Thursday, 14th May 2007
A magnificent night out with Best Friend. We found the most off-hand, self-satisfied French bar staff in London, and then went for a superb meal in Smithfields Market. The time flew by. I just wish I still saw her every day.
I got the Tube home, but found that I had to walk a mile or so from Hammersmith to the house. No hardship, as it was a nice night and the walk was probably not a bad way to get the Champagne to stop swilling around my body.
I was just passing Latymer, when I noticed a woman, her head resting on her drawn-up knees, crying and sitting on the floor. She had no shoes on.
I was reluctant to go up to her: part of me fearing that she was part of an elaborate mugging scam, part of me convinced that she would be violent – but I couldn’t leave her there.
“Are you alright?’
She looked up. She was no more than 17 and couldn’t stop crying, but she spoke nevertheless.
“I…I…I don’t want to ruin your evening….I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
I stood back from her, but tried to keep my tone light. If she had been frightened – or worse – I didn’t want to be invasive.
“No, I am. Really. I’m sorry.”
“Well, look. Don’t be sorry. Where do you live? Do you have somewhere to go?”
“Yes. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry.”
Her voice was cut glass – and I suddenly realised what was going to happen to her. She was going to stay where she was, and not accept any help out of the defining British emotion: embarrassment. Now, Hammersmith is hardly The Projects, but it was nearly 1am, and at that time of day the people who are about are not always the best. Certainly not for a young girl, who isn’t compos mentis and not feeling strong.
“Can I put you in a cab? Have you got somewhere to stay? Do you know where you live?”
“Yes. I’m not drunk. Oh! It was all going so well, and then it all went so badly. I was at this flat and then I left and I left my shoes there and now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I’ll be fine.”
“Look. I don’t think you are fine. Please. I’ve got a daughter myself. I wouldn’t want her sitting here at one in the morning, crying, with no shoes.”
These were like magic words. She raised up her arms to me and I stepped closer. Suddenly, I saw Daughter, three years old and raising her arms up to me to be lifted up for a hug. I literally saw that: she had done it to me before I left for work that morning. I took her outstretched hands and helped her stand up.
“May I put you in a Taxi? I’d be much, much happier if you’d let me.”
She nodded.
As we waited for a taxi, she was shy, but happy: I don’t believe anything physically wrong had happened to her. She was a transformed person: grateful, embarrassed, focused on getting home.
A taxi drew up, she gave him an address that was no more than a ten minute walk (for those of us who were shod…). I gave her some money and the car pulled away. She turned around in the seat and waved at me as she drove away – just as Best Friend had an hour ago.
As I walked home, I thought: “It was those words: “I’ve got a daughter myself”.” when everything changed.
Just as to me they crystallised (apart from common humanity and Christianity) the reasons that I had stopped. More importantly, I think that those same words made her think of the people who would be worried about her if she didn’t go somewhere safe. They made her a daughter, with parents whom she knew would be worried about her, sitting there, with no shoes in the middle of the night – not a young girl who felt alone.
I don’t write this to suggest that I acted in a particularly insightful way. I think the thing that got both of us acting was the same set of words, which reminded us both that we weren’t alone, we were lucky enough to be loved by others. And we owed THEM (my daughter; her parents) a duty.
Wife told Greengrocer what had happened.
“Fucking Hell. Does he do that walk home from work every night? I’ll take my shoes off and burst into tears for a score!”
