It’s twelve o’clock on one of those autumnal spring days. The clouds hang expectantly, waiting to pour their copious contents on unsuspecting recipients; gone are the mare’s tails of the morning’s optimistic outlook. Unaware of the drama above, small children are playing in the enclosed space marked for the younger generations and their mums, one moment laughing, the next moment mopping skinned knees and bumped heads where the children’s end of the world cries are calmed not by nuclear disarmament but a well-placed wet wipe.
It’s twelve o’clock and Harry turns up for work. His metal grey dank and weary coat covers a series of layers of varying shades of dirty brown garments, thankfully mostly hidden from view. His wild and far-flung white hair frames a moth-eaten face, pockmarked and gnarled like tree bark. The hair at the crown of his head has long gone and is replaced by a scarred and spotted pate which it seems has witnessed much violence.
It’s a seasonal thing for me and Harry. Spring rekindles the relationship we’ve never had. I’ve noticed over the past three years that he is fading. The walk has become a shuffle, and every movement is considered carefully.
A few passers-by acknowledge his existence, but most avoid his gaze and he mindlessly watches them hurry past. A busy, well-turned-out lady stops and gives Harry a sandwich. He acknowledges the gift and pushes the contents of the cardboard container into his mouth in one go. The lady’s face is hidden from view, but I imagine there is a look of scorn aimed Harry’s way.
Cheek’s bulging, Harry moves between bins. Not much there yet, he’ll wait until the hour’s up and people with eyes bigger than their bellies will be ditching excess produce. He comes my way and slowly stops in front of me. I take out the extra tuna sandwiches I bought and offer them in his direction. He takes them and nods. He repeats the process of putting a whole sandwich into his mouth at once. The other he pockets for now.
‘‘Any change?’’ He splutters as pieces of half chewed bread sprinkle the floor.
‘‘No Harry, I don’t do money, you know that.’’
He’ll get tired soon and rest. He won’t have any trouble getting a seat. If the benches are full, he merely stops in front of one and stares intently at an individual. This is Old Harry’s Game. It’s not long before they remove themselves. Then within a minute, he will have the bench to himself. If this fails, he just conspicuously starts scratching his crotch. Sure enough, in a wink of an eye Harry is laid out flat on the bench and the former occupants scattered around the park. However, today, he landed on my bench, with a thump.
‘‘You can scratch your balls all you like Harry, I’m not moving.’’
Harry reaches down and lifts his left trouser leg to reveal a large patch of red and yellow skin. He looks up at me and his face breaks from the usual inscrutable pose to one of pain and panic.
‘‘I think it’s infected.’’ And just like that, Harry is no longer the surly tramp that inhabits my lunch spot, but someone in need.
‘‘Do you want my help?’’ Harry nods.
Fifty minutes later myself and Harry are ensconced in the back of an ambulance. The ambulanceman asked Harry a few questions and I found out more in thirty seconds than I have in the last three years about Harry the tramp. He’s Harry Denton and he’s been on the street for ten years. He’s sixty-two, has one son somewhere, but he hadn’t seen him for a long time.
Thankfully St Andrew’s hospital was quiet for a change on that Tuesday morning. Doctor Sukhra got Harry to lie down. She was diminutive and ordered, and Harry didn’t argue. She seemed immune to the smell that emanated from her patient and I’m guessing he wasn’t an isolated case of ‘Homeless man turns up at Accident and Emergency.’
‘’Are you a relation?’’
‘‘I’m Gareth, A friend…sort of.’’
‘‘Now Mr Denton tell me all about this wound’’
It turns out he’d had it for weeks, cut it getting through some wire fencing. She attempted to cut the trousers, but Harry wouldn’t have it, so he rolled the leg up.
‘‘Well, that’s one of the best examples of advanced gangrenous infection I’ve seen. I’m going to call Mr Archer down to look at it. He may be able to save that leg by treating the infection with antibiotics. On the other hand, he may have to remove your leg. You’ve left things late sir.’’
The next few days I visited Harry. We didn’t talk really, there was no bonding as such, and I mostly ended up playing on my phone. Eventually, Mr Archer came around and broke the news that I’m pretty sure Harry didn’t want to hear.
‘‘Right, Mr Denton. Unfortunately treating that leg hasn’t worked and if you don’t want to die from that infection, we are going to have to amputate that leg just below the knee. You’re damned lucky the infection hasn’t spread further.’’
I think my lasting memory from that moment was Harry’s silence. There was a sigh and the shake of a head, but otherwise nothing. The operation would take place on Tuesday, at one o’clock.
‘‘I’ll be back on Tuesday evening,’’ I assured Harry. It seemed not to register, and I left the hospital once again not sure if I had visited anybody. It was a fraught couple of days, and I was annoyed that my neat and tidy life had been taken over by a tramp.
Monday finally crawled into Tuesday, and at five o’clock I left my desk and headed to St Andrew’s. I picked up some Lucozade from the hospital shop, which somehow seemed little compensation to someone who had just had his leg cut off. I stood outside the ward for a bit, taking longer than usual to apply the hand gel and eventually with a conscious deep breath I went in. When I got to Harry’s bed and stood there quizzically. There was a stranger lying in it. I checked I’d come to the right cubicle as they pretty much all look the same, and sure enough this was the correct one. I turned to the nursing station. Perhaps they had moved
Harry to another ward following the operation. I was then escorted to an empty private room. The nurse closed the door behind us.
‘‘You’re Harry Denton’s friend aren’t you.’’
‘‘Yes,’’ I clutched my Lucozade bottle a little tighter.
‘‘I’m afraid Mr Denton didn’t make it. He suffered a heart attack whilst in surgery and never regained consciousness. I’m sorry. We have his belongings here, which aren’t many. We incinerated the clothes he came in.’’
I was presented with a small parcel. Enclosed were a few coins, a small knife, tin opener and two sealed envelopes. I looked at the nurse.
‘Do you know any of his relatives?’ I shook my head.
‘I’m sorry he didn’t pull through. Would you mind leaving your details at the desk, as you’re the only contact we have for him.’ I did so, and left the hospital stunned. At home, I examined the two unopened envelopes. One addressed to me, the other to his son. What struck me was the quality of the handwriting. Neat, cursive and rather elegant. I opened my envelope.
Dear Gareth,
Thank you for taking the time to look after me. I lost my wife several years ago, and myself and my son became estranged. We didn’t get on without her. Could you send the other envelope to him? It’s the last address I had. The money is for my funeral. Keep any that is left over. Thank you for the sandwiches.
Harry
Also in the envelope was a cheque for four thousand pounds. So, I made the arrangements. God knows where he got the money from. I sent notification of the time and date of the funeral to Harry’s son, but no acknowledgement came back.
So, on a cold, wet April day, myself and the vicar stood over Harry’s grave. The rain drove under my umbrella and my only black suit began to get damp at the knees. The Reverend Allison read the Lord’s my Shepherd, and we both cast some dirt onto the coffin. The vicar’s umbrella holder signalled to the grave diggers and Harry left the world, buried by an old stone wall in St Michael’s churchyard overlooked by a yew tree. A good spot I thought. Stephen Denton unfortunately didn’t appear, so it was just left to the three of us to say goodbye.
I don’t know if there is a heaven, but if there is I hope it has benches just like the ones in the park, where my tramp friend can play Old Harry’s game to his heart’s content and outrage old ladies on a regular basis. I think it made him happy.
Bio
Ross is a retired teacher who came late to writing. He has written comedy sketches for two review shows (Newsrevue-London and The Treason Show-Brighton).
Three monologues can be found on YouTube (Spaghetti Bolognese for One/ Being Greta Thunberg/Keeping Mum) and he has had two plays performed at the Dolman Theatre, Newport UK. The last one (Drawing the Line) was a winner in their one act play competition. Tea at Five, his first play, has been performed on stage and radio.
Ross is currently seeking publication of his children’s novel ‘Octavius Blood and the Blood Oath’.