Arden

by Nick Corbett

  “How can you eat chocolate if you haven’t got teeth?”

  “I suck it,” he replies, grinning inanely.

  An hour or so passes, all of the food is served. About half of the people who have been fed, hang around, not wanting to leave. The volunteers chat with them. People lean against the guardrail or sit on the pavement, in small sociable groups. A few solitary figures loiter nearby. It’s like a social club, there’s a lot of banter.

  Joe is the only person looking slightly awkward, standing alone, wondering what to do. He reflects that many of the people he has served looked like rough sleepers, but some of them were relatively smart and well spoken. Then he notices a woman leaning against the guardrail, not very far away, looking out over the River Thames. There was only a dozen or so women in the queue today. This lady really stands out because she’s got style. She’s middle aged, with long, black hair, streaked with grey, partly tied up in a bun; lots of junk jewellery. The river breeze ruffles her long clothes. The woman turns away from the river, she’s about to speak to an old man standing beside her, but then she notices Joe. He’s still staring at her. She takes a drag from her cigarette, slowly exhales… then she calls over to him.

  “So how did they rope you into helping us vagabonds today?”

  Joe is taken aback, she’s so well spoken.

  “I wanted to see how the other half live,” he replies, instantly regretting his choice of words.

  The woman laughs loudly.

  “Oh! So, do you think you’ll move in?”

  “It’s a bit draughty,” Joe is now surprised by his own bravado.

  The woman laughs even more loudly.

  “Why don’t you join us over here in the sun lounge?”

  Joe joins them. They all lean against the guardrail. The sun is shining; it’s a warm, pleasant afternoon. Joe feels light-hearted now the hard work is done. This strange parallel universe he’s stumbled into intrigues him. He’s interested to know why this well spoken, stylish woman, is living amongst the homeless.

  “I’m Joe, what’s your name?”

  “Amanda.” She offers her hand, which Joe shakes.

  Amanda introduces the old man next to her.

  “This is Clive, he used to have his own business, doing scaffolding up north, didn’t you darling?”

  Clive grins.

  “What happened to your business,” asks Joe, “What went wrong?”

  Clive stops grinning. “Wife left me. Lost me business. Me mam died. Couldn’t pay bills, got horrible, threatening letters. Council took me to court over Council Tax, ended up spending a fookin night in prison. I got on a train, ended up down ‘ere. London was end of’t line.” Clive shakes his head, he doesn’t want to speak anymore. He crouches down and rummages through his collection of plastic bags.

  There’s a brief silence. Joe turns to Amanda.

  “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but do you actually live on the streets?”

  “Yah, I do, but I’ve also got a flat, in Chelsea.”

  “Why do you live on the streets, if you’ve got a flat in Chelsea?” It was the obvious question to ask.

  Amanda turns away, looks towards the river again. After a moment, she turns back to Joe. Her voice is softer, vulnerable.

  “I used to be a researcher in the House of Commons. One day I was given an assignment, to do research on homelessness. Then I met darling Jake, a rough sleeper. He’s bloody charming! He helped me with my research. He dared me to do a swop, just for one night, my flat for his street. He said toffs like me were always doing research on him, then buggering off to their nice warm homes. So, I rose to his challenge. I haven’t slept in my flat since.”

  Joe is perplexed.

  “So, how long have you been rough sleeping?”

  “For about five years.”

  “And what about Jake?”

  Amanda looks embarrassed, her face is flushed.

  “The little shit’s been living in my flat! Some of the boys are going to sort him out though, isn’t that right Clive?”

  Clive, startled to hear his name, stops rummaging in his collection of plastic bags. He looks up at them, grinning again. Amanda looks down at him, benevolently.

  “Oh, well, perhaps not, you wouldn’t be much help would you, darling?”

  Joe interjects. “Amanda, what about your job, what about your life?”

  “I never liked that world very much,” she replies aloofly. Then she seems to remember something, but shrugs it off. Joe is dumbfounded. He sits down on the filthy pavement. With one arm folded defensively across his chest, and one hand holding his chin, he ponders the situation. Amanda sits down beside him.

  Joe turns to Amanda.

  “What’s happened to you isn’t right, it’s totally unjust, you can see that, can’t you?” There’s no reply. Joe wonders if he’s fallen for a made-up story, but it could be true, couldn’t it? He decides to ask another question.

  “I can see with Clive, there’s been a series of events, they could have toppled anyone. Did anything like that happen with you, was it one thing after another?”

  Amanda looks deep into Joe’s eyes. Joe holds her gaze. He isn’t going to look away. At some level, they’ve connected. Through all of Amanda’s coolness, he can see a vulnerable child. Her lower lip starts to wobble. Tears flow down her cheeks. She doesn’t wipe them away; they fall onto the dirty pavement. Her shoulders are drooped. She starts sobbing, shaking like a child. Joe opens his arms and Amanda embraces him. They hold each other tightly. She continues to sob and shake. Joe knows he mustn’t let go of her. Eventually, Amanda lets go of him. She finds a tissue, wipes the running mascara from her puffy eyes.

  “I wasn’t expecting this when I called you over,” she says in a broken voice.

  “Me neither, are you okay?”

  “Not really, no. What an unsightly mess I must be. That’s the first time I’ve cried… well, for as long as I can remember. It’s probably some kind of psychological breakthrough!” She wipes her face with the tissue.

  “Something did happen to me when I was a child, when I was too small to defend myself. I’ve never really been normal.”

  “Normal? You’re better than normal. But we all need help sometimes, someone to talk to, don’t we?”

  “Yah, I suppose we do.” Amanda pulls herself together, she smiles. “By coming here today, feeding us vagabonds, you’ve really helped me.”

  “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Oh, you have, you’ve made me feel human again.”

  For a while, they continue to sit on the pavement. Then Amanda struggles to her feet.

  “Have you ever hugged a homeless person before, Joe?”

  “No, you’re my first.”

  Amanda laughs. Joe continues.

  “I’m going to ask Luke if there’s anything they can do to help you get your flat back,” says Joe.

  Amanda nods with appreciation, smiles. Then she gathers up her plastic bags. Without another word she hurries off, over Waterloo Bridge. Joe watches her. When she’s some distance away, she looks back at Joe. Her hair and clothes are buffeted by the wind; she blows him a kiss. Then she crosses the road and disappears behind traffic. Joe sighs, turns away, takes in his surroundings. Everything is just as it was, people chatting, joking. He feels as if he’s been in a car crash.

  The volunteers are all busy packing tables and other items into the minibus. Joe helps them.

  A young man with a bright, cheery face approaches him, hand outstretched.

  “Ello, I’m Phil. Just wanted to say fanks and good bye.” He’s about twenty years old, very tall, thin as a whippet, pointy face. His blue anorak is several sizes too small for him. He’s got a bulging black bin bag over his shoulder.

  “Hello, I’m Joe. Where you off to Phil?”

  “I’m leaving London, off to Cornwall this afternoon.” Phil searches in his anorak pockets and reveals a ticket. He holds it up to the sun, triumphantly, as if it’s a winning lotter
y ticket. “I’ll be departing Victoria coach station at four o’clock, for Truro. Amazin in it?”

  Joe smiles. “Yeah, that’s pretty amazing, Phil. What’ll you be doing in Cornwall?”

  “Oh, a whole new life, Joe. I’ll be going from village to village, ‘elping people out with odd jobs.”

  As Phil continues to speak, Joe pictures the road opening up before him, the open road of freedom. He recalls camping in Cornwall, the invigorating freshness of rain-washed air. The surge of energy when he was eighteen, driving through the forest. He repents of allowing his life to become too small. Could he go to Cornwall too?

  Don’t be ridiculous, he tells himself.

  Phil’s voice brings him back to reality. “I’ve bin homeless for four years, ever since me step-dad kicked me out. I need a new start. Luke’s dun a lot to elp me, got me confidence back, even given me the dosh for me ticket, you aint to tell nobody that. I know you aint allowed to give us money.” Phil touches the side of his nose with his finger to emphasise confidentiality.

  “Anyway Joe, you dun a proper job serving the stew,” he adds. “Much appreciated! I’d luv to talk to ya more mate but I gotta go. I don’t want to miss me coach do I?”

  “Okay mate,” replies Joe, “All the best in Cornwall. I hope your new life goes well.”

  “You bruvers av been a great help to me. See ya pal!”

  Luke and Serena appear beside Phil. They are delighted to see him. It’s all handshakes and hugs. Phil says goodbye to everyone again. He turns on his heels and walks off over Waterloo Bridge, in the same direction that Amanda took. He turns around and waves his coach ticket.

  “Come and visit me!”

  Joe turns to Luke. “He’s off to a new life, exciting, isn’t it?”

  Luke nods. “I’m pleased he’s leaving London.”

  But Serena looks concerned. “All the support networks are in the big cities.”

  “I know, I’ve just got a good feeling about what Phil’s doing, he’s following his heart.” Luke turns back to Joe. “Come on, it’s nearly time to go.”

  “Is there time for me to take a quick look at the river?”

  Luke looks at him quizzically. “You alright?”

  “Yeah, just need a minute to think.”

  Luke glances at his flashy silver watch. “Okay, we’ve got ten minutes.”

  Joe walks over to the middle of Waterloo Bridge, leans against a parapet, admires the panorama. The skyline is dotted with tower cranes, like alien lookouts. The City of London, great bastion, home of Britain’s treasure chest, is being rebuilt. The choppy, murky, brown River Thames cuts a great swathe through it, opening all to sun and air. Luke joins Joe, leans against the parapet beside him, shoulders touching, not speaking. They look at St Paul’s Cathedral, enduring survivor of booms, depressions, wars, it’s golden cross shimmers against the blue sky. Distant clouds are a reminder of the sea.

  After a while Joe turns to Luke.

  “Why’s Amanda living rough? Is it to do with some issue in her past, maybe abuse? Do you think she’s sleeping rough because she’s looking for affection?”

  “Crikey, that’s deep. I don’t know. It’s good you spoke to her though. I’ve never seen anyone speak to her for so long before. I guess everyone’s looking for love. You showed her some of that today.”

  “Some people would criticise us for what we’ve done.”

  “How’d you mean?”

  “It could encourage people to stay on the street.”

  “Maybe they’ve got a point?”

  “Maybe. It’s good that people get a proper dinner though, and someone to talk to.

  Remind me, how did you get into this again?”

  “I fancied Serena. I did it to get close to her, at least to begin with. I was apprehensive the first time, especially when I saw all the guys queuing up. You’ve done a good job today. How’d you feel?”

  “Absolutely knackered!”

  “We’ve got the washing up to do yet.”

  Joe’s face drops. Then he remembers his promise to Amanda.

  “Luke, is there anything that can be done to get Amanda’s flat back for her?”

  “I’ll talk it over with the others.”

  Serena is calling them from the minibus. Her voice is competing with the traffic and the wind over the river. Her words are blown away.

  “Come on! We’ve got to go! There’s one chocolate bar left!”

  “I’ll race you for it!” Joe pushes Luke aside, runs to the bus. Luke, still holder of their school 100 metres sprint record, soon catches up. Joe grabs Luke’s shoulders, holds onto his neck in a conquering embrace. Luke punches himself free, wins the race and the chocolate.

  Joe goes to bed at eight thirty that evening, totally exhausted. He falls asleep as soon as his head touches the feather pillow. The following morning, he tries to ignore the ringing alarm clock. He reluctantly regains consciousness. The dream he is leaving behind is another vivid one. He was watching a magnificent white horse, waiting for him on the other side of a river. Joe had begun to cross the river, along a causeway. The way was lined with crocodiles, which slid away when he shouted at them. Again, he saw the Gothic gatehouse, shimmering on the other side of the water, beside the horse. Now Joe sits bolt upright in his bed. Another dream about a river and the gatehouse.

  What does it mean?

  Joe gets out of bed, prepares himself for the day. As he cleans his teeth, he feels unusually eager to get to work.

  Joe travels into Kensington by tube, thinking about his newspaper article. Noon is the deadline for submitting it to the Features Editor at The Times. When Joe arrives at his desk at the Regeneration Company, he gets his article on screen. He polishes the text and reads it back to himself:

  Kensington High Street promotes pedestrian freedom, wider pavements, and no clutter. New pedestrian crossings are where people actually want to cross the road. Hundreds of metres of guardrails, redundant poles and signs, all were put on the back of a lorry, never to be seen again. Pedestrians are no longer penned in like sheep. Traffic lights are attached to lamp columns, like in Paris. Streetlights provide an attractive ambience at night; white light, so true colours can be seen. There’s no light pollution. The stars in the night sky can be seen again over Kensington. People flying to Heathrow see the borough as a glittering jewel.

  At eleven o’clock, he sends an email to Sarah Parker, the Features Editor, with his article attached.

  An hour later, Joe strolls through Holland Park, making the most of the unexpected spring sunshine. It’s his lunch break. He takes a seat on a bench, surrounded by half open yellow rose buds. This is the ornamental rose garden. It’s beside the remains of Holland House, once a Jacobean manor at the heart of London society. Joe imagines some of the historic events that must have happened there. In front of him is a large ornamental Japanese-style pond. A few people sit on the lawn surrounding it, sunbathing, oblivious to the “Keep of the Grass” signs. On the far side of the pond, the bright sun glows white on the bark of silver birches. The trees look as if they might spring into life, bursting with energy. Behind them, tall, elegant Scots Pines pose in the sunshine. Joe lets his eyes rest upon the glittering water. Plop! A fish. His mobile phone rings.

  “Hello.” Joe speaks in his usual chirpy tone.

  It’s Sarah Parker, the Features Editor. She speaks powerfully.

  “I’d like to run with your article, Joe. All being well, it’ll feature in Wednesday’s edition.”

  A relatively modest fee is agreed. Joe is delighted.

  It is seven o’clock in the morning, on the last Wednesday of April. Dappled light shines through the kitchen windows at Lullingdon Manor. The light flickers upon David Rogers’s newspaper. He sits at a large refectory style table. He is dressed in a dark navy suit, which contrasts with his thick mop of white hair. He is still fit and strong at seventy years of age. His reputation has grown since he purchased the city’s struggling football club, and taken it into the Prem
ier League. He’s become something of a local hero. His family have ensured this new celebrity status hasn’t gone to his head. He enjoys his cup of strong, freshly filtered coffee, scanning the newspaper for morsels about himself and people he knows.

  Annie Rogers, Luke’s mother, bursts into the kitchen from a garden door. She carries a large tray of seedlings. She looks flustered. The only make-up she wears is bright pink lipstick. Her face and neck are wrinkled; she’s only two years younger than her husband, but she’s still pretty. The colourful scarf tied around her hair gives her a slightly bohemian appearance. Annie is an early riser, cramming in reading the paper, gardening and estate maintenance before her charity work. She catches her breath, speaks to her husband with an air of urgency.

  “Oh! David, you’ve got a dead badger on the drive. You should see the size of it! The poor thing must have been run over.” Breathes again. “And you’ve got to read The Times. It’s Luke’s old school friend, Joe, he’s got an article in it, about Kensington High Street.” Another breath. “Oh, and there’s an editorial in the Post, saying you should stand as mayor. Absurd! At our age?”

  David looks straight ahead, as still as the Sphinx. After digesting Annie’s words, he takes another sip of his coffee. Annie stares at him expectantly.

  “Well?” She requires a response.

  David looks as if each word he says is being delivered with some discomfort. “Thank you Annie for sharing your stream of consciousness with me. Let me try to bring some order to the topics you’ve raised. Firstly, why is it my badger? Secondly, why is it an absurd idea for me to be mayor? Thirdly…”

  There is silence, he’s forgotten what came third. Annie readjusts her headscarf. She issues her rebuff, sounding very cross.

  “It’s your badger because it’s your job to clean it up. I can’t do everything!” She’s in no mood for playing games. “The badger has got to be cleaned up straight away. I’ve got my Civic Trust ladies coming around soon. I don’t want them to be upset by it.”

  “Oh, they’ll probably appreciate a bit of zoology.”