My unwanted friend

Nigel (UK)

Maria Robinson once said, “Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending.” Probably more so than any other time in my life than now, I am on a new road trying to make a new beginning, the end is far off and when that time comes I shall refuse to attend my own funeral.

Looking back over the past year with all the bureaucratic problems not to mention the mental preparation it took to arrive back in the UK, I really don’t know how I did it. Of course, the help of friends played an enormous role in all this and the backup of Veterans Aid was essential for the processes. Strange as it may seem to anyone that has lived their life under a roof and conducted themselves in a manner that society would say was normal, I personally would not have swapped my open air freedom for anything else.

It must be said, that I never planned things the way that they turned out and obviously my mental health did often in the past thirty odd years, raise its ugly head. The nervous breakdown that inflicted me after leaving The Royal Navy Submarine Service was to plague me until today. Waking up on a park bench in Paris one morning, not knowing how I got there, was the start of a journey of wandering that would only really come to a close in 2009.

During the early years of living on the road with youth still on my side I often travelled around Italy, visiting the places that gave me so much pleasure.  The world may not have been my oyster but the museums and art galleries were there just for me, as were the many books that I started to read. I could summer in Rome and slowly work my way down to Sicily for the winter. So many times I have stood on the foot hills of Mount Etna with a glass of Zibibbo in my hand and watched the lava flow at night or sat for hours looking at Caravaggio’s painting, “The rest during the flight from Egypt “ hanging in the galleria Doria Pamphili or wandered  the corridors of the Uffizi in Florence. Venice at 4am during the month of November was mine and mine alone, the fog drifting in across the lagoon mixing itself with melancholy thoughts.  I could choose when to read a book or speak to someone, when to move on or stay, never frightful of time or place, oblivious of the rat race others were forced to conform to.

One day a new friend came to visit, I now call him “My unwanted friend”. Friends should never stay for more than three days; afterwards they smell like old fish and have to be removed.  This one came to stay and has spent the past seven years lurking in the background, slowly spending more time with me. Always ready to shake my body if for one moment I allow myself the presumption that he has gone away for the day, I can still remember the exact time he arrived with his bag of tricks. Luiggi’s wine bar in Trastevere, the place packed with locals; my glass smashed onto the floor, a clumsy gesture that went unnoticed. As the months turned into years, my body shuffled itself around the area where I lived, my mind could fly towards other horizons but my bones were fixed firmly to the cobble stones. Daily I was becoming more of a recluse. My unwanted friend I suspected had a name, “Parkinson’s disease”. The final push was just around the corner.  A fellow travelling companion and adventurer was to die during the night in the same park we shared and called home. As the temperature dropped unexpectedly over the weekend his snow flaked body was found on the bench by early morning dog walkers. He would never tell a joke or roll a cigarette again; never again would I hear his cough across the piazza as I raised my head from a book to wave at him.  Without words we had said our farewells so many times before, in unforgotten wine glasses, shared meals and landscapes. He was the true platonic friend who none would cry for on his departure from this life. As a human being, many would remember and respect him.

Unknowingly, the fine line that divides a hippy life style to one of a “Clochard” had been crossed. The use of the word is not done lightly; it comes from old French, stolen from Vulgar Latin: cloppic from cloppus, meaning a lame person, now used to describe a tramp or vagabond. Now my only protection was to wrap myself into a world of my own, to create a space just for me, which others could not enter nor be allowed the key; my survival depended on it.  With the first autumn months pushing on and no will or energy to travel south I would spend my first winter in Rome, unprotected by Sicily’s sunrays that warm the body and mind. However, help was on its way in the most unusual form; a woman that lived nearby and taught Latin and Greek to unwilling teenagers. Going back and forth from work and taking her dog out seemed to be her only occupation. The locals knew her not only as a teacher but as an avid hater of homeless people and anyone that begged. Surprisingly we were about to strike up a friendship that was to grow and develop, leading both of us along a path that neither of us knew. In time, it would change not only her life and her family’s, but also mine.  We had only one thing in common; our love for the arts in any form. I was reading and trying to learn by memory parts of “Dante’s Divine Comedy”, she had recognised the book from a distance as she walked her dog “Lippo” .The next day she left a copy of Homer’s “Odyssey” on my park bench. It was wrapped in plain brown paper with words written in bold print “For the gentleman that sleeps here”. Our epic voyage in this life was about to take off; we had open tickets with no destination filled in.

As the months went by we exchanged the occasional word, never invading the other’s ground or territory. Later that year she was to arrange one of the best Christmas presents anyone could receive. Not food or clothing, let alone money; I had no use for those. I had been granted permission to use the library and she had guaranteed the return of any books that I chose to take out; replacing them if ever the need arose, (it never did). Having no documents and not always smelling of French Eau deToilette, the librarians were surprisingly friendly - somehow they didn’t see me as a threat to their lives or their ancient leather bound volumes.

The conversations held with my new friend took place on my one piece of furniture, supplied by the Roman council in the form of a park bench with the back drop of a fountain.  As they developed she found herself spending more time walking “Lippo” than was healthy for him. I’m sure he longed to be sat curled up at his master’s feet indoors. We on the other hand could exchanges points of views and chat for hours, oblivious to the surroundings or the stares that passers-by gave us. This smartly dressed teacher sat conversing with a clochard must have been food for thought for so many.

As the second winter arrived unannounced I woke yet again to find that bronchitis was getting the better of me and remained in the park for the day. Later that evening my friend insisted that she take me to the local hospital. Too weak to argue, I allowed myself to be convinced. I was seen almost immediately!  If you ever need to jump a queue then just don your homeless Milan fashion outfit - it always works! But disaster was about to strike; they would not take me in, and they were adamant.  I had no passport and no right to medical treatment, other than a small box of antibiotics they would do no more. On being told to leave I got up to go, however, the hospital were unaware that they were about to encounter the wrath of a woman that did not give up easily. Any Latin/Greek teacher worth their salt that can quell a classroom of forty would now have a hay day. She was not amused.  I awoke the next morning engulfed in freshly washed linen, the surroundings unfamiliar,. Surely I had died and this was the anteroom to some unexplained new life. There was no “Alleluia“ chorus playing in the background or angels flapping wings, just a white clad nun that opened and closed the door.  The cross on the wall looked down on me as I drifted back into sleep.

What in reality had happened was that my new friend and her husband had paid for a private room along with all my medical bills. They visited every day with their son, fussing to make sure I lacked nothing, bringing books and papers, clean pyjamas that never fell just how she wanted them to hang. Messages from the local tradesmen were brought along with gifts of wine and food. After nearly two and half months I was ready to return home to my park. The conversation came around to my returning to the UK where they thought I could receive better medical assistance and some form of help. I, on the other hand, put my foot down and refused to do anything about it. Maybe it was just not the right moment - I still had some fight left in me - and the very thought of moving was a road I had no intention of going down!

Almost another five years were to pass before yet again bronchitis hit me and the subject of returning to the UK came back into our conversations. Not only my physical condition but also my mental health needed to be taken care of. The spring of 2008 saw the streets of Rome being prepared for tourists, for me it was the time to allow someone to help me. The family had a small house up in the mountains outside of Rome near Viterbo, if I was prepared to give it a try they would let me spend some months there. During this time they would somehow sort out my document problem and also what to do about getting me back to the UK (I had been without documents since 1983).  Hindered by the worsening of my Parkinson’s, my fear of people and anything to do with open spaces, the task ahead appeared insurmountable.

Before we left for the small village a barber was called to the family’s Roman home.  Six baths later and standing in new clothes we, or should I say I, were ready to make the move. I said goodbye to my piazza and beloved fountain, with a box of wine and food that would feed an army (a kind gesture given to me by local shopkeepers).  I got into their car, never to return to Trastevere and the small narrow streets with their friendly inhabitants.

During the summer, with good food and the quiet of the village, my health improved.  Long walks along the shores and hills of the Lake nearby were paying dividends.  One weekend the family told me that they had found an organisation that might be able to help me on my return to the UK. Persuaded to contact them, I sat down late at night with their son over a glass of wine.  He was about to introduced me to the wonders of the Internet and writing emails.

This was the first contact that I had made with the UK in over thirty years.   I explained as best I could my predicament and sent off an email to Veterans Aid in London.

I can still recall how I marvelled at the fact that, with the simple click of a button, I had just sent my first communication across the web and someone would read it all those miles away in London.

To my surprise, almost straight away a lady called Debbie replied informing me that if I could sort out a passport they would help me on my return. All I had to do was get myself to London and go and see them on arrival; their door was open for me. As Christmas loomed the British Consulate in Rome pulled out the stops to get me a passport and as we sat down to dinner on Christmas morning, among the many gifts that I received was a brand spanking new passport.

During the festive season the family discussed how best to plan my upcoming journey and it became clear that one of them would accompany me. On New Year’s Day, walking along the shore of a nearby lake, I plucked up the courage to speak about it. I had decided that this was the start of a journey that I had to make on my own; there was no other way that I could do it. The time had come to part; this was one road that I just knew in my heart I would have to walk alone. I don’t think I could have borne the thought of them seeing me on arrival in the UK. If I did not close the door on Italy and move on I would never leave the country. The friendship that had started all those years ago would always be there - nothing could destroy it because it had been formed on mutual trust and respect. Now it was time for it to take on a different form; distance would divide us, its spirit would unite us and keep us close. On January 17th 2009, pumped full of modern calming agents, clutching a passport and a ticket, I walked through the departure lounge of Rome airport.  We didn’t say goodbye, rather we just hugged each other; words would have been superfluous and just got in the way.

The cultural shock of the streets of London hit me like a bulldozer; the language, the architectural difference and the weather. Making my way to Victoria where the Veterans Aid office was located, I don’t think I really knew what an enormous step I had made. Debbie and all the staff were there as promised and after being made to feel welcome, large cups of coffee were poured down me. I was to be sent to the VA hostel in Limehouse. As I walked up the steps leading to the main entrance little did I know that behind that door was a woman who would replace my friend in Italy.  Her name is Pat - the manager, mother and friend in charge of the hostel. I was given a room looking out onto the courtyard, my new life had begun. It snowed on those first days and I longed to be back in my piazza and on my bench. Pat made a snowman in the courtyard and placed small orange plastic flowers on its front as buttons.  I placed a cigarette in its mouth and wondered what I’d got myself into.

Of the first weeks I don’t really record much.  My nerves had got the best of me and all I recall are the frequent outbursts of tears and Pat who seemed to be the only one that could quieten me down.  My biggest fear was becoming homeless again; on the streets of London I would die within days. It was as if the thought of losing my room for whatever reason meant instant death, so I rarely left it. Pat’s response to those fears was a promise that never again would I be homeless no matter what happened.  I would have a warm roof over my head, food and clothing and more important than all, human kindness. Something told me that she wasn’t lying and her promise was something she kept. As the weeks passed Pat arranged for me to register with a GP, took me in her car to the neurologists and other numerous hospital appointments. Benefits were sorted out for me and she contacted the Parkinson’s Disease Society and arranged for them to send someone to visit me.

Pat’s office door was and is always open to me, as it is for all. She gave me a shoulder to cry on, never judged me and always listened to me. Her firm way of dealing with people encouraged me to place my trust in her and all the staff that work for VA. Every day she is to be found sitting behind her desk at 6 am sorting out paper work for someone else, already having done a day’s work of cleaning that would put the most experienced char lady to shame.  Now, seven months later I still have my ups and downs or dark days, my unwanted friend still refuses to leave. However, I can now go into the courtyard or take a stroll with a friend, safe in the knowledge that as I put the key in the door, my room is still there for me.

The medication that I take for depression and Parkinson’s is slowly helping me, notwithstanding the fact that it is a degenerative disease.  I’ve made new friends and my new beginning doesn’t scare me as much as it used to. Remember, I was only able to walk this path because someone helped me and I accepted that help.  The friendship cultivated on a park bench changed my life; a family that took the time to see beyond the outside of someone and were prepared to take the risk also, in some small way, found their lives changed. Their words were turned into action and not false promise.  That concept continues today through Pat and all the staff at Veterans Aid.

We have a choice every day regarding the attitude we will embrace for that day. We cannot change our past... we cannot change the fact that people will act in a certain way. We can only move on, pushing forward, looking and searching for new horizons.

For years I pondered the words,

“Last night I dreamed a deadly dream

Beyond the Isle of Skye

I saw a dead man win a fight

And I think that man was I.”

I never died inwardly, utopia would not let me.  My journey is far from over. Where it will lead me I do not know; the epic voyage in this life that started with a gift of a book had open tickets with no destination filled in.

On reflection, Mahatma Gandhi was right when he said, “Nearly everything you do is of no importance, but it is important that you do it”.

August 12th 2009