Biding Time

It's been a busy week in London doing very little, and I really can't believe I've been in the flat for 2 weeks now. Job-wise, I am still unemployed, and possibly quite unemployable. So when not stressing about work, I fill my days with sightseeing, catching up with friends, and sun-drenched relaxation. When I think about it, I really don't have the time to get a job right now. I've always dreamed of having a socialite's lifestyle, and I woke up one day last week to realise that I had it (albeit without the socialite's budget). Perhaps in the absence of gainful employment, I can find some volunteer work for an hour or two or day. A local hospice or pet shelter, perhaps. Seriously though, I did try and find a small amateur film project that I could volunteer on, but I got bored after ten minutes of looking on the net. I think I really do not want to work right now.

Because of the move, my sightseeing activities were on hold for a week until last Thursday when I decided to visit Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Covent Garden station is on the Piccadilly line, as is Hyde Park Corner. So it was a cinch to get there. I arrived at the south-east corner, adjacent to the Park Lane Hilton that I have written of previously. I walked into the park, bought a sandwich and coffee, and found a quiet bench to read my free copy of the Evening Standard Lite (similar to the free papers offered at Sydney and Melbourne commuter stations). Read from cover to cover, I offered the paper to an elderly man who sat next to me about five minutes earlier. He seemed frail, but of solid build, with glasses and thinning grey hair. I figured him to be around 70.

I finished my coffee and readied to leave, but before I had a chance to get up, the man struck up conversation. He remarked that he didn't need to read the paper's weather report because he worked it out. You see, last week it rained on Monday, was sunny Tuesday, rained Wednesday, and yet sunny again on Thursday. The old man figured it would rain on Friday. Innocent enough conversation, I thought, and so I was engaged. At my prompting, he gave me a short precis of London's seasonal weather patterns, making reference to how the weather was so different now to how it used to be. I agreed, believing Australian summers to be much warmer now than when I was a child. The man said that it all changed very quickly, and the last time there was a normal summer was back in '49. In an instant, I knew I was trapped talking to an old man, who might be quite insane, but partly out of boredom, partly out of (dare I say it) pity, and certainly with some curiosity, I decided to stay an d listen for a short while.

Not that it was a chore, of course, as he had some very interesting stories to tell. I love World War II history, especially from those who lived through it, and so I got very interested when he told me that he joined the fire department to avoid being enlisted. He did that in the summer of 1940, around the time of the blitz. Perhaps sensing that I was doing the mathematics, he volunteered his age. Born in 1913, the man is 92 years old, but as noted previously he doesn't look a day over 70.

The old man had a funny way of chatting. More dissertation than conversation, he barely let me get a word in. His tone was somewhat monotonous, but regularly punctuacted with brief pauses. Sometimes I tried to use the pauses to advantage, and interrupt, but he'd ignore me and continue with his story. I later realised the pauses were for dramatic effect, but of such precise length that it was really hard to detect the premeditation.

Charles, as I later learned his name to be, was born in the country. His father, a coast guard, was forced to frequently relocate the family because of work commitments. When I enquired how he came to live in London, Charles almost spat the answer, "because my father went and fucked it up". Turns out there was some diddling of the financial records at the coast guard station where his father was posted. Dad turned whistleblower, but without fully investigating the extent of the fraud. His complaint didn't reach higher than the people involved, and Dad was soon set up on something or other, and forced to resign. Sometime during this little anecdote, Charles described his father as "a dumb cunt", almost spitting the words out, and shattering any illusion that I was chatting with a senile, dotty, old man.

I ended up on that park bench for almost two hours, and most of that time was spent talking with Charles about movies. Leaving school around the time of the depression, Charles realised he needed to find work as soon as possible. By this time the family was in London, and Charles was employed as a movie projectionist. This mini career lasted ten years from 1930, starting with silent features, then steadily switching to the talkies. He worked at several cinemas, one of which seated 4000. It turns out we have similar tastes in old movies. Charles is especially fond of Hitchcock's visual storytelling technique, which is to be expected as both men were introduced to cinema when it was silent. But for most of the time we talked about Chaplin. Not just his films (and Charles was quick to offer long summaries), but also Chaplin's life. This came about because I foolishly mentioned that I liked Richard Attenborough's 1992 biopic. Charles was almost apoplectic in dismissing Attenborough's effort. He used language that put Attenborough firmly on par with Charles' father. And thus began the long, ever so long, retelling of Chaplin's life. I was interested, but the length and detail, and those killer pauses, had me regularly plotting my escape.

A curious thing happened not long before I did manage to escape. An elderly woman approached us, arm outstretched proffering a folded newspaper. I thought it might be his wife, although nothing he had said suggested to me that he was married or that his spouse was alive. From their brief conversation I realised that this woman was a regular patron of this little Hyde Park nook. She knew Charles, but probably only from the park visits. Her departing greeting was something to the effect of "see you tomorrow".

Charles and I introduced ourselves only just before we said goodbye. He lives nearby, adjacent to Marble Arch, and, in response to my questioning, I learned that he visits Hyde Park every day. In his words, he "finds someone to talk to". I am sensitive to the loneliness that sometimes accompanies late life, which accounts for the pity I described earlier. What I hadn't counted on, perhaps out of youthful conceit, was that this man was actively warding off that very loneliness with his daily park visits. The dramatic pauses, the selective hearing, and the slick raconteur style all came together for me in an instant, and I realised that this guy was a professional chatter. Nearing his centenary, but not content to merely sit at home and bide whatever remaining time, he goes to the park every day like people go to work. And I can tell he loves his job!

As we said our farewells, Charles gave me his address and telephone number, and invited me to go to his place to watch some Chaplin shorts on his "little TV". Fearing being trapped even more than I was at the park, I'm keen to simply catch up for a coffee and listen to some more stories. Still, while I'd like to see him again, I think there is something quaint about a one-time chance meeting, so I am really not sure what I will do. Then again, Charles probably knows all this already. I wonder how many people since that day have taken my place.