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Harry took a sip of the now lukewarm tea. He dipped a custard cream and popped it into his mouth, savouring the taste because it was the only thing he had eaten all day.
Since leaving New York, Harry had changed his life completely, starting with his name. Here, he was known as Henry Fowkes, the name he was known by on Broadway. He had a very strict diet, eating virtually nothing during the day, but finishing the evening with a decent meal. Two hours prior to supper he used his time wisely, writing in his study. After his meal, he would then spend a further two hours writing, before retiring to bed early with either a good book or his portable television.
Since returning to Britain he had enjoyed himself, but his current project was coming to an end, and he felt that he should speak to his friend Stan very soon about the whole thing. He had hoped he’d see Stan today, but he hadn’t yet shown his face.
Harry liked Stan. The first time the man had walked into the homeless shelter – which had only been three months ago – Harry had known he was the one. Stan was perfect for the part without a word being spoken. For all Harry had known, Stan could have been a deaf mute. But he wasn’t, and they had started speaking, and the more they had talked, the more he’d seen his project opening up into a bestseller. Americans loved stories about eccentric Englishmen.
Stan’s first appearance had been towards the back end of January when the weather had turned bitter. Hunched into a topcoat with the flaps of his deerstalker down, he’d crept quietly through the door, glancing everywhere, as if he was searching for someone but he wasn’t sure who.
He wore woollen mittens with his fingers poking through, and always had a pipe clamped firmly between his teeth, perfecting a Sherlock Holmes that Conan Doyle would have been proud of. There was no tobacco in the pipe; whether it was because he was trying to give up or he couldn’t afford it, Harry had never determined, and it didn’t seem that important anyway.
Stan had chosen a quiet corner in which to sit, and as Harry approached, he’d tipped his cap and then hesitated, as if he shouldn’t really be there. Harry had laid a hand on his shoulder because he felt sure that Stan would have left the table and the shelter had he not made the gesture. Harry had made tea and sandwiches and sat with his newfound friend while he consumed them. Stan’s mannerisms had reminded Harry of a typical, old English gentleman, as though he had suddenly materialised out of nowhere from that Victorian era.
Stan’s strange phobias and superstitions also suited the part. Harry would never forget the day of the big storm.
Stan didn’t like storms. That had proved interesting. Harry had closed all the doors and windows, and had insisted that Stan stay at the table and finish his meal. He would never forget the fear in the man’s eyes, and his insistence that all doors and windows should be opened at once to allow any lightning bolts to pass straight through. With white knuckles he had gripped the table, refusing to eat. When the storm had finally passed, Harry had paid a taxi driver to take Stan to wherever he felt he needed to be.
But for all that, he enjoyed Stan’s company. All he had to do now was persuade him to give up his life here. What life? Harry knew he was homeless, but homeless people lived somewhere, even if it was only a makeshift shelter at the back of the shops on Albion Street. Harry had toured the city in search of Stan, and none of the vagrants had had any information. No one knew him; neither had they heard of him. He’d checked the other shelters, but Stan had not frequented those either. Having finally found the taxi driver and asked him where he had taken the man who resembled Sherlock Holmes, the answer had been the train station in Leeds.
Harry was puzzled by that one. That was another thing about Stan: he loved his puzzles.
“Hello Henry,” said a voice behind him.
Harry turned and saw the man he had been thinking about. Stan was staring down at him, dressed in his usual garb.
Poor Stan must have had a tough life. Harry estimated his age as mid-sixties, and because he had odd eyes, his expression was one of constant torture. Not only were they different colours, one was lower than the other, and bore the marks of a nasty scar. Harry had brought it up in an earlier conversation but Stan had refused to talk about it. His skin was extremely wrinkled and leathery to touch, like the hide of a bull. But for all that, he was well nourished. Although he ate little at the shelter, the man had to be eating somewhere.
“Stan, my man, how’s it hanging?”
“Oh Henry, I’m not at all sure I shall ever catch on to your use of language.”
“You should have done by now, what with living on the streets.”
Stan removed his pipe from his lips before speaking. “One cannot change one’s upbringing, Henry. A terrible place the streets may be, but because one lives there doesn’t mean one should lower one’s standards and adopt the ways of others who do.”
“I’ve not seen you for days, where have you been?”
“Keeping low, Henry, pondering over the rising violence within the city, and wondering where a man’s to go for safety in times of crisis.”
Harry wasn’t keen on the tone of conversation today. But Stan could be like that. One time he would be all cheerful and full of himself, talking of a life that Harry wasn’t sure he had actually lived or simply wanted to. It was saddening to hear. Other times he was very philosophical, taking the world’s problems to heart. Today was going to be one of those days. Perhaps it really would be best for him to tackle Stan about a change.
“Come and sit down, Stan. I’ll make a fresh cuppa, and then I’d like us to talk.”
Stan did as he was asked, returning the pipe to his mouth. Glancing at the floor, he suddenly asked Harry a question.
“What’s with the rope?”
Harry stooped and picked it up. It was about twelve inches in length and had a large knot in the middle. “Oh, it’s nothing, just something I’m checking out for a new project.”
“What kind of a knot is that?” Stan pointed.
“I’ve no idea, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. Anyway,” said Harry, “let’s not worry about that now, you and me have other things to discuss.”
When the tea was made, Harry placed a cup in front of his friend. “I’ve brought your favourites as well. Fig rolls.”
“Praise the Lord that I should ever have found a friend like you, Henry.”
“What’s troubling you, Stan?”
