Page 18 of A Miracle on Hope Street
‘I was homeless.’
What the hell? Homeless? Oh yes . . . oh God, yes! Yes, I remember now!
‘I remember you, yes, I remember you!’ I tell him. I can barely breathe. ‘Idoremember you! The night . . . are you talking about the night my father died?’
‘Now, you’ve got me,’ he says, letting out a sigh of relief. ‘You gave me twenty quid that you were going to use for a taxi and then another from your purse. Only small change to a girl like you but enough to save a life . . . enough to save the life of someone like me.’
My good God I have goose bumps.
‘To save a life . . .?’ I repeat back to him. My feet are soaking now, my hair is dripping wet, but I don’t care. I need to hear more.
He looks away and closes his eyes like he is already regretting his outburst but it’s too late now. He is as soaked through as I am. His woollen hat is covered in beads of water and his shoulders are damp from the rain. He takes a deep breath and continues.
‘I was suicidal that night, Ruth,’ he says. ‘I had no one to turn to and nowhere to go.’
‘Oh my God . . .’
‘I really was,’ he whispers. ‘I was on the edge of ending my life and you gave me money. It wasn’t much but it was enough to give me . . . it gave me hope and a second chance. It gave me faith that, no matter how bad things are, there is always still someone out there who is good enough to care, if we just look and hope hard enough.’
We stand in the rain, reliving that moment together and I honestly can’t believe that I’m only finding this out now.
‘But why didn’t you tell me this before?’ I ask him. ‘I had absolutely no idea. You should have said to me in the café. You should have let me know.’
‘I was embarrassed, I suppose,’ he says, his face now wide open and honest. ‘Plus, you never really gave me a chance to tell you, either. You always look like you’re in a totally different world, so far away and well, a bit uninterested in my very presence. You never heard me. You never listened.’
Now,Iam embarrassed as I think of all the times he has served me coffees and scones and lunch and how many people I have chatted to in the café but didn’t take any notice of him, or how many times he brought me food to the table and I was so lost in thought that I didn’t even give him a second glance.
‘I haven’t been around long, Ruth, but I’ve watched you gradually slide into a shadow of what you used to be, or at least what your public profile says you are,’ he says to me. ‘You need to start believing in yourself again. You need to start being true to yourself and realise that sometimes actions speak louder than words. A smile with your thank you and a bit of eye contact can change someone’s day. When you looked at me that night on Hope Street, you changed not only my evening, but you changed my whole life just by looking at me properly and not turning a blind eye like all the others did.’
I am flummoxed. I am weak at the knees and I can’t find the words I want to say back to Michael, the faceless waiter who I’ve been so oblivious too. Rather than him judging me like I thought just now, I have been totally blind to who he was and I feel very humbled now to hear that he is admitting to me how he was on the streets and how a simple few quid, a smile and a look into his eyes from a stranger had such an impact on his whole existence.
‘I’m sorry, I had no idea,’ I say to him. ‘I haven’t been myself lately. I’m very sorry if I appeared rude or dismissive to you. I never meant to. Look, do you want to come inside? There’s so much I . . . we’re both soaked through and . . . I’m so sorry if I’ve ever appeared rude, but I can assure you it wasn’t deliberate. That’s not my style. I’m sorry.’
‘You don’t have anything to be sorry about apart from almost scalding me today,’ he says, managing a smile. ‘I have to head off now, but maybe you should try and do something positive again for others and see how good it makes you feel.Doit, don’t just say it. It might make you feel better.’
‘I think I’m all out of ideas, Michael,’ I tell him as the rain now drums down onto the pavement.
‘You can still do it,’ he replies. ‘I should really get back to work.’
I squint through the rain in wonder and awe at what I’m hearing, then Michael gets into the car and waves me goodbye as I stand there, dripping wet now just as much as I would have been had I walked home, but I don’t honestly care.
I saved his life. I gave him change from my pocket, showed him some compassion and it changed his life.
I walk back towards the steps to the house, hoping that, just by telling me that, Michael’s story will help me take a step towards changing my life too. But where would I start?
Right here? Right now? This side of Christmas?
I look up to the windows of my childhood home. Every window holds a memory. If those rooms could talk . . . I close my eyes and hear birthday parties of my youth ringing in my ears and see and smell my candles being blown out on the cake. I hear the nineties music of my teenage years spilling out from my bedroom window, so loud it would cause a racket with the neighbours. I hear my sister and I argue over everything from fake tan to boys to who was the tallest even though I knew she always was. I hear my mother and father talking . . . I hear my mother and father arguing . . . I hear the news from the TV, I hear Christmases of days gone by . . . I hear me crying over Dwayne Simpson who I was sure had ruined my life by two-timing me with Bethany Benson, the biggest ‘bike’ in town.
I feel everything from this house, and I’m not sure if it’s helping me or hindering me, which tells me that I’m right to just let it go.
And then I hear my father sing from the kitchen as he cooked up a storm every Sunday. I smell the roast beef cooking. I see them dancing in the kitchen. I hear classical music on the radio. I hear my mother laughing. I hear me and Ally giggling at dance routines we made up in our bedrooms and I smile as I remember how we would force our parents to watch and give us marks out of ten like we were contestants on a talent show.
Should I give this house up and start a new chapter in my own life? I open my eyes and feel my tears mix in with the rain down my cheeks. Could I let it go? I’m suddenly not so sure.
Chapter Nine
Despite all my reminiscing, when I step inside, this beautiful, wondrous four-storey terraced townhouse feels cold and unwelcoming in comparison to the warmth of Gloria’s café, and once I change out of my wet clothes I sit in the living room as Michael’s words swirl through my weary mind.
