Jon worked through the summer at Save Again. It was an inefficient organization with over-zealous people climbing over each other to claim funds for specific projects. Orderliness was non-existent, pounds could be saved with pruning unnecessary expenditure. Jons temper flared when he was expected to be in two different places at once, and was unable to justify his movements. Lowly though his position was he resented the off-hand way he was addressed by people half his age, and he made this point clear. Sometimes he wondered why he was where he was, and whether this humdrum routine was stifling his creative thought. Sometimes he was late for work, he was either too drunk, too stiff and cold or had been too involved with night time sessions with his fellow dossers under Waterloo Bridge. He would wash himself down, juggle with what clean clothes he had, and appear with a grin at the Porters desk. The Head Porter was a sympathetic man, who was very easy going and never made a fuss.
"Youre not as bad as some of these modern fellows, jerseys, jeans and long hair. They come in at all times. No one seems to mind. Its the army of old ladies who come to do their voluntary bit that puts us all to shame. Back-bone of the country they are. Now, young man," the porter winked at Jon, "you've got a stint at the post room to-day. Mind you get the stamp machine working properly or well all be in a fix. Had breakfast yet? You look all dishevelled. Best go quick and have a cuppa. Bad as the youngsters you are, coming to work without a proper breakfast. Not good for you. I always have my breakfast. My Mary gives me a whopper."
Jon turned away, leaving the cheerful man talking to himself. He went to the canteen and had a quick cuppa, felt better immediately, and was able to approach the post room work with equanimity. He survived the pressure for the first day, letters here, parcels there, airmail, registered, weighing this, bagging that. He was not used to being pressurised with such detail. After work he left the building, and found a bench in a small park. He let his mind empty of hassle and wrote in his pad.
Here am I, moving swiftly to my terminal point in life, and I wonder at my situation. I'm at the beck and call of people whose minds are too full of trivia to be inspired by truth. They seek to enhance living conditions in physical and practical ways. They do not seek the journey to soul, the journey to soul being the purpose of MY life, the journey to my own soul and to help others find their way to this end. I am a square peg in a round hole, and although there are hours aplenty for my own thought, I feel my purpose to help humanity steer clear of this oncoming abyss is fraught with negativity. My efforts with the dossers is only transient, the suffering and loss of dignity blunts the memory of my words.
My speeches in the park seem to fall on deaf ears. I appeal to you, God, the consciousness of the world, the Supreme Intelligence, who has succoured me through my life, dont let me feel bereft of your presence. Is it Your will that I stay on this path that I followed these last years, or should I try another way? Should I use my pen alone to advocate change? My instincts tell me that I should not persevere with what I am doing now, personally and verbally supporting the underdog, decrying evil and challenging the unnecessary power of some establishments. The odds are too great against me. Just one against all those who have no integrity. Should I try to spread my thoughts and ideas through the written word?
In which direction I should go I must leave the force of Life, through You, to direct me.
Jon read the words slowly.
Goodness me, I have let my morale get low. What are those words I wrote all those years ago in that damned camp? Let not your mood be lowered by that grim wind outside, for that same force will ripen tomorrows corn to feed mans body first, and then perhaps his soul. Will the wind of materialism and corruption and untruths ever feed my soul? Never. I must find the wind of Life, come what may. That'll feed my soul. But to the moment of now, and that moment is to escape. That shows the fraility of my nature. John Barleycorn and a few hours oblivion. Here goes.
True to his intentions Jon did just that. He bent his elbow as many times as he could during the course of the evening. At closing time he tottered out of the pub doorway and into street. He didnt pay attention to the police car parked nearby. Peeing frequently as he moved, he at last found an alley way, which was stacked with plastic bags on one side waiting for the rubbish collector. Lurching into this alley way he fell fast asleep, not bothering to find boxes or plastic bags for himself. As dawn appeared he regained reasonable sobriety. Then he heard the dust cart.
Hell, I must get a move on or I'll be swept up with the rubbish. Have a quick stretch. Thats better. God Almighty, what ever's this... My holdall. My damned holdall. Thought I saw a police car last night but didnt take any notice of it. They must have followed me, and dumped it here when I was blotto. Now, is everything here? Yes, yes, There's the play. And the poems. And look, even the handtowels and the few poignant scribbles that I kept. Wonder why they kept it so long? Wonder what the hell is going on? Probably photod every page of it. Stupid suckers, they shouldve known I wasnt against the realm. Perhaps this is a signal to point the way I have to go. Maybe this if the way the forces of Life are showing me to pesevere with my pen and not my tongue. Its all so wonderful, so real.
"Watch it, mate, or you'll finish up in the cart." A burly dust-cart man came hustling towards the alley.
"O.K, bud, I'm off. Found a lot of us, have you? Must make it a bit hard for you, poking up the human bundles."
"Its alright, mate. Its alright. Kind uv get used to't. Cant do nuffink 'bout it. Too much effin poor and too much effin rich, thats wot I say." He strode off with four plastic bags draped around him.
Jon was on his fifth cup of tea before he could accept the enormity of the treasure before him, the old familiar holdall. He felt in the land of the living again. He went to work in the post room with a light heart, new life seemed round the corner.
"You here again? You look more cheerful than yesterday? Something nice happened?" I asked him, heaving the large pile of parcels I was carrying on to his desk. "Yesterday, it seemed as if it were all too much for you, I was a bit anxious."
"To-day's fine, just fine. Better than yesterday. My name's Jon. You probably know that already," he smiled quizzically peering through his pebble glasses that he needed for close work. "Seen you about a bit, but dont see where you fit in."
"They call me Helena here," I replied, "but my name at home is Betty. I fit in alright. Got to. Its my job. Look, I've a whole lot more packets to bring you. This happens once a month. My army of old lady volunteers do the whole job. Regular news letter to the fund subscribers. Stupid waste of time and money, but I darent say so."
"Keeping me out of mischief are you, Helena. Your blue eyes are twinkling alright." Jon was laughing too. "Could we meet for a cuppa in the lunch hour - that is if you've no one else you're meeting."
"Bit bold, arent you" I quiped. "No There's no one else." My eyes must have clouded over for Jon with his sharp perception muttered under his breath, "something hurting, is it?" I pretended not to hear the care in his voice, and said cheerfullly. "O.K, one-forty five, top canteen for a cup of tea. That'll be fine."
That was the beginning of change. I was tall, silver-haired and angular and very soberly dressed so we made an odd couple, Jon wearing his mis-matched clothes. We met frequently in the canteen and talked and talked. Instantly we felt our souls were in attune. Jon asked me about myself, and I replied as honestly as I could in my hesitant and jumbled way. I was fifty and was trying to remould a life after a broken marriage, and my self-esteem was very low. From the psychological blows I had received I found it difficult to trust. This led to the hesitancy.
Jon listened carefully, encouragingly. I found him both soothing and stimulating and looked forward to the next meeting, and the next. I had still no idea of his background, his aspirations or his present mode of living, but I could feel he had been through periods of great suffering.
One day the following week I found a bunch of red roses on my desk. With them was a letter. It said, "This gift of roses is for you, in acknowledgement to the gracious way you have led your life. I notice your outward lookingness, your non-fashionable sense of honour and your clarity of mind. You are indeed a beautiful lady and worthy of a bowl full of flowers on every day of your quiet heroic existence. From your friend, (and admirer) Jon."
ÁI was confused, but delighted, for it was a long time since I had been made aware of my femininity. This bunch of roses led to more paths of togetherness and understanding. All I knew was that had never been loved before for what I really was, warts and all; I had only been loved for the image I never could have become. I was beginning to learn of Jons stony path of life, and my heart bled for him. My story seemed mild and uneventful, but Jon listened intently when I talked.
One day, walking hand in hand through dapple lit woods, Jon stopped. "Helena, my love, I want you to take this back with you to read when you are on your own. Although I am a great talker at most times, I find it hard to express my deep inner feelings about you to you. From our talks together over these last weeks we both know we are drawn towards each other, perhaps irrevocably. Here, here, take this. I wrote it last night by the light of the moon." Pushing a creased piece of paper which he had torn from his note-book into my hands, he blushed like a first time lover.
When I arrived back at my tiny home I drew the curtains and read his words.
Helena, life has dealt me out the Ace of Spades, YOU, the trump card in the pack, and I am truly fortunate. Allow me to play the hand in humility, but with honesty. When the safety of the conventional codes are forsaken, and the brakes of repression are eased, more self discipline is needed in the control of the new found and powerful emotions which are driving me dangerously. While the road from our different pasts which brought us together has had so many separate hurts, we will be able, through love, to charter a new history together. But these roads made us what we are becoming to each other. Any disharmony from our former separate selfs we will replace with love, and we will live where only NOW is present. If anything in the world that only lovers know is sacred, it is in the growth and harmony of two people searching for the strength for life to begin.
Oh, Helena, will I be worthy of your loving overtures? Your break for selfhood had begun long before I appeared, and although you're still trapped in many loyalties you seem able to toss aside security and dependency and be free of orthodoxys suffocation. From our two opposite worlds we will find a unity of purpose on which to build.
What compensation can I give to you if you share your life with someone who is still under the influence of the outside, with nothing to offer but love? I've no settled future, no bank account, no prospects. For these reasons I am terribly anxious and apprehensive. I will work with my pen though I do not know that outcome. But I have hope, I have a deepened sense of consciousness and I have my manhood, and I know I am sexually complete again after the attack in the Park.
These words and the sense of urgency and purpose that Jon surrounded me with were bewildering. I lived alone in a tiny city house, eking out my small income to the best of my ability. I had to reason long and hard. There I was, a conformative, middle class divorcee, working at Save Again to earn a living. I had no sense of poetry, and had never entered the world of pubs, horses, or freedom of speech. Would I put a curb on this extraordinary man who had come into my life, I wondered. Would my respectability hinder his free flow of movement and thought and dampen his original thinking? Would he be content with what I had to offer, a daily pattern, regular food, but very little money? Anxiety gnawed at my vitals, making the nights devoid of sleep. I wanted the excitement and stimulation that he offered my inner being, I wanted to be led into new and wider areas of thought, and I wanted to enjoy the many likes in common, nature, music, laughter. And I yearned for the sexual awareness he was arousing again in me.
I felt free enough to put all these anxieties before Jon. "But I've thought of all that," he replied, "I've even thought of how I'll feel if I can't make money enough to support you. But I feel so strongly that Life has given us this opportunity to grasp a new start of knowing we would be foolish to turn away.
After weeks of meetings in public places, and lying together talking in the parks, declaring our love but still not able to make our bid for togetherness, I made a suggestion. "Jon, darling. Would you ever feel you could manage to live in my house? I could do the typing for all your written work, and we could market it together. It would be a new way for you to work, your thoughts may be able to flow more freely without the hassles of living rough. I would try to give you all the emotional space you needed, and you would be free to go if and when you wished. God forbid. "I paused waiting for a comment from Jon, but none came. " It would make me very happy if you chose to come. This could be a real new beginning for us both. To-morrow, walk up the road carrying all your luggage. I know its not much, cos I've seen it." I laughed a little nervously. "If you have your luggage with you, I will know you've come to stay. If you come just by yourself, I know you have decided to continue with your own way of life, and I Won't mention it again."
Jon said nothing, but picked a buttercup and handed it to me.
All the morning of the next day I dithered round the house, as anxious and excited as a young girl. I kept watching the road, screwing my eyes into the sun. There, at last, I saw him. He was carrying all his luggage. He was coming to stay.
We were together till he died, working away, working away.