The sad story of a woman seated at the bus stop – 1

London has many beggars.

I was waiting for the bus. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed she was scanning me. Large eyes filled with a secret, secret, secret lounging. Something that would make a long novel, a massive book to describe. Maybe a movie – a blockbuster. As soon as I turned my head she was either eyeing the road, with endless vehicles, a passerby with a Covid-19 mask, or the pigeons perched on the roofs of adjacent shops.

She also coughed constantly. A deep, heavy cough that made you expect an uncomfortable spit. But nothing was spat.

That was her one activity. Looking at things. She never shouted. London has various types of beggars – male, female, young, old, dishevelled and semi-clean, white, black, brown. In terms of begging strategy, you find ones who sit down, staring into the oblivion alongside a huge placard with words.

“Help. Money for food. Please. Money for hostel.”

The placard speaks.

Lips closed and frozen.

Written messages have a variation, too. You will be in one of these London underground trains. Called metro in France, u-bahn in Germany, subway in the USA. A beggar would approach, stealthily and carefully, and hand over small pieces of papers to passengers

Darts to the end of the carriage to give you a minute to read.

Then swiftly walks back to check. Speedily picks up the paperwork. So deft and professional. Usually one or two passengers will definitely hand over some cash.

The text would be: “I have three children. I lost my job. I am sick.” Stuff like that.

There are the aggressive types, too. Seated with awful expressions. Stare at pedestrians. Front of supermarkets, cash machines, entrance to bus and train stations. Here, according to one ex-beggar, nowadays a musician, “The cash flow is plenty...” and the beggar’s look is not humble, not sad, it is forthcoming. Some would be shouting: “Spare change, please. Cup of coffee.”

You might be “kind” and offer some money. The beggar would glare at the amount. Too little? There will be verbal repercussions. If you frequent the area a lot, you will learn the rules. Know what to expect.

Government laws advise not to give money to beggars. Give them food or offer your money to charities. Charities do a lot. Organise shelters where proper maintenance is correctly done – health checks, housing, further education, treatment for alcoholism, drugs, and so on. This is the problem, however.

You know beggars in trains are lying. If anyone has three children and they lost their jobs, they get government support – weekly cash, and they will be introduced to schemes for employment. There are many jobs in London. You want to work? There is always a job.

Yet not all want to work, or CAN work due to mental health issues and trauma.

Take this lady I am talking about. It is not the first time she is here. Ages. She has the same blank, distant observant expression. Many months ago I decided to strike a conversation. This is after having bought her something to eat.

She hollered: “I have been beaten. I have been raped. I have been jailed. I have been stabbed. I have seen it all...”

Showed me scars on her neck, where she had been burnt with cigarette butts. Another scar on her mid finger and below the elbow area: “ I tried to kill myself, but God did not want me to die! (loud cough)... Yet!”

Long story.

Alcoholic father. Worked hard in the late 1970s. Racism at the core of Britain. During the 1980s race riots, her dad got involved. Was jailed. Came out. Found a woman – this beggar’s mother. Born in the late 1980s, it was tough as the parents fought and bickered. Endlessly. The father beat the mother, the mother beat the daughter, the father molested the child.

Question: “What do you mean molested?”

“He would touch me inappropriately. Not the way a dad touches a daughter, even if they are washing them, but I knew, at a tender age, it wasn’t right. I told my mum. Mum didn’t believe me. Who was I to tell? Aged twelve I ran away from home...I lived everywhere. Lived in boys’ yards and fields. Lived in girls’ bedrooms, where mothers would ask their daughters, WHEN IS SHE LEAVING? So I ended up with this pimp. He became my father and lover and brother. He would do all sorts of things. Plus sell me to men.”

She spoke with a special kind of detachment. As if saying tomorrow is Saturday, yesterday was Thursday. Fact. No emotion.