Along the river embankment leading to the Arches they lay. There was a strict pecking order amongst the transients and regulars .. there was an even more stringent one between the regulars.  No deference was made to women , they had to take their chances just the same as men. Senior regulars slept beneath the arches of the bridges, protected from rain or snow and the worst of the frost. I warrant that King Kellogg never envisioned his cardboard packing cases being put to this use.

The embankment curved back to another faint bridge .. clammy bone penetrating cold �a rising slowly gyrating mist .. through which shone the embankment lights.  And like a row of cardboard coffins .. curving to the distance .. one on every other bench. Wretched humanity lay at rest .. snores .. swallowing .. passing wind .. the odd distant cry of terror or anguish. I later learnt .. that to augment the cardboard blankets they would wrap rolls of discarded news papers around their limbs and torso. Thus they escaped the deathly embrace of Dr Hypothermia. Apparently it was the feet and hands that were the problem. Many were lost to Surgeon Gangrene and during those Autumn and Winter months, Dr Pneumonia also made his stealthy rounds and became a regular visitor.

The Traveler was politely accosted by Simon .. In the course of the ensuing transaction, it turned out that they had served in the same Regiment albeit at very different times and in very different roles. The feel of the 10 shilling note in his hand seemed to have lubricated Simons generosity, because just before he moved on .. he pressed upon the traveler, a neatly trimmed oblong card cut from a glossy white shoe box, and on it written in block letters and with sharp black pencil, were the words;

On stepping from the railway station into the busy street the Traveler located the news seller not 20 yards away. Pulling out Simons card he re-read it. His nose located a smell of freshly frying fish and chips, whilst his eye caught a wine lodge. Crossing to the lodge and entering .. He asked .. what sort of Port have you got?, nothing too fancy .. I don�t think my friend cares a hoot about such niceties as vintage or bouquet. Ah the barman said .. �you mean the cheapest� .. if you say so said the traveler.

Armed with two packets of hot fish and chips, and a bottle of port, he made his way to the news stand. The carrier pigeon turned out to be the news stand owners 9 year old son who was learning the trade from his Mum.  The armed escort was another 9 year old boy with a catapult hung around his neck.  

Simons abode was located under an arch where the railway passed overhead. He had sealed the entrance to the arch with discarded planks and roofing iron and it was graced with a door and two small windows. Inside it had a bunk, a chair, and a small table, portable oil stove and an enormous enamel washbowl .. his lighting arrangements revolved around an oil lamp or candles. At shoulder height, at the foot end of his bunk was a small single bookshelf, which held Horse Racing Almanacs and a dictionary. Whilst under the bunk was parked a locked wooden trunk.

Well? � Simon demanded, when we had finished off our meal .. what do you think? .. squatters rights, he proudly said .. and no encumbrances.. I did not know what to say .. and in a lame sort of manner I said .. �what an interesting range of books you have�. And pulled out the Port to cover my confusion. Ah the Gee Gee�s! .. he said, and smiled, then reached for two scarred plastic cups. Never gamble on Horses he said .. but would be drawn no more at that point. His meager First World War Pension could not feed a cat. On reflection I thought .. he had not done too badly at the bottom of the heap .. for it was streets ahead of the worst conditions that he had seen.

The Gee Gee�s and the race track fillies soon ate up the family inheritance, and the Military Cross carries very little coin of the Realm .. Simon said.  But the worst of the two vices is the fillies .. they play with your heart, lie and deceive you .. before taking your money and trampling on your heart .. this as he brushed away a drunken tear. But that is past now, he said. Then flinging out his arms, he mockingly proclaimed .. � Now! .. is always the seed of the future so ensure it falls on good ground� ..  but I never thought it would come to this, he said in a confidential tone. I filled  the blue plastic cup that he proffered in anticipation of a refill.

The family estate .. several of the lesser works of Turner, Persian carpets, the fine oak furniture, family silver and a good stable of bloodstock soon went under the hammer .. and such was left, dribbled away to nothing in a few short years .. Did this not disturb him? I asked. I get the occasional twinges he said, but nothing like it used to be. Let me say that I am contented with my lot, and that my life is simplified by the circumstances. Authority in the form of taxes and levies make no demand upon me, and I am not short of meat and drink .. visitors bring that every day. That port has a nice nutty flavour he said, holding out his cup.

As an ex Officer of the King .. does it not disturb you?,  I asked puzzled. He gave one of those sniggering laughs .. I soon found out who my friends were .. I had none .. they all passed me by with eyes averted .. on the opposite side of the road. I was blackballed at the Regimental Club. Then he proudly said .. I always paid my dues and I want no more of that .. I don�t owe them anything. Then he stood to attention and said � I fought for my King and Country .. and not for them. I still have some honour. Then sitting said .. another wee drop of the Port would not come amiss .. it�s the pain you see .. and the alcohol is an anesthetic.

Some few years later whilst having some time to spare in the City, the traveler made his way to the news stand .. to find that the young boy he once knew had become a young man, and now ran the news stand for his mother. It was from him that came the closing page of Simons life.

Simon was making his weekly visit to the Tate and also carried some split red lentils for the pigeons in Trafalgar Square .. He collapsed and died of a heart attack on Waterloo Bridge .. Red Lentils spilling from his raincoat pocket and his body surrounded by thosusands of pigeons. Having no living relatives he was cremated by the Local Authorities. The whereabouts of his ashes are unknown. It is rumoured that at the time of his death .. the sky over Trafalgar Square became black with ascending pigeons as they deserted the Square to gather on Waterloo Bridge.

It is a common belief in the East that one goes to a place commensurate with ones last thoughts at the cutting of the silver cord. .The Traveler felt sure that Simon would have had pleasurable thoughts as he walked along Waterloo Bridge. Simon had told him .. that he could go and view his Turner paintings when ever he wanted .. and that he had the double satisfaction of knowing that they had been bequeathed to the Nation when they left his hands. So I lost nothing he said. but I gather a lot of joy from seeing the pleasure on a viewers face.

Each week he would buy a pound of split red lentils for the Trafalgar Pigeons. Simon considered that those pigeons should have the same official status as the Ravens in the Tower of London .. after all he said .. dire things are predicted if the Ravens leave the Tower .. what would happen if the Pigeons leave Trafalgar Square?

Simon had also told me that of out of an estimated 3 thousand people and thousands of pigeons more .. that as he crosses the road to the edge of the square that his personal wing of pigeons take flight .. and land around him waiting to be fed .. always the same wing said Simon .. the old fall away and are replaced by the young squabs .. But I know them all, and they are very intelligent he said .. and they display all human traits and not just the bad ones .. they are doting parents .. so the Traveler knew those pigeons gave Simon pleasure ..  family of a sort .. and in his memory .. he heard Simon laugh. Such simple things mused the Traveler yet the Tate and the Pigeons were his sure retreat into a world of no pain.

Auckland New Zealand
April 29^th 2006.

Back to the story index: