In Passing

Slight build, sharp features, a determined stride. He carries a Morrison’s bag. People around him wear t-shirts, shorts, sandals. He wears a coat. He stops at each bin, checks its contents as far as he is able, extracting polystyrene cartons, paper bags, bottles; searching for anything potentially edible.

We both sit in the same shelter. He settles and begins to rummage through the contents of his shopping bag. Takes out a polystyrene container, opens it and begins to eat the chips that someone has thrown away. He takes his time.
I look, smile; say that he seems to be enjoying his snack.
He nods, says, ‘Yes, and this carton was virtually full. People can be so wasteful. Don’t you agree?’
‘Yes, people are wasteful, aren’t they.’
‘Indeed, and that’s good for me. All the same…’

He finishes eating, puts the empty carton back into his carrier bag, stands, says,
‘It was pleasant talking to you. Thank you. Now this carton can be thrown away. And for me it’s back to business. You know foraging can be so time consuming, but necessary.’

I watch him walk away along the promenade.

Same Place

Sunday, last week. The shopping trolley was back, between the talking telescope and the old red phone boxes, one with its door missing.
To one side of the trolley a display of toys had been arranged to describe a neat semi-circle on a small carpet laid on the pavement. Prominent amongst the toys, Pooh Bear and Tigger. A glass fibre cow, both back legs missing, had been propped against the railings, Shrek leant against its front right leg.
Black t-shirt, white hat, he sat on a small folding chair, staring at nothing in particular, but watching all those people, looking for signs of potential sales. The promenade was crowded, but no one stopped, no one seemed to take any notice.

Further along the promenade, past the entrance to the pier, a young man walked through the crowd carrying a tray, a notice on the front advertising, The Smallest Kite in the World. No one seemed interested. People appeared to be looking through, rather than at him.

On Monday morning they were still there, shopping trolley, toys, and man, joined by a second still in his sleeping bag, next to the telephone box, by the talking telescope. I watched him reach for the can of Special Brew on the pavement, take a swig, lie down, pull the sleeping bag over his head and disappear. The toy seller sat wrapped in his coat, drinking tea. The small figures were still neatly arranged, but cow, Pooh Bear, and Tigger were absent.

By Tuesday they’d left; gone, but maybe not so far, perhaps somewhere along the promenade.