You don't always get the chance to right a wrong. Last week I was approached outside Liverpool Street station by a young man, who asked me for money. Not unusual and I generally donate a pound or two, whatever's in my pocket, but that morning I was rushing and I did that frazzled smile thing, the apologetic gosh I'm sorry I'm in a rush thing, eyes elsewhere, sorry mate not just now, can't you see, I'm a busy person with a proper job. The trouble was, the young man had an infection, and his face was swollen, and he was in distress, and I walked on and caught my train, and this was wrong, this was a failure.
Well. I just saw him again, doing the rounds at Cafe Nero, outside the station still. It's freezing cold and raining. His face is better though. This time I bought him coffee and asked him about himself, because I have a fear that people like him - Pawel - can go for days without any proper human interaction. My biggest fear is loneliness and I project it onto the homeless (another failing, I know). His English is very poor, and I'm guessing that's why he's not managed to make a go of it in England. He wants to go home. Of course he does. I gave him some money. I know, I know. Who was I really trying to help? Is a moment's fragmentary connection any more use than no connection at all? I have to hope that it's so.
There must be many such men in London now, washed into our country on the crest of Euro-expansionism, only to find that the streets here are paved with misery. More soon, with the construction industry in decline. My favourite novel this year was The Road Home, by Rose Tremain, about one such immigrant. At least that story, being fiction, had the capacity for a happy ending. I hope Pawel's real story does too.
