I'm on the train!

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘You can hardly go out to work with three babies to look after.’

  ‘Come off it, Laura! Those babies were just part of the act.’

  ‘OK, take that girl just now – she might be too ill to work. She looked like death, you must admit, with her ghastly, greyish skin. She might even have TB. Apparently, it’s on the increase in London. Or maybe she’s homeless, or a refugee.’

  ‘Laura, the trouble with you is you’re way too soft.’

  And you’re too tough, Laura refrained from pointing out. She and Sophie might have known each other since primary school, but that didn’t make them soul-mates. OK, they shared the same taste in clothes and music, and liked to go shopping together, but that was as far as it went.

  ‘It’s kinder to be cruel,’ Sophie persisted. ‘Giving her money could kill her, if the cash ends up in a drug-dealer’s pocket and she dies of an overdose. We’re talking serious drugs here – heroin and crack – and those can cost your typical addict not far short of a grand a week. So don’t imagine for a moment that any hand-out, however well intentioned, will be spent on food or clothes.’

  Laura opened her mouth to reply, but Sophie cut her off.

  ‘In any case, the longer people like her manage to keep going by scrounging off the rest of us, the less chance there is of them ever making something of their lives. In fact, they’re more likely to catch TB sitting around in the cold for hours, rather than being indoors at work.’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose that’s true,’ Laura admitted, grudgingly. Her attention had now strayed to the young couple opposite, who were gazing at each other with enviable devotion; hands entwined, noses almost touching. Once, Alex used to look at her like that.

  ‘You mustn’t think I’m callous,’ Sophie added, nudging her in the ribs. ‘I’m just as sorry as you are for those genuinely on the bread-line. But, for some, it’s just a scam – like people already on benefits, simply pretending they’re destitute.’

  Laura gave a shrug. Frankly, she’d had enough of the subject, although Sophie seemed determined to flog it to death.

  ‘I mean, I read not long ago that a beggar in central London can expect to make three hundred pounds a day – which is far more than you or me earn. And the ones from Eastern Europe are organized in gangs by these unregulated gangmasters, who deliberately pack them off to all the best pitches in London, like outside Harrods or Harvey Nicks, then claw the money back and keep it for themselves.’

  Laura sat silent; uncertain what she thought. Was Sophie right, or just rehashing some prejudiced rant from the tabloid press? Being unsure of her own opinion was depressingly familiar. She could never seem to make up her mind – not just on the issue of beggars, but in personal matters, too. Did she want marriage and kids, or a glittering career? Was the split with Alex entirely her own fault, or was he a hopeless visionary who expected her, unreasonably, to live up to his ideals, as Sophie always said? Also, the relationship with her father left her endlessly dithering: should she make a concerted effort to see him, or leave him to stew in his present silent sulk? Even as a teenager, she’d continually been switching between opposing points of view; far too easily swayed by anyone with real conviction.

  Someone like Sophie, in fact, who was invariably convinced that she was right; whether about holidays (Biarritz was divine; Paris overrated); organic cosmetics (a con), and her pet-hate, James Blunt (the most insipid, whiney singer on the planet), and now, of course, beggars.

  ‘Another thing about those bums is that they can louse up a residential area – you know, with their piles of disgusting old blankets and syringes and stuff. There’s such a stink of puke and piss in the underpass near my flat, you’re forced to hold your nose if you cross the road that way.’

  Laura had to admit there was a similar stench in the alley near her own flat, which street-people used as a toilet. But, before she could decide where her sympathies lay, Sophie was sounding off again.

  ‘But the most shocking thing, in my opinion, is that, far from being homeless, some so-called beggars actually have mortgages – and well-paid jobs to fund them. Apparently, they come back from their day-jobs, take off their suits or whatever, and dress in rubbish clothes, just to look the part. Then they spend their evenings raking in a second income – all tax-free, of course – by making out they’re living from hand to mouth.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, I can’t believe that!’ Laura stole another glance at the couple opposite; locked in an intimate embrace. Clearly, they were oblivious of their highly public surroundings and of the matron sitting next to them, frowning in disapproval.

  ‘It’s true, I swear. There was this policeman on TV, determined to expose the sham. He said cheats like that often use the extra cash to pay for a new kitchen or bathroom, or even to go on holidays abroad.’

  ‘But how on earth could he prove it? I mean, no one’s going to admit …’ Laura jumped up in mid-sentence. More passengers were piling in at High Street Kensington and she felt duty-bound to offer her seat to a doddery old gentleman, struggling to keep his balance. She was getting off at the next stop, anyway, so this unsettling exchange about beggars would have to come to a stop – and about time, too, she thought.

  ‘’Bye, Soph!’ she called, as the train rumbled to a halt. ‘Have fun at Giovanni’s!’

  ‘’Bye – and thanks for lunch.’

  But there was no escaping beggars, because, as she came through the ticket-barrier, the first thing she noticed was a young guy sitting cross-legged on the ground; begging-bowl beside him, bottle of cider and, yes, a mangy dog. In the ordinary way, she would have probably ignored him, but, in light of Sophie’s remarks, she paused to scrutinize his general appearance. Unlike the girl on the tube, he seemed in the pink of health, and was warmly dressed in a thick sweater and hooded fleece. Perhaps Sophie had a point and there were a lot of people who preferred to scrounge, rather than work for their living – or even do both in succession, which seemed still more reprehensible.

  ‘Spare some change, miss?’ he whined, eyeing her cache of upmarket carrier-bags and presumably classing her as easy prey.

  Shaking her head, she strode resolutely past and up the steps to the street, relieved to see it free of any down-and-outs. Indeed, it was looking at its best; the trees glazed with glistening green, as new spring leaves burst forth, and the sky a hopeful blue, despite the cold. She loved living in this part of London, with its range of trendy shops, its bustling bars and cafés, and the sense of it being almost a ‘village’, with its own distinctive atmosphere.

  She stopped to peer through the huge glass frontage of the new Japanese restaurant, which had opened here a month ago. There was barely an empty seat at the rotating sushi conveyor-belts; crowds of diners enjoying the funky décor, as well as the delicate food. The whole place was bathed in a purple-tinted glow and the glittering giant disco-ball, suspended from the ceiling, cast dancing shimmers of light across faces, tables, surfaces. On the back wall was a psychedelic mural of rainbow-coloured butterflies, which seemed to flap their wings as she watched. Butterflies were the signature theme and, no doubt, the Butterfly Bar upstairs would be every bit as packed. Alex had taken her there for cocktails, the very last time they’d met; kissed her passionately in a dark corner of the bar. The memory alone seemed to rekindle the zizz of champagne-bubbles tingling in her mouth; the kick of crème de cassis on her tongue, all overlaid with the taste of those wild kisses. That evening, she’d felt like a butterfly herself: ethereal and brilliant, and flying high, high, high.

  So how could things have gone so disastrously wrong? And in such a short space of time?

  She shivered, suddenly – and not just from the cold, although the bad-tempered April wind had not let up. But, however keen she was to reach her cosy flat, first she had to stop off at the cash-machine, to withdraw money for the coming week. She was annoyed to see a longish queue outside it and, yes, two more beggars, squatting on the pavement, one on either side. This was clearly a good pitch. People
moving off from a cash-point, with their stashes of tens and twenties, could hardly plead poverty as a reason for ignoring outstretched hands – which meant Sophie’s words about deliberate calculation clearly had some truth. One of the pair was ancient: a foxy little guy, sprawled on a piss-stained mattress – again with a dog, and again with a supply of booze. She was shocked to see him actually puffing on a cigarette. It did seem truly crass that he expected other people to fund his smoking habit. The other one was young: a foreign-looking woman, dressed in a ragged skirt and jacket and clutching a small infant, with a notice pinned to its shawl: ‘Feed my baby, please!’

  Until today, the morality or otherwise of begging had rarely occupied her mind. She might toss a handful of change to some saddo, down on his luck, but then continue on her way; more concerned with a challenge at work or problem in the flat-share. But now she was beginning to realize that perhaps Sophie was far less heartless than she had judged her at the outset. If that woman’s rags were just part of her ‘performance’ and her child a borrowed ‘prop’, then the whole thing was a con. And she did look East European, which meant she could be controlled by a gangmaster, some brutish thug creaming off the profits. And maybe the bloke with the cigarette could earn £300 a day, on top of a good salary – cash he would use to keep himself in tobacco, or even splash out on an exotic foreign holiday.

  Once she had withdrawn her cash, she stalked past the pair with no compunction, indeed, now sharing some of Sophie’s indignation. The rent on her flat-share was steep, mainly due to its fashionable location and, to pay that rent, she was forced to work long hours. So why should such a desirable area be spoiled by grungy bedding and empty cans and bottles, littered all over the place?

  As soon as she got home, she poured herself a glass of Prosecco, kicked off her shoes and sank down on the sofa, glass in hand; relieved that Amanda was out. Her flatmate’s penchant for hard rock, preferably played full-volume, was a frequent bone of contention and, just at present, she wanted peace and quiet.

  Only when she had finished her wine – and relished the rare silence – did she saunter into her bedroom, to try on her new clothes: first, the Chloe dress: short and tight and a subtle shade of bluish-grey. She studied herself in the mirror. Yes, it would go well with the vintage jacket she had bought last week in Portobello market, and with her new pashmina, so, all in all, it was worth its inflated price. Next, she tried the three tops. One was rather daringly low-cut, but the other two would be perfect for work. Finally, she struggled into the leopard-printed leggings; worried they might make her look too fat. Alex had told her repeatedly that he preferred women with some flesh on their bones to anorexic beanpoles who might as well be boys. He’d always tried to dissuade her from slimming and used to hide her low-fat yogurts and cans of Diet-Coke, and stock up with highly fattening foods instead.

  Alex is history now, she reminded herself; annoyed she should still care so much about what he said and did. Having stowed the new gear in the wardrobe and put on her old denim skirt and sweater, she rummaged for her iPod, hoping some upbeat music might help to lift her mood. Then she lay back on the bed, glancing round the room with a sense of almost proprietorship. Although the flat was only rented, and had come part-furnished with a cheapo wardrobe and decidedly shoddy bed, she had succeeded in putting her stamp on it, particularly here in the bedroom. The antique coat-stand and 1940s Vogue prints had also come from Portobello market, as had the two brass bedside lamps. She had disguised the bed itself with piles of stripy cushions, and tacked rows of fine-art postcards on the wardrobe, to cover its faded wood. And there were other decorative touches, added to divert the eye: her collection of perfume bottles on the dressing-table; strings of brightly coloured beads looped around the mirror. Maybe, next weekend, she would have another prowl around the market and snap up a few more trinkets. After all, she earned a decent salary and, sadly, there was no one else in her life, at present, to spend that money on.

  Except the beggars, a voice inside her seemed to say.

  She countered it immediately. According to Sophie, beggars were frauds and cheats, enslaved to drink and drugs. Yet was that actually true? The girl on the tube, for instance, had given the impression of being someone really genuine. Her unassuming manner and unassertive voice had done nothing to suggest she was an addict or a drunk. And the way she’d poured out her thanks had seemed utterly authentic. Indeed, whatever Sophie might say, she just couldn’t believe that so forlorn a female had a mortgage or a salary, or was touting for cash to supplement an already substantial income. She had looked completely poverty-stricken and, despite the warmth of the carriage, had been literally shivering – maybe a sign of some serious illness. Admittedly, she now had £20 in hand, but that wouldn’t stretch very far, especially if she was too sick to work and had to buy medicines, or pay for basic heating.

  And what about the foreign woman, squatting on the pavement with her kid? She, too, had been pale and haggard, and had gazed up at the people walking past with a truly desperate expression. There was no proof her baby was ‘borrowed’ or her tattered clothes just a ploy. And, even if she did belong to a gang, that could make things still worse for her. Gangmasters were bound to be callous, and certainly wouldn’t give a toss whether a woman had milk for her baby or clothes to keep it warm.

  ‘Laura, you’re way too soft – I keep telling you.’

  Sophie’s voice was now added to the first one, confusing her still further. Wasn’t it better to be soft than hard as nails? Yet, if she swallowed every sob-story without knowing the true facts, she could be taken for a ride. On the other hand, such ‘facts’ were constantly changing, according to which paper you read, or so-called authority you recognized.

  She sprang up from the bed, impatient with her own uncertainties. She didn’t even know what she thought about the war in Afghanistan, or the situation in Palestine. Almost everyone at work had set-in-stone political convictions, while she dithered on the side-lines; swinging from one view to another, without ever reaching conclusions.

  Mooching out to the kitchen, she realized she was hungry, having eaten nothing since their small snack-lunch, at noon. She peered into the fridge, guiltily aware that most bona-fide beggars would envy her its contents: a full bottle of Prosecco, as well as the one she’d opened; a large pack of smoked salmon; a whole Camembert, still wrapped in its waxed paper; a punnet of strawberries, and any number of smoothies and yogurts. And there were further supplies in the freezer and the cupboard – all for just two people, yet enough to sustain a beggar for a month.

  Having cut herself a wedge of cheese, she fetched some cranberry relish and the bread, and sat at the tiny table, giving a sigh of deep regret. Alex might never have expressed an opinion as to whether she was soft or tough, but he had criticized what he saw as her addiction to shopping. Neither was he keen on her profession, which, in his opinion, sold unnecessary products to gullible people unable to afford them. He worked for a charity, so he was bound to take the high line, and she did actually admire him for his altruism and dedication. The trouble was she couldn’t give up shopping. It was a sort of addiction, although one shared by most of her friends. And, as for resigning from her job, with its high pay and many perks, that was out of the question. Mahler-Knox-McKay was a wildly stylish agency (with its own Martini bar, roof-terrace and even a visiting masseuse), and everyone who worked there was ultra-super-confident – well, everyone but her. In truth, she sometimes felt she didn’t quite belong; lacking the others’ sophistication and witty cynicism, their ability to quip and joke about even the grimmest subjects.

  Which was precisely why Alex had appealed to her, as a sort of counterbalance; a man of true integrity and burning seriousness. So, once again, she was caught between two different ways of being, and had no idea which one was right. Sophie, of course, was completely and utterly certain that Mr Do-Good Alex was a fanatic and a smart-arse, and it had actually been a stroke of luck that he’d decided to break things off.

>   ‘Completely and utterly certain’ was something she had never felt, about anything whatever; least of all about Alex. For Sophie, it was simple. If she would only stop pining for the freak, she could set her sights on one of the Mahler-Knox executives, move in with him and enjoy a cushy life. It was true she could never share Alex’s principles and high ideals – didn’t even want to, if it meant starving in a garret – and yet….

  And yet … And yet … And yet … She’d been ‘and-yetting’ since her teens; forever wavering, irresolute; forever in two minds.

  Suddenly, impulsively, she slammed her knife down on the plate; grabbed her bag and coat from where she’d left them in a heap, and marched out of the flat.

  Sprinting to the end of her road, she continued dashing along Ladbroke Grove; not slackening her pace until she was back at the main street. The queue outside the cash-point had now dispersed, thank God – the last thing she wanted was anybody watching. The young beggar who’d been smoking had also disappeared, but the woman with the baby was still there, looking even more dispirited and tired. Dusk was falling and the wind as sharp as ever – no weather for an infant to be out. Indeed, the child was crying frantically – a hopeless sort of sound that seemed to fill the whole of Notting Hill, as it wailed on and on and on.

  She stood half-hidden in the shadows, wondering if the kid was sick, or maybe just half-starved. She knew nothing about babies and all she could see of this one was its red, indignant face, screwed up and distorted as it bawled its futile protest.

  A gaggle of young football fans came swinging down the street, all laughing and joking and with beer-cans in their hands. Immediately, the beggar-woman tried to attract their attention, calling out in some foreign tongue and pointing to the notice pinned on the baby’s shawl. Without a knowledge of English, she obviously couldn’t resort to the usual ‘Spare some change’ – although the baby’s shrieks would have drowned it anyway. Yet, despite the noise, none of the group even glanced in her direction – too busy having fun. The minute they’d moved off however, Laura unzipped her purse and extracted the notes she had withdrawn from the cashpoint earlier: four twenties and two tens. £100 was a pretty substantial sum, but she had spent triple that in the shops today, and was forever buying herself treats, be it fancy food and wine, expensive face-creams and manicures, or yet another pair of shoes she didn’t actually need. Alex was right – she did adore possessions; just couldn’t have enough of them, and, in that respect, she knew she would never change.