FROM HERE TO THERE

A story of hope out of despair, of descent into hell and rise to new life.

Greg Statham was a coward. He knew it. He had had the chance to show courage and had flunked it. The bully - his own brother - had won, and taken what was rightfully his. He just watched out of frustration as his own house, for which he had scrimped and saved, when he had been in work, was sold from under his feet and he was left with nowhere to live except the streets as his home. While he was busy, he never developed any friendships, so he now found himself without a support network, and besides he would have been loath to ask for help anyway. Perhaps he feared rejection.

Anyway, he was now walking down St Catherine Road, with just the clothes he was wearing as the sum total of his possessions. As you might ironically say, he was down on his luck, but he had not stood up for himself, and so through his own fault he was about to join the street-people - those who slept in doorways, and lay down with a tin, begging for people to take pity on them. Most walked by without a second glance. Some were hostile, and showed it by word or gesture.

Greg was soon to find out for himself what it was like to be penniless and homeless and a member of an abused underclass. It was not long before he had collected some rags together and found a spot in a department store doorway which he would claim as his bed. It was undercover, but not totally dry. The rain managed somehow to either penetrate through the roof of the canopy or lash against him, drenching whatever scraps of cloth in which he was trying to protect himself.

He had not as yet witnessed a harsh winter. He knew he had to find a more permanent place so as to avoid the possibility of catching hypothermia like so many of his new friends, who had passed on, as the saying on the streets went. He dreaded the prospect and was continually on the lookout for any safe shelter.

It was not long before he was introduced to the elixir of drink to soothe the pain of isolation and degradation. Bottles were passed round from mouth to mouth, each time wiping the top with a dirt-encrusted hand. The bliss of intoxication was too much to resist for Greg. No day went by without him snoring off another heavy bout of imbibing the liquid which was gradually poisoning him. Whether he knew that or not, he didn’t care.

He dreamed of being a film-star, with everyone at his beck and call, wined and dined like royalty - of sleeping in a luxurious bed, large enough to accommodate him and a naked body or two, as they first groped for each other across the divide and claim their undying love, such as it was, where everything was glamorous, and turned to gold when you touched it, and those who served were obsequious and always willing to do your bidding, whatever was asked for. That was the life he dreamed of.

But then he would wake up and realize he had been played a cruel trick. He would often scream out his anger for any passerby to witness with disgust or pity. It didn’t concern him. He had been cheated.

However, then he thought that maybe someone among his comrades had indeed been the top of the bill and now was in the gutter like him. It could happen to anyone. Often through misfortune or a being given a bad hand, if it had been a card-game.

As his time on the streets lengthened into months, he often listened to snatches of stories as to how people were suddenly catapulted into hard times which they seemed destined to spend in perpetual misery. Many had no fight left in them. They were struggling just to stay alive, while the outside world sneered at them as the scourings of society, fit for the waste-dump. They supported each other as best they could through a haze of booze and drugs.

One day Greg, just by chance, discovered a soup kitchen, where he could get a hot meal once a day. On his first occasion he asked whether he would have to pay for it, and was politely told they were serving the meals completely free. As it turned out, such activity increased, as the onset of winter drew ever closer. More and more of these philanthropic ventures were opening up all over the town.

Eventually came the day when Greg was talking with one of the volunteers, and the subject of finding shelter came up. He was informed that if he reported to such and such an office the following day at such and such a time he would be guaranteed a place to stay. He almost wept at the prospect at this stroke of good fortune - the first since he left his own house so long ago.

The lady who was serving him the meal seemed nice, so he asked her a question.

“Daisy, why do you want to help us?”

At first he sensed he might have hurt her feelings, because she said nothing - just stared at him. He noticed her eyes were beginning to moisten.

“I’m sorry, Daisy. That was rude of me.” He blurted out his apology.

“That’s alright, Greg. I was just taken aback by your question. Well….. there is a simple reply to it which I can give……(She hesitated - perhaps it was to catch her breath!).. We care.”

It was his turn to get emotional. Those last two words cut through him like a knife. He had never heard anyone utter them before in his hearing. It was as though the idea had just been invented at that precise moment, and it was reserved for him only. All he could say in response was a feeble “Thank you”. He lowered his head. His body started to shake, as the sobs broke through like waves. He could not hold it back any more. Daisy at first was dumbfounded and unable to move. Then Greg felt a hand on his shoulder, as he retched his deep sorrow out of his body. It was comforting to know someone was sharing the pain with him, and would not leave his side until the crisis of grief had spent itself.