Having finished examining the sky, he fumbled for an old leather shoe with the sole flapping off. This he held to his right ear and spoke into it as if it were a mobile phone.
‘Hello. I’m in Finsbury Park. Where are you?’ With his left hand he motioned passers-by impatiently towards the cap on the ground which had a few coins in it.
After a while, tired of this one-way conversation, he wandered over to a nearby parking meter to feel in the metal cavity for any forgotten coins. Returning to his post, he interrupted the flow of people to ask a man in black-rimmed spectacles for some change. The man swerved and hurried on.
‘Piss off then you four-eyed twat,’ the vagrant called after him cheerily.
From spring onwards, with the rising of the sap, all manner of tramps sprout up alongside the daffodils and by the summer they are bedding down in parks and doorways all over town. In the hierarchy of vagrants, Hoagy B, as he was known, considered himself to be somewhere near the top.
‘I am a Tippel-Brother,’ he would announce, should anyone ask. It was while stationed in Germany that he had come across the ‘tippel-bruders’. They were known as ‘orderly wanderers’. Their way of life appealed to him and he made a note of it for when he was de-mobbed. Apparently, in the glory days, there had been an International Brotherhood of Vagrants in Germany. To cap it all, Hamburg had even hosted a Vagrants Congress attended by three hundred of them. Rot set in when a vagrants’ registration was introduced.
Hoagy B’s main occupation was walking. For more years than he could remember, he had spent his time trudging from John O’Groats to Land’s End and back again. He would go from farm to farm, getting fed for a days’ work, cutting grass, house-painting, picking fruit, sometimes staying for up to a week and then heading off once more. When he needed money, he would venture into the nearest town and find casual work as a navvy, wielding a pickaxe or pneumatic drill on the roads for a while. But there was no work to be found in London this year and he had been reduced to a little light begging – not his preferred style.
He looked down at his watch and started back with a theatrical gesture as though the watch had affronted him in some way.
‘Is that the time already?’ he muttered.
This was all the more extraordinary because he had no watch. There was nothing on his wrist except a few pieces of string plaited together. Next to where he stood, his old brown nylon sleeping bag lay sodden after the night’s rainstorm. As he held it up to inspect it the sleeping bag came apart in his hands. He kicked it into a doorway. Then he collected his cap, put the few coins in his pocket and set off.
A short while later he was seen striking out towards Hyde Park, now with an empty milk bottle to his ear, chatting in tandem with other members of the public who were also glued to their phones.
‘Hang on. I can’t roll a fag while I’ve got a telephone in my hand,’ he said and stopped to throw the bottle in a litter bin before taking out his tobacco tin and continuing on his way.
Just before he entered the park something caught his eye. In a skip next to some iron railings was an old-fashioned Ferguson twelve-inch television. Hoagy fished it out and tucked it under his arm.
That June day the park was dotted with idlers in deckchairs, couples smooching on the grass and clerical workers tucking into their lunch-break sandwiches. Looking for a more secluded spot, Hoagy walked through Hyde Park and on to Kensington Gardens. There he took up residence on an empty park bench sheltered by trees near the statue of Peter Pan. He put the television down on the ground and sat down. From one of his pockets he pulled out a sock. In it were some hard-boiled eggs. Then he rummaged until he found two other small packets containing salt and pepper. After he had finished eating, he cocked his legs up on the bench, put his arms behind his head and gazed at the television.
A man shot by on a bicycle, his wispy white hair flying from under an orange baseball cap. He sat upright and whistled as he went. On his back he carried what looked like a canvas quiver with multi-coloured plastic windmills poking out from the top. When he spotted the tramp and the television, he put his feet on the ground and skidded to a halt, then pushed himself backwards towards Hoagy.
‘Anything good on?’ He was well-spoken with an amused and slightly coquettish manner.
‘Not much,’ Hoagy replied. ‘There’s always something missing when you’re watching television, isn’t there? It’s the woman coming round with ice creams.’ The man rested his bicycle against a tree and joined Hoagy who shifted along the bench:
‘I’m taking these windmills to the children of Grenfell. They will want toys as well as blankets. Something beautiful, eh? Bread and roses. We all have to do whatever we can. From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs, as they say. There’s a collection centre in Walmer Road. Although I hear they already have too much stuff.’
‘What’s happened at Grendel?’ Hoagy enquired in a voice that retained traces of a Welsh accent.
‘No. Grenfell. Grendel’s a different monster altogether.’ The man threw back his head and laughed. ‘Beowulf defeated Grendel. But the dragon hoarding the treasure was the one who did for Beowulf in the end. Kensington Borough Council in this case. Have you not heard about it? The tragedy? It was three days ago.’
‘Can’t say I have, Professor,’ said Hoagy. He nodded towards the television. ‘It weren’t on the news.’
‘Grenfell tower went up in flames.’ All the laughter fell away from the man, who suddenly looked distraught. There was silence between the two for several minutes. A hard-boiled egg was pulled out from the sock and offered to the stranger who declined it with a shake of his head. Hoagy stood up and took a shining tin can from one of his pockets. He walked slowly over to the small lake opposite and helped himself to a drink of water.
Then, to the elderly cyclist’s astonishment Hoagy turned to face him and began to sing, his chest expanding under the old army coat. Even more surprising, out of his mouth came a melodious and tuneful tenor voice:
‘You’ve heard of the Gresford disaster
And the terrible price that was paid
Two hundred and forty-two colliers were lost
And three men of the rescue brigade.
Now the Lord Mayor of London’s collecting
To help out the children and wives.
The owners have sent some white lilies, dear God
To pay for the poor colliers’ lives.’
‘Yes,’ said the cyclist, the twinkle now back in his eye. ‘You’re right to sing. How does that quotation go? “In the dark times will there also be singing? Yes, there will also be singing – about the dark times.” Is that a trained tenor voice of yours I detect?’
‘Yes. Once. A while back. Before the army,’ Hoagy growled. He frowned and spat on the ground.
The cyclist put on his cap and bent to adjust his cycle clips. At that point a ladybird flew on to the frayed cuff of Hoagy’s coat, folding its wings back under the scarlet and black dotted shell. He tried without success to shake it off. The man mounted his bicycle:
‘I’ll be on my way. Good luck.’
‘And to you, sir.’ Hoagy watched him cycle off. ‘Fly away home,’ he said to the ladybird, which did not move.
Several hours later Hoagy B found himself standing in Walmer Road. He looked up to see, a few blocks away, the towering blackened ruin. Shocked at the sight he backed into a doorway and rolled himself a cigarette. The street was noisy and crowded. People of all sizes and descriptions shouted encouragement to each other, pushing trolleys of bottled water and struggling with plastic bags full of clothes while others manhandled crates of soft drinks. Trestle-tables had been set up, piled with a variety of foods and fruits and yet more water bottles. Cars were parked skew-whiff in the road with their boots open as people ferried goods to various destinations.
The doors of the Westway Centre were wide open. Hoagy approached and peeped inside. Close to the doors were rows of charcoal grey sports mats and foam mattr
esses laid out in formal lines. Some contained sleeping figures. On others sat small family groups. There was a hum of organised activity. A short dark-haired woman stood on a chair directing proceedings, ordering a chain of helpers who were passing armfuls of bedding, blankets and sleeping-bags to each other. The woman shouted instructions:
‘This bedding is surplus. Put it in a pile near the door. A van will collect the surplus and take it for storage in a warehouse. The table at the back is for toiletries, nappies etcetera.’
She gesticulated to show where everything should go while volunteers milled about helping wherever they could.
Two yards from Hoagy, a small boy of about nine with a saffron complexion and shining black eyes stood holding his grandfather’s hand. The man wore a white calf-length tunic and red soft-soled slippers. He was in his fifties with a small white beard, a long nose and eyes as black though not as brilliant as his grandson’s. He squatted down and spoke to a plump woman wearing a red salwar kameez who was seated on a mat behind him. The man said something to the boy in a language Hoagy did not understand. Then the boy spoke to one of the volunteers who was squeezing sleeping bags into their nylon holders and tossing them to one side:
‘My mum says, where’s the bathroom.’
The volunteer explained and the boy went and translated the answer to his mother who heaved herself up from the floor and made her way in the direction pointed out.
Hoagy edged towards the pile of sleeping bags: ‘Are any of these going?’
The young woman flicked back her fair hair and looked at the tramp with suspicion.
‘Are you a Grenfell victim?
‘No.’
‘Well, I’m really sorry but all this has been donated for Grenfell victims only. Sorry.’ She went over to alert her colleagues to the unwanted arrival of a tramp. The little boy stared at Hoagy. The grandfather stroked his beard and asked his grandson what was going on. He bent his ear to listen then raised his eyebrows and lifted his palms upward in a gesture of helplessness.
A solid middle-aged black woman in a brightly patterned dress bore down on Hoagy. Full of righteous indignation she confronted him:
‘Out. Out. Out. Please. We don’t want freeloaders. People have lost everything here. We’re all pulling together. The whole community is trying. You should be helping. Not scrounging. Go away please.’
Hoagy hesitated then pointed at the sleeping bags: ‘I heard they were spare.’
At that point a balding council official who had been advised to remove his identity badge because of local hostility stepped smoothly forward.
‘I’ll deal with this.’
He gripped Hoagy by the arm and propelled him into the street.
‘Isn’t it funny,’ Hoagy said as he was pushed out of the door, ‘that all we derelicts have wonderful heads of hair and all you officials and bankers are bald. When did you last see a bald tramp?’ Having nearly tripped as he was ejected, he stood outside on the road for a few moments to gather himself. It was early evening. The bustle in the street had subsided. Here and there people stood around in subdued groups, talking in lowered voices. A few blocks away the setting sun shone through the charred tower block, turning it a rusty reddish colour as if its DNA contained a memory of fire.
Hoagy started to walk away. He had gone fifty paces when there was a tug on his sleeve. He looked down. The boy with the lustrous black eyes was standing there, his arms barely able to hold the sleeping bag and the bedroll. Hoagy accepted them. The boy gave a skip and scampered off towards where the grandfather stood just outside the doors, watching out for the boy. Hoagy lifted his right arm to touch the side of his bushy hair in a sort of salute.
By the time Hoagy reached Latimer Road station it was dark. The train on the elevated track rattled and shook its way through the buildings. Each carriage was illuminated. Hoagy watched the train pass showing scenes of daily life: in one compartment a man read a newspaper; in another, a woman leaned across to wipe her child’s face. Hoagy tipped his head sideways. That was how Grenfell Tower used to be, each compartment like one of the flats containing a scene of everyday life. The train was like a vertical section of Grenfell travelling on its side instead of going upwards.
He staked his pitch outside Latimer Road tube station. The station was closed. He sat on the pavement and unpacked the sleeping bag. It was brand new. He undid the leather straps of the bedroll and unfolded it to have a look before tying it up again. Then he leaned back against the wall of the station. The last train rumbled past. After a while he put the bedding down and stood up to shake his head and stretch his arms. He took some deep breaths and hummed a little as if trying to find the right key.
By nightfall most of the inhabitants of the Westway Centre had been found hotel accommodation. There were a few left to sleep as best they could on the mattresses provided. None of those who remained recognised what they were hearing but it penetrated the dreams of some and even those half-asleep were soothed by it. One woman sat up to listen, entranced. From somewhere not too far away came the sound, floating on the night air, of a beautiful tenor voice singing one part of the duet from Bizet’s The Pearl Fishers. Long into the night the voice could be heard singing different arias and snatches of opera.
Having done the best he could, the next morning Hoagy made an early start and headed west towards Ealing and away from London.
www.sandstonepress.com
Subscribe to our weekly newsletter for events
information, author news, paperback and e-book
deals, and the occasional photo of authors’ pets!
bit.ly/SandstonePress
facebook.com/SandstonePress/
@SandstonePress
The Master of Chaos Page 17