I still don’t know whether I’ve been had
I have been wondering what to do about Chris…. Well, I call him Chris, but the truth is that I’ve only met him once and I’d hardly say our brief acquaintance qualifies as friendship. How does one get oneself into these quandaries?
Four weeks ago, I was walking along Buckingham Palace Road, towards the coach station, when I noticed Chris. He was a couple of steps ahead of me, talking on the telephone, and in a state of agitation. He was talking to a friend. His father had died that afternoon, and he needed to borrow the fare — 30 quid — for the coach to Leeds. Could his friend help? I was alongside with him by then, and glanced over. A tall man in his early forties, untidy hair, a well-worn overcoat, a shambling air. Not smart, but not disreputable. What sort of person needs to phone a friend to borrow £30 for coach fare? Someone with a cash-flow problem. A perpetual student? A penurious social worker? ‘I can give it back to you on Friday, when I’m paid,’ he said. But he had drawn a blank. He pocketed his telephone and trudged on, lost in his misery. He looked distraught — more distraught than I’ve seen anyone look on Buckingham Palace Road.
We had reached the junction opposite the coach station. He waited to cross the road.
I had spent the afternoon around the corner, in the library of the Buddhist Society, reading the autobiography of Christmas Humphreys, the society’s founder. The Buddhist Society is one of the secret pleasures of London. An oasis of tranquillity and kindness, where moral conundrums submit to a higher form of reasoning and float blissfully away, and the mind may find peace.
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