of every day events. Sleep, that charmer when allowed to flow, soothed his troubles into acceptable proportions. Dirt was engrained in his skin, and no amount of washing would scrub it away. Hot baths hurt his swollen feet, so he avoided those. The rash on his groin re-appeared and started to fester. He tried hard to keep himself from smelling of stale sweat, the sweating bodies in the bakery was a fresh wholesome smell. He used the warmth of the ovens to rejuvenate his body, and he used the goodwill of his fellow workers to rejuvenate his spirit. He managed to keep away from conflict with the police, and his speeches in the Park were less inflamatory. They dwelled more on the conditions of the ever growing number of homeless, their dispair, their squalor, the drugs and increasing crime. He was aghast at their suffering, but could do little to help. He knew he had to cruise through life till he regained his normal state of health.

One incident angered him. Resting after a stint at the bakery with a pint of stout, a small figure appeared at his table.

"Why, blow me down, if it isnt Tucker. Now what are you up to? You look more wicked than ever. Havent seen you for ages. Want me to do something?"

"Thats ri, Guv. Gotta liddle job for yer. What abou it? Beer, are yer? Bad time on them spikes. Saw the lot, Oi did. Right mess, it were. Naow, my liddle propositions a bi'o coike. Yer can drive, and yer go boel." Tucker, the thief of the breakfast scenario, leered towards Jon.

The scheme that Tucker unfolded seemed realistic enough. The plan was for a hold-up to be staged the following day where the payroll of a large firm was to be snatched from their Headquarters.

"Yer can choose," Tucker said as if offering a gift. "Yer can old the gun, or drive bloody car. If yer old the gun yer ave to push lolly in suitcase. If yer drives yer ave to toi oop the ead Clerk."

Jon began to stutter his dismay. But Tucker calmly tried to soothe his agitation by adding that the Head Clerk would offer no resistance as he too was in on the deal.

Then Tucker rose to go. "Cant wait. Got to plan it quick. Oill be back in our to ear which yer want te do." He flicked a five pound note on the table. "Get yerself sumthin teat. Oill be back seven sharp." Jon sat rooted to the table, anger, dismay and surprise reddening his face.

Well, I'll be damned. The sheer audacity of him. Bet that fat man, Ben, who fixed the filming, is at the back of it. Here am I, suffering hardship to retain the integrity of my inner citadel, and Im asked to rob with violence. can't understand it. Just because I believe in values, and try to stick to them, I dont fit in this hardening materialistic world. Crime figures show trouble. Spiralling towards chaos, Id say. I'm not going to touch that bloody money, and I'll be off before he comes back. Damn cheek.

Jon left the pub quickly. In the evening paper of the following day he read that the proposition he had refused had been carried out successfully.

How gracious was Spring, laying out her flowers and hopes for all to share. Jon let the feel of new life flow through his bloodstream. He felt much fitter, his breathing was regular and he could climb stairs without stopping half way, his legs were as strong as ever, and the groin rash was drying out. He felt the time at the bakery had served it purpose. He had to explore new avenues and take up new challenges, encourage his fellow dosser. He would miss his coloured colleagues at the bakery, and he felt he was losing a friend when he shook hands with the master baker.

"Cum to see uss. Ve want you to cum to visit uss. It iss good to hear you talk. It iss liddle like ome. Vill you cum?" The baker pleaded for a promise.

"It is the season of the butterfly. It knows it has life, but it doesnt know the end of its journey. I'm like that. So I can't make promises."

"Understand, yess, understand. It iss good that way." The old man touched his forehead, turned and left the room.

With money in his pocket from a bonus, Jon decided he wanted a day on the downs at Epsom. He needed to feel clean air and smell fresh soil. He washed as well as he could, and put on his cleanest shirt. Sitting at a corner seat of the train, he watched the blossoms, the magnolias, the daffodils. He also watched a young girl on the opposite seat, her smooth face flushed, her eyes alight. She was dressed casually, and wore a look of innocence as if she were untouched by evil and lust. Her simple and trusting manner drove a dart through to Jons heart.

Holy Moses. I'm complete. I'm not damaged. Bless you, dear girl, for making me sexually aware again. Its the first shiver of an arousal I've had since my injuries. Wouldnt harm a hair on your head, but thank you anyway.

With this silent acknowledgement to the girl, Jon realised how different she appeared to be from the youth of the underworld, where poverty, grime and cold replaced innocence with cynicism and harsh expressions. At Epsom he walked slowly from the station up to the race course, and there he sat on a bale of straw, the sun enveloping him in its embrace. He took out his pad and let his thoughts flow towards the young girl.

Discover, my child, what within you lies. Seek vehicles of love, but do not pour compassion into bottomless wells. Seek rather the tranquil one who loves you more than he loves himself. Accumulate reserves of well-being as a force to meet emergencies. Let love be freely given and daily replenished. Let not error turn love into a carnal weapon. What you are now is good, continue to gladden the eye. You graced my presence for a moment, while you closely watched the passing scene, continue to grace the presence of others. Be open in your mind to accept new circumstances without anxiety. May you cherish all that you had within you before learnings envelopment. It is your birthright to make incursions in to the quiet sanctity of your own self. In this way Gods grace will, like the rising sun, shine in more revealing ways. Take aboard no cargo of glitter for ports at which you will never call, and make no rendezvous that you cannot keep. Be alone at times, but never lonely, for in silent moments you will find out who you are. May you understand the pull of Life force and meet the yardstick of excellence.

With a sigh Jon turned his attention to the sound of horses hooves. Gorgeous sleek beasts were being led to the valley, aristocrats of their breed, they were servants to the greed and exploitation of mans need for gain. He walked slowly back to the station, somewhat heavy in heart, the thought of his constant efforts to fulfil his programme weighing heavily upon him. The train he caught was nearly full. Opposite him lolled an expensively dressed youth with his boots, dirty from lack of care, splayed on the seat in front.

"Would you mind if I asked you a question?" asked Jon of the youth in his most charming manner.

"Fire ahead," replied the youth confidently. "Ask anything you like. I'll tell you straight."

"From the cut of your clothes, and the gold ring on your finger you show obvious signs of culture." The other people in the carriage showed an interest in the dialogue. The youth smiled.

"Could you tell me," Jon continued, "why do you do now what I am sure you never do at home. Does your education that I guess your parents paid for teach you these manners? Just look at those boots making dirty marks where other people have to sit." The young man reddened as giggles and murmurs wove their way around the carriage. He straightened up trying to look unconcerned but said nothing.

It was imperative for Jon to find more work, and to keep the commitment to his public speaking resolute, without his writings he still felt exposed, like a crab without its shell. He recalled his time at the I.T.V studios, and how working in a big organisation suited his needs. Scanning the evening paper he saw an advertisement for a porters job in the Headquarters of a charity called Save Again. Once more he tidied himself up, and presented himself to the Personnel Manager. Once again the job of porter had not been filled, no one it appeared wanted to do menial work. Jon was offered the job, and he accepted it.

Seems a doddle. Longer day than usual, 9 - 4.30, but again I can get a subsidised meal. Got to collect the mail from the various branches and carry packages here and there. I'm at everybodys beck and call. Shant like that much. If they go all la-di-dah, I'll soon put em right.

Funny mixture of elderly women, and long haired ardent looking youths. Wonder how much money gets to the really poor, and how much is diverted on the way. Praps I can find out. Knightsbridge is a good centre, even though its on my Cardboard Hall beat. Mustnt let them find me. Maybe I can lay my hands on another outfit. My old friend Herbert across the river doesnt ring the changes, and hes not much left. Perhaps Ill find projects to talk about on Sundays. Must keep going, must have trust in my ability. Must let my inner consciousness guide me. Its so easily swamped by everyday trivia. I'm closer to Supreme Intelligence when I'm alone, alone with the grass, the trees, the stars. Oh God, in whatever form you are, help me to maintain my strength of purpose.

The routine suited him, money for food and drink was sufficient, and he whipped himself to perform well at Speakers Corner on Sundays. Most evenings he found himself in pubs in the side streets round Kensington and Knightsbridge. The liquid gun helped him through the long hours when he was unoccupied, unoccupied but open to get involved in any situation. Being stronger he now used Cardboard Hall as much as he could, for the station police were turning really nasty towards him. No one at Save Again knew that he slept outside. He often smiled to himself when he heard his fellow colleagues moaning about their living conditions.

After being paid double time for weekend work Jon went to a pub he knew well which sported a live band. It was near a hospital, so doctors and nurses nipped in and out between their duty hours. They seemed a happy crowd of people, save one young doctor. He sat alone, and Jon saw him wince when a popular tune was played. After a while the young doctor came over to Jons bench.

"Youre alone, and I'm alone. Let me buy you a drink," the young doctor said.

"Thats mighty kind. I'll do the next one," replied Jon. When the drinks arrived, conversation started. The young doctor wanted to talk.

"I've been watching you from time to time when you come here," the doctor commented. "I'm sure you sleep out. Can tell from your skin. I dont know how you can stay so cheerful. I know too you've known better days."

"Correct, on all points," replied Jon somewhat brusquely. "But dont lets waste drinking time by talking about the habits of an eccentric like myself. Whats your problem? Sometimes you look as if you carry the world on your shoulders.

"I wish I could tell you."

"Come on, try," urged Jon. "It can't be worse than my life story."

Encouraged by Jons willingness to listen, the doctor proceeded. "Alright, here goes. I'm the Registrar of two wards of people dying of cancer. They continually ask me if they can be cured, if they will live."

"What do you tell them?" asked Jon.

"I lie."

"How well do you lie? Convincingly, I hope"

"Very badly," admitted the doctor.

"Isnt it easier for them if they know they are going to die," Jon ventured.

"For some, but for the young its very hard. But some of the youngsters accept it courageously, its a privilege to be with them. Their only thought is for their relatives."

"It seems a continual impasse for you," said Jon sympathetically. "I hope you have enough joy in your own life to compensate."

"The joy went out of my life when I lost my wife. She died of cancer too. I see death many times, and I'm still mourning my own loss. Its hard for me, there are so many questions I cannot answer. The threshold of pain, for instance, and how it varies. Life after death, the seemingly unfair allotment of tragedy. Why does God allow good people to suffer? I feel I ought to be able to help my patients more, and I cant answer all the questions. Time is so short for some of them. You can understand why I come here and drink."

Fleetingly the memory of his own family flashed through Jon's mind.

"Its at times like this that I find words inadequate. One day, when the pain has lessened, you will find that life is for living. It seems at the moment you must live through your profession, helping your sick patients as well as you can. They dont really expect you to give them all the answers. Often they are calling for your attention, your time. In the silence of their own souls they probably know as much as you do. Remember, by just being as you are, among all that pain and sorrow is a great form of silent bravery. But now, one more drink for the road."

ÁThe doctor smiled. "Thanks, I will, and thanks for those words. Now I'm soon off to a cosy flat, but I expect its really the road for you. Not much sleep either coming your way."

"Its O.K," laughed Jon. "Down the shute," and the drink burned his gullet. Later they both left the pub together, laughing and joking. Jon went looking for suitable sleeping quarters, this time in the Soho area, quieter at that time of night than the residential parts of town.

This looks just right to me. Office parking space, and nobody coming in to bother me. And plenty of boxes, and milk crates. Must be my lucky day. I'll have a quick pee then off to bed. Surely no one will see me. Could do with a long and uninterrupted sleep.

Jon chuckled to himself as he piled the flattened boxes on to the crates. He then slid inside two of the larger ones, and made a fence of the remaining few. He had just settled in when a car drew up at the entrance. There was no mistaking the ominous radio communication. It was obviously the Law, someone must have reported him. A tall figure banged the car door, and flourishing his warrant card he approached the pile of boxes.

"I'm a Police Superintendent," he said in a loud strident voice. "This is private property, and you're not allowed to sleep here. Get the hell out of here, or youll be arrested." Then in a whisper he bent down and added, "Youll be nicked if you're here tomorrow. I'm just giving you the tip off. The only reason I'm telling you is that I prefer to catch thieves, and not make other peoples misfortunes even greater. Now take the hint." In his official voice he said loudly, "And mind you see the bloody place is tidy when you leave it."

Jon fell into an instant and deep sleep. The next thing he knew was that dawn was breaking and he was being tipped off the milkcrates on to the ground by a uniformed heavy.

"Watcher name?" asked the constable.

"You bloody well know what my name is," replied Jon defiantly. He received a cuff round the ear.

"You tidy up those boxes," ordered the constable. Jon, fearing arrest, decided to play it cool and started to collect the boxes together. He took a look at the other uniformed man. It was the Police Superintendent of the previous night, a member of the law with understanding of the dossers plight.

To Jons surprise the Superintendent stepped forward. "You've five minutes to beat it." Shaken though he was it took him a good deal less than five minutes to get clear of the area. Trouble was to follow him a few days later. He had built up a passing acquaintance with the three youngsters who lived in the flats above the area of the vendors van, where Jon had slept during the storm. There was a tiny garden between the tall house and front wall, and the youngsters said Jon could sleep there when necessary. He found an enormous box and some corrugated paper. Well tucked into the box with the extra thickness beneath him, he pulled the phlanges across, and relaxed into the darkness. Soon he was in a deep sleep. Suddenly he was instantly awake, though he had heard no sound. He flung the phlanges open and there to his horror he saw three large dark figures peering into the box. He used the only weapon he had, his voice.

Loudly he shouted, "And who may you be? Do those buttons that I can see on your tunic really belong to the police uniform? You might be phonies for all I know."

"Just keep your voice down, were police officers."

"Not bloody likely, I wont," Jon shouted. " I'm sleeping on private property, and the people upstairs know I'm here, and theyll soon know you're here too. If you are policemen where are your warrant cards?"

The three men rapidly disappeared into the night.

Bet they were ordinary criminals, feeding off suckers like myself. Thought I was a soft touch. I'm too jittery and wide awake to stay here, inspite of my lovely warm box. God, how I needed that sleep. My whole body yearned for it. Must off to Covent Garden now for a cuppa. Come on, old man, dont get sorry for yourself. Those stars look friendly enough, and the air is soft. Feel more myself when I've had a cuppa. Come on, legs, get a move on.

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