Mrssalter1
02-20-2013, 05:53 PM
A Sign of the Times - Under the Waterloo Clock
My face may now be a mess of lines and cracks, more than I ever had in the early years, but I am still told that I am beautiful. My hands ache in the bitter chill of winter, but I find that if I keep them flexed and moving, slowly but surely, then they carry on doing their job well enough. I have never been a great mover and shaker in the world, but from my vantage point, I am able to see secret things that are hidden from others’ view and hear snippets of stolen conversations: protestations of love, hisses in anger and whispers of jealousy and hatred. I have no companion, but I have lived a useful life, helping those who need me and guiding the lost. I hope I have done my job well.
I see every morning dawn, beautiful and bright, throwing splinters of sunlight through glass. The silence resonates as the introduction of the pattering of pigeon’s feet just goes to show how empty this place is of human life in the early hours. The silence echoes through rafters and the occasional bird squawks at an unknown foe and heaves itself up and away from its grubby resting place, leaving a ruffled feather floating to the ground.
At first it is just light footsteps, but as the crucial time of the morning approaches, it begins like a slow crescendo. The doors swing back and life bubbles forth through their opening: scraping heels, wheeled suitcases making harsh rattlings over the stone floor, mobile phones buzzing and everyone’s affairs made public as they shout into the receiver. A man in black hurries past – pointy, shiny shoes glistening, carrying a briefcase that surely contains plans for making a million pounds on the stock market. An early morning buggy appears, accompanied by the usual screams and placating murmurs. People queue for coffee, slurp coffee, spill coffee and rush through a hurriedly bought croissant for breakfast, wrapped up in a skimpy napkin that gets hastily thrown to the floor. Women in suits stare ahead, never meeting the eyes of their co-walkers, arms swinging, thoughts in the office, all neat coats and tightly held handbags. Clip clip, beep goes the barrier and through they go into the rest of their day. But not me. I will be here to see their less hurried, more wearied, languorous return through those same gates later on, when it is dusk.
The noise eventually recedes and the footsteps ease and the rhythm of the middle of the day begins.
It was a Tuesday when he came, shuffling through the carved iron doors. His face was bearded through lack of care rather than design and his blue eyes were fuelled with exhaustion and the need to rest and breathe easy. I thank God that he found me because on closer inspection, his forehead and hairline were crusted with old blood and he was smeared with days’ old dust and grime. He was hurt. His arm hung loosely and his right shoulder sloped dangerously low. He had strips of brown cloth wrapped around his feet, shoved into ill-fitting shoes, as if some previous injury was being treated in the only way he knew how. My heart flew out to him as he lay near me and sighed like a dying man. He had no money for food so he sat up and breathed in the fumes of other people’s hot food, because that is free, after all. He often looked at me, as the day limped on, and I think he knew that I was aware of his desperation. I called him Michael.
At noon he slept, a bundle of dark clothing, taking the lull in the footfall around him as the peace and quiet he so needed. He was woken an hour later by a voice, a loud voice demanding of those passers-by who weren’t plugged into their music systems, that the end of the world was nigh and that Jesus was the only way to salvation. “Don’t burn” he shouted, “Embrace the love of Jesus and be saved” he exclaimed. I was elated by this man. Surely he would save this poor Michael, whose pain I could feel like a stab through my being. Surely his evangelism extended to the shabby creature curled up only metres from his feet? Michael stretched painfully and saw the man in front of him. As the Christian man realised that the distasteful smell that had slowly crept up on him, actually came from the man on the floor, he picked up his megaphone, shuffled his bright green pamphlets and walked away, crossing to the other side of the station and beginning again to a new audience.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen into the middle of the afternoon when I first saw the small, brown haired woman, dressed in a red tabard, headed straight for me. She was wearing a red plastic badge and held a white collecting bucket that jangled with people’s loose change – well, the few coins people spared – enough for their guilt to be appeased and for them to be seen to be ‘giving.’ Michael was no longer asleep, just sitting, slumped, with head down and shoulders low. He didn’t speak, just sat, lost in his own strangled thoughts of hope and despair. She came forward slowly, looking straight at me. She didn’t speak to me but shook her bucket at the row of sitters that occupied the plastic seats outside the newsagents next door. ‘Any spare change for disabled children?’ she cried to them, shaking, shaking, shaking and smiling her ‘good person’ smile. She would have been a fool not to notice the man sat near her feet, but she seemed at once to see him and not see him, as she stepped over his outstretched legs to reach the prosperous looking gentleman who had begun to open his wallet over at the other side of the seating area. As she crossed over, she sneered and wrinkled her nose, passing by without another sound.
The early evening’s commotion came and went as it did every day and the same faces worried their way through the barriers, through the gates and on into the dark evening’s cold. Michael wrapped himself more tightly in his threadbare coat and looked more longingly at the hot drinks and food of the bystanders, those waiting for trains, waiting for loved ones, waiting for time to pass. As the night time freeze sank into his bones, Michael passed into a state of numbness and closed his eyes against the biting draft.
The only person that could be seen, shivering in her light blue tunic dress, was a young nurse, in her mid twenties, hair tied in an orderly bun and shoes worn with sensible laces. She was waiting for her husband and young son to arrive from a trip to see his grandmother near the sea. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked from a barrier in the distance, to me, then back to the barrier and back towards me. She bounced slowly up and down on the balls of her feet to keep the blood moving in her veins. I think it took her a full five minutes before she realised that Michael sat as quiet as a whisper only a few steps away. She was wrapped in her thoughts of home and the feeling of small hands holding tightly to hers. It was when she glimpsed the first sight of her beloved ones that she saw Michael. His blue eyes stared straight into hers and she looked, nodded and mumbled ‘sorry’ into her chest as she lightly ran over to the other side of the station floor, to be greeted with loving shouts, big dark eyes and warm embraces.
The tiny boy with the big, dark eyes walked across the echoing floor and with one outstretched hand, gave Michael his lifeline. A single, prized coin, a gift from a child, a chance for a new start. One phone call to a brother who may still care was all he needed. A new day would begin in a few hours and it would all begin again. But I will never forget the voice I heard, rasping into that phone booth receiver. ‘Hello. It’s Michael. I’m at Waterloo. Under the Clock.’
My face may be worn and my hands may be old but my heart breaks just the same as yours.
My face may now be a mess of lines and cracks, more than I ever had in the early years, but I am still told that I am beautiful. My hands ache in the bitter chill of winter, but I find that if I keep them flexed and moving, slowly but surely, then they carry on doing their job well enough. I have never been a great mover and shaker in the world, but from my vantage point, I am able to see secret things that are hidden from others’ view and hear snippets of stolen conversations: protestations of love, hisses in anger and whispers of jealousy and hatred. I have no companion, but I have lived a useful life, helping those who need me and guiding the lost. I hope I have done my job well.
I see every morning dawn, beautiful and bright, throwing splinters of sunlight through glass. The silence resonates as the introduction of the pattering of pigeon’s feet just goes to show how empty this place is of human life in the early hours. The silence echoes through rafters and the occasional bird squawks at an unknown foe and heaves itself up and away from its grubby resting place, leaving a ruffled feather floating to the ground.
At first it is just light footsteps, but as the crucial time of the morning approaches, it begins like a slow crescendo. The doors swing back and life bubbles forth through their opening: scraping heels, wheeled suitcases making harsh rattlings over the stone floor, mobile phones buzzing and everyone’s affairs made public as they shout into the receiver. A man in black hurries past – pointy, shiny shoes glistening, carrying a briefcase that surely contains plans for making a million pounds on the stock market. An early morning buggy appears, accompanied by the usual screams and placating murmurs. People queue for coffee, slurp coffee, spill coffee and rush through a hurriedly bought croissant for breakfast, wrapped up in a skimpy napkin that gets hastily thrown to the floor. Women in suits stare ahead, never meeting the eyes of their co-walkers, arms swinging, thoughts in the office, all neat coats and tightly held handbags. Clip clip, beep goes the barrier and through they go into the rest of their day. But not me. I will be here to see their less hurried, more wearied, languorous return through those same gates later on, when it is dusk.
The noise eventually recedes and the footsteps ease and the rhythm of the middle of the day begins.
It was a Tuesday when he came, shuffling through the carved iron doors. His face was bearded through lack of care rather than design and his blue eyes were fuelled with exhaustion and the need to rest and breathe easy. I thank God that he found me because on closer inspection, his forehead and hairline were crusted with old blood and he was smeared with days’ old dust and grime. He was hurt. His arm hung loosely and his right shoulder sloped dangerously low. He had strips of brown cloth wrapped around his feet, shoved into ill-fitting shoes, as if some previous injury was being treated in the only way he knew how. My heart flew out to him as he lay near me and sighed like a dying man. He had no money for food so he sat up and breathed in the fumes of other people’s hot food, because that is free, after all. He often looked at me, as the day limped on, and I think he knew that I was aware of his desperation. I called him Michael.
At noon he slept, a bundle of dark clothing, taking the lull in the footfall around him as the peace and quiet he so needed. He was woken an hour later by a voice, a loud voice demanding of those passers-by who weren’t plugged into their music systems, that the end of the world was nigh and that Jesus was the only way to salvation. “Don’t burn” he shouted, “Embrace the love of Jesus and be saved” he exclaimed. I was elated by this man. Surely he would save this poor Michael, whose pain I could feel like a stab through my being. Surely his evangelism extended to the shabby creature curled up only metres from his feet? Michael stretched painfully and saw the man in front of him. As the Christian man realised that the distasteful smell that had slowly crept up on him, actually came from the man on the floor, he picked up his megaphone, shuffled his bright green pamphlets and walked away, crossing to the other side of the station and beginning again to a new audience.
The shadows were beginning to lengthen into the middle of the afternoon when I first saw the small, brown haired woman, dressed in a red tabard, headed straight for me. She was wearing a red plastic badge and held a white collecting bucket that jangled with people’s loose change – well, the few coins people spared – enough for their guilt to be appeased and for them to be seen to be ‘giving.’ Michael was no longer asleep, just sitting, slumped, with head down and shoulders low. He didn’t speak, just sat, lost in his own strangled thoughts of hope and despair. She came forward slowly, looking straight at me. She didn’t speak to me but shook her bucket at the row of sitters that occupied the plastic seats outside the newsagents next door. ‘Any spare change for disabled children?’ she cried to them, shaking, shaking, shaking and smiling her ‘good person’ smile. She would have been a fool not to notice the man sat near her feet, but she seemed at once to see him and not see him, as she stepped over his outstretched legs to reach the prosperous looking gentleman who had begun to open his wallet over at the other side of the seating area. As she crossed over, she sneered and wrinkled her nose, passing by without another sound.
The early evening’s commotion came and went as it did every day and the same faces worried their way through the barriers, through the gates and on into the dark evening’s cold. Michael wrapped himself more tightly in his threadbare coat and looked more longingly at the hot drinks and food of the bystanders, those waiting for trains, waiting for loved ones, waiting for time to pass. As the night time freeze sank into his bones, Michael passed into a state of numbness and closed his eyes against the biting draft.
The only person that could be seen, shivering in her light blue tunic dress, was a young nurse, in her mid twenties, hair tied in an orderly bun and shoes worn with sensible laces. She was waiting for her husband and young son to arrive from a trip to see his grandmother near the sea. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked from a barrier in the distance, to me, then back to the barrier and back towards me. She bounced slowly up and down on the balls of her feet to keep the blood moving in her veins. I think it took her a full five minutes before she realised that Michael sat as quiet as a whisper only a few steps away. She was wrapped in her thoughts of home and the feeling of small hands holding tightly to hers. It was when she glimpsed the first sight of her beloved ones that she saw Michael. His blue eyes stared straight into hers and she looked, nodded and mumbled ‘sorry’ into her chest as she lightly ran over to the other side of the station floor, to be greeted with loving shouts, big dark eyes and warm embraces.
The tiny boy with the big, dark eyes walked across the echoing floor and with one outstretched hand, gave Michael his lifeline. A single, prized coin, a gift from a child, a chance for a new start. One phone call to a brother who may still care was all he needed. A new day would begin in a few hours and it would all begin again. But I will never forget the voice I heard, rasping into that phone booth receiver. ‘Hello. It’s Michael. I’m at Waterloo. Under the Clock.’
My face may be worn and my hands may be old but my heart breaks just the same as yours.