Pete

The sun shone on Hovisville for the first time in around six weeks, so I headed for the park to get some some long overdue vitamin D. 


I had just settled on a bench and opened my book when a bloke with a bottle in one hand and a roll-up in the other sat down beside me. I dislike being disturbed when I'm studying. Upon seeing someone, head bowed, with an open book in their lap, I would assume they were busy rather than, say, looking for conversation with a stranger, but perhaps that's just me. 

I frowned at his opening gambit of (yes, you knew it would be) "What are you reading?" not least because I was reading "Verbal protocols of reading: The nature of constructively responsive reading", which is tricky to think of a rejoinder for.


Despite the unpromising start, Pete turned out to be an interesting guy. He was living in the park and slowly but surely drinking his way through Hovisville's supply of Frosty Jack. He was the same age as me and was a violinist cum chef from Belfast whose life had taken a turn for the worse. "I live in the park, but I've got a brain, you know what I mean?" he apologised. We talked about books, the troubles in Northern Ireland, nationalism, Stephen Fry, languages, religion and the problems of being homeless. 


"All you need's a door to close behind you, you know?" he said, his eyes anxiously searching over my shoulder to where he'd left his stuff. "If I don't have to keep an eye on my stuff all the time, it helps me to free my mind a bit."


He told me about a trip he took to a small village in rural Lancashire with a born-again Christian who promised him fish, chips and salvation: "I thought there might be some nice people there and I really needed something to lift me up." After some praying and chanting, people spoke in tongues and fell writhing to the floor. "I'm not complaining or nothing" said Pete, "but it felt a bit hocus pocus."


Pete was forgiving of the people who'd tried to take advantage of him, full of sorrow but not full of self-pity. He was intelligent and self-deprecating. By the time I left him there, the shadows were long and the bottle of Frosty Jack's empty. He shook my hand, his expression bereft, and said "You've made my day, you have."


I walked home slowly, wishing I'd told him how much I respected him.