Nothing But Lint In My Pocket

I must have passed ol’ Willie about a hundred times on my way back off the late shift. He sat huddled in a dirty ratty sleeping bag with a can of cider or fosters or whatever had happened to be cheap that day, a skinny dog sleeping next to him under a blanket. Sometimes I’d stop to give him a couple of quid, especially on a cold night. He was old, so old his skin seemed sunken off his bones and his eyes like dead hollows in his face. He wasn’t one to mumble about “spare some change” as you walked on by, no, he would just sit there staring out of those dead eyes and watching the world go on around him. He was more of a feature of the neighbourhood, ol’ Willie, than the Starbucks on the corner or the Barclay’s bank. People knew him by name, would stop to pass the time of day with him and feed his dog their leftover Maccy D’s. It didn’t seem right him being so old and being so nice and all, and still being sat out there in the cold all alone when we had homes to go to, central heating to look forward to, warm cosy beds, lights on in every room.

The late shift was hell that night, too many customers, not enough staff, too many people complaining and stumbling in drunk. I left feeling oh so sorry for myself. Wasn’t my life hard? Wasn’t it terrible the way I’d been treated tonight? Why did bad things always happen to me? Poor little me... And there was ol’ Willie, just sitting where he always was. So I stopped.
I had half a packet of shortbread in my bag and I fed it slowly to the emaciated dog, who took it ever so gently and gingerly from my fingers. Willie nodded his approval and I put a five pound note in his hand.
“How are you tonight?”
He smiled and smacked his lips, “just fine, just fine, and it’s a damn cold night”. His voice was reedy, faltering as if from a lack of use.
“How did you end up here?” I’d always wanted to know, to be honest.
“No one bothers us here, me and Tweedy.”
“No, on the street, Willie, how did you end up on the street?”
“It’s a damn cold night, and I couldn’t ‘alf use a cuppa tea...”
So that night I heard his story, and I’ll share it with you in his own words.

I loved my wife. We met at the Cambridge summer ball, summer of 1957 it was, ‘ot as all blazes; never known anything like it for ‘eat. Students everywhere, wearing them straw boaters, drinkin' lager down by the river watchin’ the punts. Girls too, the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen, in dresses what floated full o’ lace, perfume 'nough to make your throat close up. Bands playin’ music in the 'alls, so as we could dance. Everyone was 'appy then; was a different time. Men were men, in them days. Least as I remember it.
She was the prettiest girl in the room, I do remember that. Red dress, legs up to ‘er armpits, black 'air like ravens... or silk. I never was one much for the poetry, mind, but she was the prettiest girl I ever saw. I asked her to dance, and afore we knew what ‘it us we were walkin' down by the river at six o’clock and she was sayin’ how she’d missed her train. We got married, o' course, everyone did. And we were ‘appy. Jane and I, we were ‘appy. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
She got the cancer though. The big C. And when she’d gone, well, what was left for me?
I was an executive, you know? I 'ad it all, an 'ouse, a wife, two cars an’ plenty a’ money in the bank. Never did have any children, mind, but we were 'appy, me and Jane. We 'ad each other, didn’t we?
Course, after she died, there was just me. Lost my head, probably still do sometimes, missin’ her the way I do. They fired me, the bastards. Weren’t no-one gonna help you in them days, you mark my words. Lost the 'ouse, din't I? The cars, the 'olidays, the credit with the bank... All down the crapper.
Ended up in a shelter, eventual like, but it didn't suit us all them busy-bodies always do-good-in' round us. It wasn't for me and Tweedy, not our sort of place. No, not our sort of place at all... So here I am, losing my years with nothing but lint in my pocket.

Word Count: 781