"Spare some coppers, mate. For a cup of tea, please."
Peter Fletcher moved on quickly, trying not to catch the eye of the youth sitting on a box holding out a hand.
"C'mon mister, just twenty pence'll do."
Fletcher glanced at the youth, he made the mistake of looking him in the eye.
"C'mon mister. I know you don’t I?"
Fletcher hesitated; he ought to acknowledge the existence of the vagrant, but once that happened, he’d feel obliged to respond to his begging.
"I’ve seen you on telly 'aven’t I mister. You’re that councillor fella aren’t yeh. Always asking people to 'elp their neighbour."
Feeling trapped by the youth’s staring eyes, he could hardly walk on by, without some gesture of sympathy or a word of advice to him.
"Just twenty pence, for a cup of tea."
Fletcher walked slowly back. The biting wind made him shiver. Passers by were looking at him curiously. Recognition showing in their eyes. What was this important public figure doing engaging in conversation with that street beggar? He imagined them saying.
He confronted the youth, searching for some words that might encourage him to stop demeaning himself and break from an existence of begging. What’s the point? He thought. I’m not a social worker; I’m an elected public figure. I left school when I was fifteen and started working and I’ve worked ever since. I’m wasting my time talking to this deadbeat. He turned to walk away.
"C'mon mister. I’ve seen you on the telly."
He turned, "why don’t you get a job?"
"I’m goin' for an interview. Me mate's getting' me in Macdonald's servin' burgers an' tha'."
"How old are you?"
"Seventeen," the youth pulled the blanket tighter around his legs.
"Haven’t you ever worked?"
"Yeh, I was a street sweeper. I 'ated it. Then I worked on the docks for a bit. Temporary like, y'know from an agency. It wasn't bad, five quid an hour. I was makin' sixty quid for a twelve-hour day. Then the agency took their cut, then the Tax Man. The old fellers used to tell me about overtime rates. I never got that."
Fletcher looked around; he felt vulnerable, speaking to this vagrant on a busy street. He was getting late for an important meeting to appoint a new City of Culture director.
"C'mon, I know who you are now. Me owl fella used to vote for you. He was a shop steward on the docks till they finished him up. Bad 'ealth. He’s dead now."
Fletcher’s thoughts drifted away from the youth. What salary shall we pay the new director? I’m going no higher than £150,000 a year.
A stick poked him in the leg.
"Are y'listening mate? I only want a cup of tea."
Fletcher’s irritation with the situation grew.
"I had to work, now you bloody well go to work."
A young couple slowed down, the young lady gave fifty pence to the youth and she glared at Fletcher.
‘Fancy talking to the poor lad like that. And did you see who it was?’ She said to her partner.
Fletcher felt mortified. "All right, I’ll take you for a cup of tea, there’s a caf‚ just up the road, but then I’ve got to go."
"I can’t mate. Just give me the money. Me ma's coming for me in a bit. Till then I’m stuck here."
He threw back the blanket and revealed his legs cut off at the knees. "Lost 'em on the docks. They’re prosecuting the employers. But I haven’t ‘ad a carrot since."
Fletcher choked up and he handed the youth a ten-pound note.
"Sorry," he mumbled.
He glanced back once as he walked away.
© Tony Mulhearn, 2006 (all rights reserved)
