So how can you tell me you’re lonely …
It is curious how people take it for granted that they have a right to preach at you and pray over you as soon as your income falls below a certain level
George Orwell — Down and Out in Paris and London
In an earlier Reflection, I shared what happened on the morning of my first day of work, in Cornwall House, in London. Of not yet knowing, on a July morning in 1974, my best walking route from Embankment station to Cornwall House. Of my turning left out of the riverside exit and walking through Victoria Embankment Gardens to cross to the south of the Thames via Waterloo Bridge. Of approaching the Gardens’ end that borders the Savoy Hotel’s back and encountering three figures, asleep on the grass, wearing only jackets and trousers. Given the warm July day, there was no need for an extra covering. Of drawing nearer, and seeing the bright morning sun, rising over the OXO tower, catching the sleeping men’s dew-covered forms. A sparkling spectrum blanket.
This Reflection is from what became my regular walk across Hungerford Bridge to Cornwall House.
In the 1970s Hungerford Bridge was a narrow footbridge. Dating from Victorian times, it spanned the Thames on one side of the railway lines that run to Charing Cross station. The replacement to that bridge is now two wide modern walkways that sandwich the railway lines.
To reach Hungerford Bridge one turns right out of Embankment station on the riverside and climbs some steps. On taking that route for the first time, I came across a lady of ample size and mature years sitting on a chair in the gap between the station exit and the steps’ foot.
Her clothes had seen better days and at her feet were two large bags of indeterminate content. Alongside her stood a large stack of newspapers. Morning editions of the Evening Standard. These pre-internet days saw multiple editions of newspapers as the day progressed.
They were also the days before London’s free papers and trade from passing commuters was slow for the lady, so I decided to buy a copy. Receiving in return both a newspaper, a winning smile and, in the strongest of cockney, a “thanks dearie”.
Little did I know at the time that a morning ritual had begun. On most working mornings over the next four years, I bought a copy of the Standard from Elsie, as I later learnt her name to be. Our transaction never lasted long, but I discovered she was, “down on her luck”. The money from paper selling helped with living costs. Elsie had no permanent place to live so frequented Salvation Army hostels or the like. As Elsie would say, at least it saved her from ‘Cardboard City’ in the Bullring near Cornwall House (now the site of the Imax cinema). Elsie had married, but her husband was now dead. She had no children or wider family.
In truth, I preferred the Evening News to the Standard, so I bought from Elsie in the morning and purchased a News, from a different vendor, on the way back to my ‘home’. Coincidently for the first few months in London, my ‘home’ too was a hostel. But one that had a little more to offer than Elsie’s.
One thing the Standard did have over the News was the classified ads for rented accommodation. When flat hunting you bought the Standard morning edition as early as possible. Then scouring the ‘flats-for-rent’ section and ringing to make appointments to view any that caught your interest later that day. Decent places at reasonable rent went quickly, so early bird and all that.
One morning, not long before I left Cornwall House to begin a career in the Defence Industry, Elsie was not in her usual spot. I asked in the station, but no one could offer an explanation. I never saw Elsie again.
This week’s music may be obvious but it’s with thoughts of the three slumbering gentlemen of the road and memory of Elsie.
Stay safe and when we are out and about again maybe you might buy a Big Issue from a seller. There are still far too many Elsies out there.
