Читать книгу The Fall and Rise of Gordon Coppinger - David Nobbs - Страница 14

The dusk is pulled across the London sky like a merciful shroud drawn over a dead body. The short day is over. The long night is beginning. Nights are very long on the London streets, in winter.

For one of the men on the streets this Saturday evening, however, the night is perhaps not going to seem as long as usual. He has found a marvellous position, not exactly the best seat in the house, but the best space on the pavement. He has found a little corner, below pavement level, where warm air is being pushed out from the extractor fan of a posh London restaurant. He does not know the name of the restaurant. He does not know the name of any restaurant. He has not been in a restaurant for more than twenty-five years.

Before he settles down for the night he takes a swig from his bottle. The rawness of the alcohol warms him. He runs on alcohol. He starts each day with alcohol. It is the only thing that can cure his hangover. Maybe tonight, though, he will sleep right through, and need no alcohol. He certainly hopes that he will sleep until the restaurant’s kitchen closes.

He puts the bottle down beside him, where it will be handy if he needs it during the night. He wraps his old stained rags around him and lowers himself carefully on to the ground. He will be relatively cosy, tonight, in his own sunken grotto.

Just as sleep is about to envelop him, there are two loud bangs from somewhere nearby. He is irritated rather than alarmed. He knows what they are. They are not the signal to start a revolution. They are not the first shots in a gangland battle. They are fireworks. Tonight is Guy Fawkes Night. He knows this because he knows that November the fifth is Bonfire Night, and he knows that it is November the fifth because he always knows the date. There are often pages of newspapers bouncing in the wind along London’s dirty streets, and although he may look half drunk and extremely filthy, he still has a good brain, and he has very little to feed it, so he grabs what scraps he can.

Now sleep will not come. He thinks back to all those Bonfire Nights in Dudley, watching the municipal fireworks display with his brothers, gasping with shared astonishment, which was about the only thing they shared. They weren’t allowed to have fireworks themselves. There were a lot of things they weren’t allowed to have. They weren’t allowed to go to the swimming pool in case they contracted polio. He enjoyed the Saturday-morning film shows but his two brothers had grown out of such things, if indeed they had ever been into them. His elder brother almost certainly hadn’t. He had no sense of fun. There hadn’t been any point in playing games with him. He had no talent for games.

The middle brother, now, he had been different. He had been rather good at games, at make-believe, but he had never had the time. He had never had the time for anything, really, except for making money. He used to go to the baker’s, buy cakes, take them home, and cut them into pieces – rather small pieces to be honest – and sell them by the slice. He preferred that to any game, which was a pity.

Does the man in the privileged position beside the warm-air outlet welcome these reminiscences, or are they an irritation which prevents him from sinking into the unconsciousness he craves, if indeed he does crave it? How does he feel about his lifestyle? Is he happy? Is he sad? Is he resigned? Is he bitter?

What goes on inside his head is actually the only privacy he has left in his life. Perhaps we have intruded enough.