Guilt by E Lawrie

The first day I saw the young man at the station still comes back to haunt me occasionally. It was a cold wet November day. Leaving the warmth of the train behind I stepped out into the rain. My nostrils twitched at the inviting smell of cooking. Tempted, I bought a bacon roll and hurried towards the exit from the station. It was then I noticed him. A thin, pale-faced young man sitting on a cushion of newspapers. Beside him, propped against a stone pillar, was a piece of brown cardboard with the words ‘I’m hungry’ jumping out at passers by. I hesitated; the warmth from the paper bag I held in my hand triggered a raging conflict. What should I do? Will I give this tasty bite to the lad? Should I go back to the take-away for a hot drink to put some warmth in his body? No! don’t get involved you don’t know what it will lead to, a stronger voice was cutting in. I just knew I couldn’t approach him so I hurried on to my warm office and ate my roll.

During my working hours that day I found my thoughts straying to that thin figure sitting at the station. Was it guilt or curiosity? I wanted to know his story but I couldn’t ask. Was he a sad drugs victim, begging silently to feed his habit? Did he have parents who had disowned him? What had happened to him? Although he sat motionless there was an intelligent look about him. Perhaps a student whose intended career had gone all wrong. Maybe I was wrong about him. Did he really need to sit there in the cold? Surely he could find a way of earning some money. Probably he had a giro. On the other hand he could be making money at the station, considering the amount of commuters who pass through daily. There was a bicycle lying against a pillar only a few yards away. Did it belong to him? Where did he live, was he sleeping rough? Was I just being naïve about the life of the homeless? Why was I so concerned about him? Was it guilt because I had gone against my maternal instincts by letting him sit there hungry? He was younger than any of my own family, possibly in his twenties. I had walked past him with food in my hand that I really didn’t need. I sincerely hoped that someone more benevolent than myself had stopped to give him something.

Later in the day when it was time to go home, I was surprised to see him still sitting there at the same spot. How could he endure leading such a life? It couldn’t be easy. I was travelling home with another member of staff. I noticed as we passed the lad she appeared to be quite unconcerned about his plight. As we settled on the train I couldn’t keep my thoughts to my self any longer.

I tried to be casual in asking, “Did you see that poor soul sitting at the station?”

“Och don’t worry about him” she replied, “he does alright. He’s got his giro and collects a few bob at the station and is fed by the public. That I do know. You will notice from time to time that he has had a short haircut which means he has had a holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. I don’t know very much about him but that is how the story goes. I bought him a couple of rolls with sausage this morning and gave him money to go and buy himself a hot drink.”

I was too embarrassed to let her know I had spent a fair part of the day feeling upset about him because of my own actions. Pity I didn’t speak to her earlier about him. Maybe she was right about him, but on the other hand I’ll never know.

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