Daily Routine Orders 8
It has happened again. I was on my way to inspect theatreland when two dossers approached me. One – the scruffier of the two – asked me for change. I responded in my usual way, and as I passed on I distinctly heard them laughing. I hope for their sakes that they manage to retain that sense of humour because they’ll need it quite soon. I never forget a face, and our next meeting will prove far more amusing for me than for them.
By golly it will.
We sat in St James’s till two o’clock. It wasn’t warm, but we were out of the wind. Then Ginger said, ‘I’m gonna try round Trafalgar Square for a bit. Coming?’
I nodded. ‘If it’s okay with you. It’s time I had a go at getting some dosh by myself, but I’ll feel better if you’re somewhere around.’
He nodded. ‘Fair enough. Tell you what – you try outside the National Gallery. It’s not exactly the height of the tourist season but there are always people about, and you can see into the square from the steps.’
We walked back along Piccadilly, down the Haymarket and along Pall Mall. The Gallery wasn’t fantastically busy but there was a steady trickle of people going in and out. Some were sitting on the steps in spite of the cold. Ginger left me there. I watched him merge with the crowd, then turned my attention to the business of the day.
It was hard at first. Really hard. I stood, watching people pass, trying to spot a likely punter. God knows what I was looking for – a kind face, I suppose, or at least someone who didn’t look as though he’d swear or punch me in the mouth. It was futile, of course. You can’t read people’s characters in their faces. You never know what a punter’s reaction is going to be, but I didn’t know that then. Finally, I steeled myself and asked a guy at random. He growled, ‘Not a chance,’ and bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time. I wasted the next five minutes feeling hurt. Rejected. I asked myself how it was possible for a person to be sensitive to the beauty of fine art, and at the same time insensitive to the feelings of a fellow creature. I took it personally, which is fatal. After a while I realized this and began choosing guys and women at random, expecting nothing, telling them to have a nice day whether they gave or refused. I blunted the point of my own sensitivity in the flinty soil of their indifference till I too became indifferent, and after that it was easier.
I worked till the Gallery closed, standing sometimes, sometimes sitting on the steps. My feet became numb and I was half frozen but I stuck at it, and when the place closed at dusk and the punters drifted away I counted up and found I’d collected just under four pounds. I stumped across to the Square and found Ginger slumped on a bench. He looked up as I approached.
‘How’d it go?’
I shrugged. ‘Three pounds eighty-one. You?’
‘Two forty-four and I’m frozen to the bone. Let’s eat.’
We got pizza slices and Coke. When Ginger wasn’t looking I bought twenty fags and a cheapo lighter and gave them to him. He said, ‘You’re barmy, kiddo. You don’t even smoke.’ I was just glad of his company, but I didn’t say so.
In the evening the wind strengthened and sleet began to fall, except that it didn’t fall – it rode the wind in horizontal lines, flaying foreheads and cheeks. I wished we were back in St James’s but Ginger said it’d be locked now. We ended up in the doorway of a shop called Chinacraft on the Strand, huddled in our bags, waiting for the Vaudeville Theatre to close. ‘Over there,’ said Ginger through chattering teeth, ‘are some alcoves, right? Deep ones. Good kip, only you’ve got to be here early.’
He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag and passed it to me. I hesitated and he chuckled, exhaling smoke. ‘Go on – might as well. You’ll not see sixty anyway, dossing in doorways.’
I took a drag and started choking, and he laughed. ‘See what I mean?’ he said. ‘You’re halfway there already.’
If you think sleeping rough’s just a matter of finding a dry spot where the fuzz won’t move you on and getting your head down, you’re wrong. Not your fault of course – if you’ve never tried it you’ve no way of knowing what it’s like, so what I thought I’d do was sort of talk you through a typical night. That night in the Vaudeville alcove won’t do, because there were two of us and it’s worse if you’re by yourself.
So you pick your spot. Wherever it is (unless you’re in a squat or a derelict house or something) it’s going to have a floor of stone, tile, concrete or brick. In other words it’s going to be hard and cold. It might be a bit cramped too – shop doorways often are. And remember, if it’s winter you’re going to be half frozen before you even start. Anyway you’ve got your place, and if you’re lucky enough to have a sleeping bag you unroll it and get in.
Settled for the night? Well maybe, maybe not. Remember my first night? The Scouser? Course you do. He kicked me out of my bedroom and pinched my watch. Well, that sort of thing can happen any night, and there are worse things. You could be peed on by a drunk or a dog. Happens all the time – one man’s bedroom is another man’s lavatory. You might be spotted by a gang of lager louts on the lookout for someone to maim. That happens all the time too, and if they get carried away you can end up dead. There are the guys who like young boys, who think because you’re a dosser you’ll do anything for dosh, and there’s the psycho who’ll knife you for your pack.
So, you lie listening. You bet you do. Footsteps. Voices. Breathing, even. Doesn’t help you sleep.
Then there’s your bruises. What bruises? Try lying on a stone floor for half an hour. Just half an hour. You can choose any position you fancy, and you can change position as often as you like. You won’t find it comfy, I can tell you. You won’t sleep unless you’re dead drunk or zonked on downers. And if you are, and do, you’re going to wake up with bruises on hips, shoulders, elbows, ankles and knees – especially if you’re a bit thin from not eating properly. And if you do that six hours a night for six nights you’ll feel like you fell out of a train. Try sleeping on concrete then.
And don’t forget the cold. If you’ve ever tried dropping off to sleep with cold feet, even in bed, you’ll know it’s impossible. You’ve got to warm up those feet, or lie awake. And in January, in a doorway, in wet trainers, it can be quite a struggle. And if you manage it, chances are you’ll need to get up for a pee, and then it starts all over again.
And those are only some of the hassles. I haven’t mentioned stomach cramps from hunger, headaches from the flu, toothache, fleas and lice. I haven’t talked about homesickness, depression or despair. I haven’t gone into how it feels to want a girlfriend when your circumstances make it virtually impossible for you to get one – how it feels to know you’re a social outcast in fact, a non-person to whom every ordinary everyday activity is closed.
So. You lie on your bruises, listening. Trying to warm your feet. You curl up on your side and your hip hurts, so you stretch out on your back so your feet stay cold and the concrete hurts your heels. You force yourself to lie still for a bit, thinking that’ll help you drop off, but it doesn’t. Your pack feels like a rock under your head and your nose is cold. You wonder what time it is. Can you stop listening now, or could someone still come? Distant chimes. You strain your ears, counting. One o’clock? It can’t be only one o’clock, surely? I’ve been here hours. Did I miss a chime?
What’s that? Sounds like breathing. Heavy breathing, as in maniac. Lie still. Quiet. Maybe he won’t see you. Listen. Is he still there? Silence now. Creeping up, perhaps. No. Relax. Jeez, my feet are cold.
A thought out of nowhere – my old room at home. My little bed. What I wouldn’t give for – no, mustn’t. Mustn’t think about that. No sleep that way. Somebody could be asleep in that room right now. Warm and dry. Safe. Lucky sod.
Food. God, don’t start on about food! (Remember that time in Whitby – fish and chip caff? Long, sizzling haddock, heap of chips like a mountain. So many, you had to leave some.) Wish I had them now.
Mum. Wonder what Mum’s doing? Wonder if she wonders where I am? How would she feel if she knew? I miss you, Mum. Do you miss me? Does anybody?
Chimes again. Quarter past. Quarter past one? I don’t believe it.
DSS. Are they considering my claim? (Not now they’re not – they’re sleeping. Snug as a bug in a rug.) Do they know what it feels like, kipping in a doorway? No.
And so it goes on, hour after hour. Now and then you doze a bit, but only a bit. You’re so cold, so frightened and it hurts so much that you end up praying for morning even though you’re dog-tired – even though tomorrow is certain to be every bit as grim as yesterday.
And the worst part is knowing you haven’t deserved any of it.
I walked all the way back to the DSS next morning and Ginger was right. I was seen by this guy who told me they’d decided I’d made myself homeless so I wasn’t eligible for benefit. I hadn’t intended spilling my guts but I did then. I was dirty, cold and hungry and my feet were killing me. I was so tired I could hardly string a coherent sentence together. I’d had enough, so I told him everything – Vince and Mum, Vince and Carole, Vince and me. I thought he’d see – thought he’d understand why I could never go back into that situation, but I might as well have been talking to one of the stone lions in Trafalgar Square. He just sat there looking at me through his blue-tinted specs, and when I’d finished he repeated word for word and without facial expression what he’d said to me before.
I’d arranged to meet Ginger by Cleopatra’s Needle. The weather was vile and I hadn’t the heart for another long walk so I got the tube at Euston and rode down to the Embankment. I was early and he wasn’t there, so I spent a miserable couple of hours begging along the river, getting colder and wetter and nothing else. In the end I gave up and went and sat under a bridge in an icy draught. Ginger had given me two fags, so I cadged a light and smoked them both, lighting the second off the first. I was starving and the smoke made me nauseous, but it was comforting, too, in a way I couldn’t be bothered thinking about. When the fags were gone I counted my dosh and found I was down to four quid – four pounds sixteen pence if you want it exact. I was desperate for something to eat and also needed a lavatory, so I set off hoping to find a hot-dog stand or something. I found a public toilet easily enough and washing my hands and face made me feel a bit better, but I didn’t find any food.
I trailed back to the Needle and this time Ginger was there, sitting on his pack with a dustbin bag draped over his head and shoulders. ‘Like the new outfit,’ I said.
‘Fetching, isn’t it?’ He got up and gave me a twirl. ‘Burlington Arcade. Four hundred quid. How’d you get on?’
I told him and he shrugged. ‘That’s it, then. You’ll need to withdraw your offer on Buckingham Palace, go for something more compact, like a cardboard box.’
He was starving too, so we left the river and trogged north for pizza. It was dusk already. We ate in a doorway and he said, ‘How’d you like a proper kip tonight, Link old son – roof over your head, the works?’
I looked at him. ‘Sally Army or something?’
‘Naw!’ He shook his head. ‘Bad news, them places. Full of raving head-cases. Spent a night in one once – scared me to death. No – I was thinking of Captain Hook.’
‘Who?’
‘Captain Hook.’
I looked at him. ‘Go on then – I’ll fall for it. Who’s Captain Hook?’
He shook his head, grinning. ‘It’s not a put-on, mate. He’s a real guy. Get us a quick coffee and I’ll tell you all about him.’