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| Pic: Patricia Varela/Flickr |
The door squeaked behind him, as it did every evening when the old man walked in. He turned and smiled at Mr Dutt, who was teaching his granddaughter how to add using two ivory dice.
The
little girl was counting each dot and Mr Dutt was trying to get her to remember
that two and six are always eight, and five and four are nine - whichever way
round they are. She preferred her way. It was more fun counting each dot, and
she could spend more time with her grandfather.
The
old man shuffled down the aisle, between the tins and racks of dusty birthday cards
to the fridge at the back of the shop. He stopped for a moment at the cat food.
Jessie still had half a tin. It was enough for tonight.
He
opened the fridge door, pulling harder than he needed to, and felt the
temperature of the cider tins. Mr Dutt was still doing five for four. Nine
percent. Almost as strong as wine, but without the flavour. Just the distant
notes of sour apples and cheap alcohol. It was enough for tonight.
He
pulled ten cans from the back of the fridge and balanced them under his left
arm in the crevices of his raincoat. It had been worn once by a country gent
and spent its first year folded in the boot of his vintage car, before
eventually finding its way to a charity shop where the old man had bought it
three years ago, when his luck had changed.
The
smell of five-star petrol had long been replaced with cider fumes and ripe
cheese. The old man adjusted the cans and then stopped at the milk section as
he did every night. He coughed frantically, hacking away at his lungs, and then
stumbled towards the milk, and with his free hand grabbed a block of cheese and
put it in his pocket. It had the curved shape of Edam.
He
turned again unsteadily, regaining his balance, and shuffled towards the
counter. Mr Dutt rolled his eyes and then the dice again. One and one. The
little girl put a finger on each dot.
“One.
Two!” she said.
“Snake
eyes,” said the old man.
The
little girl looked up at him and then giggled.
“Snake
eye,” she said.
The
old man pulled a handful of coins from his pocket, and waited for any change. The
girl picked up the cans with both hands and slid them into a plastic bag.
“Put
another one or the bag will split,” Mr Dutt said gently.
The
old man opened the garage door and Jesse ran to greet him, rubbing her tail
against his leg and mewing for her tin. He spooned out the pink sludge and
collapsed on a grimy mattress on the concrete floor. It was the only thing he
had left from the fire.
He
pulled the cheese from his pocket, broke the wrapper with his two good teeth
and then bit off a chunk, dissolving the cloying fat with a mouthful of cider.
Then he bit off more, turning his mouth slowly, and grimacing at the pain in
his back.
The
old man woke with a half-empty can in his hand. The rest were crushed next to
his mattress. Jesse was purring next to him. Winter was setting in. The embers
from the tin can he warmed his hands on were long cold.
He
gathered his coat around him and shut his eyes, hoping to sleep through the
hangover. Not that he really had hangovers any more. He slept because it meant
less time worrying about food and drink. I’d sleep all the time if I could, he
thought. But who would look after Jesse? Besides, he didn’t have the strength.
The
old man was praying in the railway arch, with a cardboard sign at his feet, as
he did most days. The rain was pelting hard. The shoppers had their heads down.
It was a bad day for begging. It had been a bad week for begging.
He
was bent forward on his knees, his hands clasped in prayer as he’d seen the
beggars do near Charles Bridge when he had money. Some of them could keep it up
for hours. Cardboard the only cushioning for gravel-dented knees.
Some
sat inside the cathedral and held their hands over candles. That’s too hard, he
thought, even in this cold. It’s not the pain, it’s the blisters. Too long and
they come out like yellow gobstoppers.
A
woman looked down at him, and then looked away quickly. He could feel her pace
quicken. An hour or so later, perhaps two, there was another drop. It sounded
heavy - perhaps a nugget. Too light for a two-pound coin, and not a 50p - they
give a different tinkle; something to do with the edges.
If
he was right, and it was a pound, he had enough for four ciders and two tins of
pink sludge. Or three cans and one decent tin of cat food with delicious jelly
and juicy bits and gravy like the advert said.
Jesse
was going off the pink sludge. She’d seen the advert as well. She stared at the
telly and drooled. The woman snipped the pouch and had a whiff of the lamb
casserole and poured it into a bowl, the jelly glistening away, and none of it
had been lost on Jesse.
She’d
seen that cat tucking in with its fat little cheeks and Equity card. There was
more to the world than pink sludge. Her eyes had been opened. The Bishop was
right. There was too much pester power in the world, and it wasn’t just what
kids wanted for Christmas. Cats were in on it too.
Two cans of the strong stuff and a pouch of coq au vin with baby shallots, he thought. Then there was a double drop. A pair of 20s probably. They had the tinkle of 50s, but not the thump.
Two cans of the strong stuff and a pouch of coq au vin with baby shallots, he thought. Then there was a double drop. A pair of 20s probably. They had the tinkle of 50s, but not the thump.
Then
another drop. A heavier clatter this time. You often found that with begging, the
old man thought. When you get a good drop another one follows. Someone sees
someone give and it catches on. People are like sheep, he thought, especially
in London.
No
room to move, just follow the ones ahead. Works the other way too, mind. If people
are in the mood for walking, looking you hard in the eye and shaking their
heads, it catches on too. The herd has decided - it’s not a day for milking.
That’s
why he liked to beg with his face to the floor. He didn’t get the hard looks,
or the pity either. But there were always more hard looks than pity.
His
stomach was rumbling. I bet Jesse’s is as well, he thought. Bad day for begging.
People give more when it’s sunny. Hasn’t stopped raining for weeks. That’s what
happens when the world gets warmer. The ache in his back was getting worse. He
didn’t dare look in the bowl. Not yet.
Perhaps
it was more than he thought. He remembered the time he’d spent an afternoon
with his face to the floor without a single drop, and then got up to find a crisp
£20 note in the bowl.
There
wasn’t one this time, but there were a couple of nuggets. He counted the coins as
best he could - £5.47. Not the worst day he’d had. But there were far better
ways to make a living.
Two
cans and a pouch of braised monkfish in gravy stock, or perhaps chicken in
cheese with chives. His stomach gurgled again at the thought of the cat food.
The only thing he’d eaten all day was half a sandwich he’d found in a bin and a
few scraps from a box of fried chicken. Amazing how many people leave the skin.
He
put the coins in his raincoat and held on to the wall as he clambered to his
feet. His legs were numb, he couldn’t feel his boots. He held on to the wall
until his head stopped spinning. The sickness was coming back, but he’d have to
eat something first.
He
hobbled down the street, his neck hunched against the rain, and his collar
pulled tight. He heard the cheery jingle in his pocket.
The
old man pulled open the door harder than he needed to. Mr Dutt was teaching his
granddaughter to read. She looked up from her book and smiled.
“Snake
eye,” she said.
The
old man grinned and wandered off to the fridge. He picked out four cans of
cider and then looked at the gourmet pouches. They were more than he thought. More
than the advert said. He put back two cans. Ocean delicacies with whole shrimp,
or duck and turkey?
He
walked towards the counter, and staggered slightly at the milk section. But
this time he couldn’t do it, however much he coughed. It wasn’t the new cameras.
He’d stolen cheese a dozen times since then. It was something else.
He
stood there staring at the milk. He couldn’t look at the cheeses. But he knew
they were there. Wedges of Edam and amber blocks of Red Leicester, glistening
under the lights, clammy moisture beneath.
He
staggered again and did his trick, but his hand was still empty. The little
girl walked past him, book in hand, and disappeared through the beaded curtain
where her mother was cooking.
The
old man put the cans and gourmet pouch on the counter. He reached into his
pocket and began counting out the coins, staring at the green display. He
hobbled to the door, his stomach gurning at the smells from the kitchen. The
sickness was setting in. He looked at the rain thundering on the pavement.
He
pulled his collar tight, and felt a tug on his trouser leg. He looked round.
The little girl was looking up at him.
“You’ve
forgotten something,” she said and handed him a block of cheese.
