“I live in a house in Scotland, UK. The bedrooms at the side of the house look out over the Cellardyke Harbour with the front entrance and windows directly onto the road facing the Haven Restaurant. I stood at the kitchen window looking out; what houses I could see were brightly lit, families together - husbands, sons, home from the sea. It was in the days between Christmas, that time of goodwill to all men and the New Year, a time when we usually pledge our good intentions of change. The streets were bare, not a soul to be seen. Then, in the lee of the wall by the Haven Restaurant, a figure moved, slowly, and with care, as though to deny he was there, standing cold and hungry at this time of festivity and cheer. It was the wanderer, an old tramp, The Man o The Road, with no abode. No home. There he stood! Long straggling hair and beard so grey. Trousers ripped, patched any old way. I knocked on my kitchen window, startled; he stared, as though scared, ready to take flight. He was caught in the warm glow cast by the fluorescent light as it cut through the darkness of the night. Will you have a cup of tea? My hand making the universal action of putting a cup to my lips. He nodded and tentatively smiled, blinking like a startled owl as the door opened, then he shuffled up the flight of stairs. He halted at the door of the flat as if uncertain how far the welcome extended - I gestured with my arm in the direction of the kitchen, standing back as he passed, and, as the acrid-sour smell of the man struck my nostrils. In the kitchen his keen glance had taken in that there was a coffee- percolator on the worktop. A hand quickly shot out of the ragged-coat sleeve, a grimy finger pointing to indicate - not tea -but coffee was his brew, cup after cup, strong and black. Potatoes in their jackets (quickly cooked in the microwave oven), one, two, three and four. Sandwiches of lamb, sardines from the can. And cans that disappeared into his long pockets together with a small tin-opener - he had smiled when that was offered. What a hunger he had! Not just for food of the edible kind, but crumbs of communication he gladly sought, taking his fill. He smiled again muttering words hardly understood, then he left. Moved on. Gone! The streets were empty and bare! Not a soul to be seen. In the kitchen only the lingering acrid smell, together with the cups and plates, showed that the Christmas visitor had been, and gone. I stood at the kitchen window, looking out, at the bright lights. The streets were empty, desolate and bare! When you live alone this time of year can feel very empty with people taking a rest after the festivities of Christmas. It is a time when most folk are relaxing at home with gifts scattered around the room, mince pies and the turkey remains placed before comatose revelers. Not a time for making an effort to get out of the chair and going through the routine of dressing. Not a time for leaving the warmth of the house to go visiting. The visit of the old tramp brought a sense of unreality. Although a familiar figure to me over the years as a man who had never asked in any way for the often expected, indeed demanded, pecuniary gifts. I took pleasure dipping deep into pockets, usually fast closed. Im struggling for words when perhaps I should leave those written to convey the feelings of special significance in the Christmas visit.”
Posted on: Fri, 05 Dec 2014 02:58:55 +0000
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