Know Your Place

PrologueThis was Eddie’s favourite place to sit and watch the world go by. Sometimes the wind howled, and the rain teemed down, and it was easy to imagine that misery must prevail; at other times, the sun trapped him in its glare; warmed his heart, but made him shield his eyes, so that all he saw were the shoes of passing strangers, a metre away and then gone in an instant. Every day though, the growling of traffic across London Bridge provided him with company throughout another empty day, and whatever nature threw at him, this place remained at the centre of Eddie’s universe; it was home. The River Thames at its grandest ebbed by below him, but against the disorder of footsteps and babbling voices, the car and bus engines revving and whining, and the occasional party boat motoring by beneath, it was impossible to listen to the hushed sounds of the river itself until the early hours, when the city slept. Eddie didn’t mind that. He was usually still here even then – halfway across London Bridge, huddled against the elements, clinging to the blanket that was his shelter, and enjoying the river’s whisper. He had no reason to be anywhere else in particular. As a boy growing up in the countryside in Northern Ireland, probably 50 years before, he had heard people talking about London, and he had listened with disbelieving ears, and imagined with wide eyes. Many people went to London; it was bigger even than Belfast, and its call was uniquely strong, its promise seductive. It was a well-worn path: off to London to seek your fortune. Eddie had followed that path himself years ago, and it had been good to him for a while; he had drawn energy and purpose from it. Not now though, and not for some time. These were hard times now, but he didn’t blame it on the city. Life did what it did to a man, and he accepted that phlegmatically. London was still where he wanted to be; and here, halfway across the bridge, thirty feet above the shimmering water, was where he calculated the heart of London to be. He had the river, he had the traffic, and he had the people, flowing according to their own tidal patterns, mostly from his left, the south bank, across to the City to his right every morning, and back again in the evening. He could watch the world go by, and on those days when he’d not managed to secure a source of alcohol he could think, and wait, and watch his small metal tin, long emptied of tobacco, gradually fill with coins from passers-by. Eddie had become an avid people watcher over the years, and he indulged in it whenever he could rouse himself from fitful sleep or blurry-eyed indolence for long enough to take in what was in front of him. And right now, as Eddie looked to his left, what was in front of him was a young man – probably about 30 years old, he reckoned; around 25 years younger than Eddie was. He stood on the bridge, not quite mid-river, looking out towards HMS Belfast, Tower Bridge and beyond, as the Thames curved away towards Docklands. Something about the man had caught Eddie’s attention as he had approached from the south side of the river and then stopped about five yards short of where Eddie, an easily ignored, shapeless figure hunched beneath a mucky blanket, was huddled. It was a dark October weekday evening, becoming chilly, and with a gentle drizzle that came and went. The evening was drawing on, although Eddie judged that it wasn’t yet closing time in the City pubs, since the flow of human traffic hadn’t developed into a boisterous, alcohol-fuelled surge yet. People often staggered past Eddie after a night of boozing, but this young man – tall and skinny with a mop of fairish hair – looked more like he could still do with a drink Eddie had thought, judging by the grim frown on his face as he had neared where Eddie sat. He had walked quite slowly, almost reverentially. His face had been pale, pre-occupied, but hard-set as if steeled by some kind of resolution to action. To Eddie’s surprise the young man had not continued walking across the bridge, but had stopped when nearly halfway across. He gave no obvious sign of being aware of the presence of the vagrant slumped nearby. Eddie watched with vague but growing interest, seeing the man cradle his head in his hands, looking in some distress. Nothing happened for a minute, save for a car or two flashing past. Then Eddie saw a sudden flurry of movement, the man’s arms searching their own body, and finding something; an arm pulled back and flung forward, hastily, like a nervy army recruit tossing a hand grenade for the first time; a small, shiny object flew out into the night, towards the black river. Eddie even heard a small ‘plop’ as it hit the surface seconds later. By now, his interest piqued, Eddie was getting to his feet and edging towards the young man, leaving his blanket behind but bringing his collecting tin with him. The man continued to stare out at the river, and Eddie was close enough now to pick out more detail in his face. As Eddie crept nearer a tear rolled down the man’s cheek and disappeared inside his coat collar. His lips were moving slowly, soundlessly. “D’ya think that was a good idea then, sonny?” Eddie croaked, the broad Ulster accent immediately betraying his origins. The man turned quickly towards him – more quickly than Eddie had expected. He looked defiant, but his eyes shone with moisture that Eddie knew didn’t just come from the steady, thin rain. His reply was defiant too: “I don’t care. It’s done. That shitty phone has done too much damage already. I’m better off without it.” A pause, then: “What’s it to you anyway?” Eddie smiled benignly; neither the question nor its tone caused him concern. “What’s it to me? It’s nothing to me, sonny. But this is my bridge, and you’re causing a scene, so you are.” They watched each other in silence. Searching the young guy’s face, Eddie reckoned he was reaching for indignation, for the excuse or maybe the will to be confrontational. Eddie sensed that instead confusion and frustration were all he could grasp right now. “I suppose it’s all to do with some lass... ” The young man answered, protested, too quickly, too loudly, summoning that indignation now. “No!” “No?” “Nosy fucker.” “Oh, right you are then. There’s no need for all that language now is there. I see you coming along, getting all flustered, and I thought to myself, now there’s a lad who would appreciate a few hard-earned tips from the life of old Eddie Finn.” The younger man scoffed a doubtful, humourless “yeah, whatever”. “Listen, I had a woman once, you know,” Eddie persisted. “Beautiful she was – as perfect as a peach. I wasn’t in these rags then. But like a bloody fool I didn’t realise what I had until it was too late, and I lost her. So don’t be like me sonny. Do the right thing now. That’s all I wanted to say. It’s up to you.” The young man listened to all this in silence, then sighed and shook his head. “Jesus, are you for real? A bloody tramp turned Agony Uncle?” The man shook his head slowly again, this time with a rueful smile. “Look…I’m sorry I swore, okay. I’ve just had a complete nightmare tonight and nothing you say is going to make it better.” “I got a smile from you though sonny, eh? I tell you, from under that blanket there I see young guys like you bawling over their ladies every day of the week. It’s the story that never ends.” They looked at each other again in silence. Then the man murmured so quietly it was as if the words were intended just for him. Eddie could only barely hear, but he saw that the man spoke through gritted teeth: “Well, you haven’t heard this story before, I promise you. This one is a proper original.” “I’ve got plenty of time on my hands sonny, so please – do tell. It’s not fair to keep a good story like that to yourself.” The man greeted the comment with a weary laugh: “No, no. If I did that you’d have to go in the river too, and that’s the God’s honest truth.” “She could be trying to ring you right now,” Eddie continued, gesturing toward the Thames and by implication the discarded phone in its watery grave. “How will you make it right if you can’t talk to her? You’d better get round there.” The man sighed, and looked out at the river again. “After the night I’ve had pal…” he started, but then paused before turning back to Eddie and speaking again in a voice full of tiredness, frustration and now a flash of anger. “It’s over, it’s done. Now, if it’s all the same with you, I’m going home.” The younger man turned away from Eddie, and started off back towards the south end of the bridge. It seemed that the conversation was over, but Eddie persisted, enjoying the moment, raising his voice slightly even though the man was still just a couple of yards away from him. “Hey, don’t forget what I said now. Get yourself round there; take her some flowers. Be a man.” The young man stopped in his tracks and turned to face Eddie again. Eddie wondered if he’d over-stepped the mark. The younger man seemed to study him closely for a few seconds, before turning again towards the river. Eventually he nodded, and with a quiet comment of “maybe you’re right” he turned on his heel once more and walked on. Eddie watched him stride away, feeling relieved, happier even. Suddenly the man stopped again, dug something out of his coat pocket, and faced Eddie again. “Here, take this. Thanks for the advice,” the man called, and tossed something underarm towards the old tramp. Eddie caught it smartly in his open tin, recognising it in mid-air as a gleaming pound coin. He didn’t drop those kinds of things. “Cheers! I hope you work it out!” he called to the man’s rapidly retreating back. There was no sign of acknowledgement. In a matter of seconds, just as he had arrived, the man was gone for ever from Eddie’s life.