Street Life

Since 2008, when the bankers sucked up all available public funds, homeless people have become a common sight on the streets of our cities. Urban tents are no longer remarkable, except for the degree of ingenuity that goes into their positioning. While I was staying in Wapping last week, there was one pitched on a quiet pedestrian walk-through, snuggled up to a wall for maximum privacy and security. I walked past it one day just as its inhabitants, a young couple, emerged. I looked the other way – I like to think it was to spare them embarrassment at their reduced circumstances but, in truth, it was also about avoiding being asked for money. Although I feel charitable towards people living on the streets, I hold firmly to the principle of not giving them cash but, instead, funding organisations that try to help them in the long term as well as the short.

I was on my way to the mini street-library – a cabinet on a pole, stocked with donated books. I was clutching Amy Liptrot’s The Outrun and Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping, hoping to swap them for something I had not read. At the library was a scruffy-looking woman, one hand restraining a large dog on a leash, the other rummaging through the books. We exchanged a few awkward words and she moved over to give me access. Then, seeing I was scanning the titles, she began to recommend randomly selected books for my consideration. “Do you want to read this?” she said, holding up a dull-looking textbook. “Not really,” I replied, thanking her politely for her trouble. “What about this one? It looks good.” It was a collection of translated Lithuanian Folk Tales. “Uh, no thanks,” I said. “Have you read it?” She shook her head. I began to suspect that reading was not her motive for being there. Maybe she was a local eccentric who had appointed herself the unofficial librarian, I thought. More likely, however, taking into account the big dog, she was someone down on her luck and with a keen eye for anything on the street with a potential monetary value. She had not actually asked me for money but I began to suspect that she might if I stuck around, so I adopted my avoidance tactic and took my leave of her. In any case there were no books that had appealed to me so we both came away empty-handed – she with no donation and me with no books.

Later, I saw her again. She was at the entrance of Wapping Station, where she was trying to sell books to commuters. As I approached her, she proffered me The Outrun, inviting me to buy it so that she could get money for a hostel for the night. “I’ve read it,” I said with an ironic smile, but she evidently did not recognise me. “What about this one, then?” she said, holding up the Lithuanian Folk Tales. I shook my head and walked on. On reflection, I could have helped her out by recommending the novels I had read to her potential customers as they hurried homeward. It would have been a difficult sell but a charitable gesture towards someone in need. However, I soon persuaded myself that I should not be aiding and abetting in the sale of stolen goods – and that she would probably just buy drugs with the proceeds.

At the end of the week, I saw that the tent-dwellers had written a notice on a big piece of cardboard and propped it against the wall. It read, “To all the people that helped us with food & money we have now got somewhere to live. Thank you!” (smiley face, heart, heart, smiley face).