Terry Holland

London ● Amsterdam ● Berlin

The one thing money can't buy

I spill out through the open door of the Ten Bells pub, shoulder a path through the heaving, chattering throng of after-work, casual Friday, early evening prosecco drinkers. The late September sun is painting the looming white tower of Christ Church Spitalfields the deepest scarlet. I retract my head—buzzing from several pints of Red Right Hand imperial IPA—into my flipped-up collar, focus on a spot five yards ahead of me and march resolutely down Commercial Street, doing my best to block out the insistent hum of the traffic, the intermittent scawl of sirens and the scurrying, phone-fixated pedestrians who (usually) duck out of my way at the very last second. I need some solid nourishment to soak up the ale, and I need it fast.
At the impressive, newly restored wood-and-tile structure of The Culpeper—like the Ten Bells heaving with young, hip disposable-income burners—I swing a left onto Wentworth Street, past the surviving archway to Rothschild Buildings (erected in 1886 to house the deserving Jewish poor), past the former Providence Row night refuge (for the utterly destitute of all creeds) and the top end of Gunthorpe Street (site of George Yard Buildings, model homes for the industrious gentile poor), then cross the junction, right onto Brick Lane.
As usual, the curry house touts sixth-sense my rumbling stomach and bark out their special offers, waving flyers and business cards under my nose, but I press on with laser focus. My Friday night biryani will be every bit as good as theirs but a third of the price, from a little Bengali take-away tucked unobtrusively among the wholesale grocers and convenience stores on less fashionable Osborn Street.
The take-away isn’t busy and I’m soon out again, clutching a warm carton of Friday night delight. I’m almost sauntering along in anticipation of my delicious supper as I pass The Buxton (also painstakingly restored to its late-Victorian shabby chic, part of the same chain as The Culpeper), when suddenly I hear a woman scream, followed by a dull thud. My heart leaps into my mouth—I look up to see a woman sprawled on the pavement, a dishevelled man in a long, grimy coat squatting beside her. I hurry towards them in what I (perhaps rather ridiculously) hope is a decisive, concerned-citizen type manner.
The man holds out a grubby hand towards the woman, who ignores it, scrabbling to her feet. “What am I, fucking invisible?” the man asks, his voice a defensive mix of accusation, embarrassment and hurt. After a beat, he adds, “Are you alright?” The young woman takes a step back, then warily looks at him.
“Yeah. Sorry. I was sending a text. It was important.” She looks down at her phone, checking for damage.
“Well watch where you’re fucking going next time, yeah.”
She gives him a wan smile, straightens her smart coat and strides away, towards the bright lights of Brick Lane. I now see that the guy is squatting on a flattened cardboard box. A small backpack, a couple of carrier bags and a sleeping bag are propped against the wall behind him, which belongs to the last derelict factory site on the road, no doubt soon to be redeveloped into a chic art gallery, boutique hotel or yet another branch of the Jack the Chipper fish & chip shop. The twinkling lights of the Gherkin and the Cheesegrater, the fucking Avocado Mousse Spreader and all the other ridiculous glass monuments to unfettered greed just can be seen though the padlocked wrought-iron gates. The man bends down and starts picking up a few scattered coins and dropping them into a paper cup from Costa Coffee.
“Hey,” I say, unsure what to do other than just stand there. “Are you alright?”
He looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, there are big, dark circles beneath them, he’s unshaven and missing a front tooth. “Me?” he says. “Pffff. Yeah. Champion. Never better.” He places the cup on the corner of the flattened box.
“Ehm, listen,” I say, hesitantly. “When did you last eat—I mean, do you fancy a biryani?”
“Biryani?” he says, rolling the word in his mouth like a boiled sweet. “Yeah I’d fucking love one mate.”
I hand him the carton with a smile I hope isn’t too condescending or stupid or fake. He smiles back, a big saliva bubble popping in the gap where his front tooth used to be.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Ehm, listen,” I say again, running through various improbable scenarios in my mind. “Are you going to be alright? Out here?”
“Me?” he says again. “Pfffff. Yeah. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got the one thing money can’t buy.”
I look again at his pile of possessions, thinking maybe there might be a dog hiding among them. There isn’t. I imagine an estranged wife, mother, girlfriend.
“Poverty!” he says, his mouth opening wide in a raucous, side-splitting laugh that culminates in a wheezing, racking coughing fit. He sits down on his flattened box, opens the carton of food with trembling hands and spits a big gob of dark, viscous mucus onto the pavement.
I walk on, towards my nice, warm hotel room.(Published by Loft Books)
(c) Terry Holland 2024