A Good Day

Charlie Montford, or " Monty" to his friends, and to his enemies for that matter, bent to his task, his back creaking as he lifted the nearly whole dog end from the roadside kerb. There could be rich pickings by the bus stop on the High Street. The weary looking shoppers perpetually tested the theory that if you lit up a cigarette, it would make the bus appear. The veracity of this idea had a direct correlation to Monty's overall wellbeing. The warm, dry Summer had dispensed with the rigmarole of drying out wet tobacco to incorporate into his tin and the bus queues gifted him with barely smoked cigs which were good to just  light up, needing no processing. His weather beaten face folded itself into a grin as he pondered on whether to light up now or save it until he had rustled up a brew from somewhere. Decision made, he fumbled around the many pockets of his sun bleached combat pants for any one of several lighters stowed about his person. You can't  have enough lighters. Having located one, he sparked up and sucked deeply on the concoction of poison and bliss until the first hacking cough of the day gathered in his toes and worked its' way tremulously through his body to explode from behind his remaining teeth, assaulting the ears of the potential bus passengers. Ritual complete, Monty savoured his smoke as he considered his next port of call.

       Earlier in the day, Monty had risen from one of the benches on the Promenade that hadn't been fixed so that the homeless could not lay down on them, causing an affront to the eyes of the better heeled as they walked their pooches in the bright morning sunshine. Tuts and indignant gazes were water off a duck's back to Monty. Besides, the hypocrisy of these people was palpable as a large section of them would reach for their dog shit carrier bags as their canine companions would assume the position and casually curl an egg down while the eyes of their owners would flick about furtively to check if anyone had witnessed the occurrence, and, if the coast was clear, casually walk

 away, pocketing their unused poo sacks. Hypocrisy. The dog shit of the World, left for somebody else to deal with. Monty packed his camo rucksack come pillow with his blanket  and left over cider, stretched out the familiar aches and pains and ambled off for a patrol of the bus stops. Ambling was a part of the lifestyle and Monty's amble had a particular  finesse. Years of practice had gifted him a classy gait.

        Monty had joined the army at seventeen, proving to be a fine recruit and well thought of. He came unstuck in the stark hillsides of East Falkland in eighty two, as a twenty year old in two para. At one point, he was forced to endure a three hour mortar barrage in sparse cover. Terrified, imagining that every crump! crump! And blast would be the last thing he ever heard. It was there, on the chilly slopes of Mount Kent that Monty had lost his marbles, then his army career, then his ability  to hold down a job and finally his wife. In despair, he joined the army of the road and never looked back.

       Dog end patrol over, he headed for the supermarket in the hope of receiving some coffee and hopefully  a steak bake

 He perched himself cross legged on the floor,  near the entrance and extended his hand,  adopting the thousand yard stare that aided him through the numbness and cramp of his awkward positioning. Monty existed here to gather enough money for a couple of bottles of Frosty Jack, which served to make the night times more bearable. On good days he could garner enough to buy a pouch of virgin baccy too. Today was a good day, apart from the couple who had stood above him arguing about giving money to " beggars ", he postulating that it was wrong to give " them" currency as they would only spend it on alcohol and drugs, and she, who just wanted to reach out to him with her pound coin. Monty reflected on the husband's statement and wondered if he should perhaps add this coin to his portfolio or put it toward a deposit on a three bedroom semi. He kept his deliberately grubby hand out, adopting a doleful look which he directed at the wife who eventually succumbed with an apologetic smile, handing over the golden nugget. Pleased with the outcome of this interaction, Monty considered raising his middle digit to the husband as he departed, still chirping on about the merits of giving the  money to charity. But, he thought better of it. He would have dearly loved to give the man a gift of a week on the streets to discover what intoxicants he would be reaching for by the end of it.

        It was the Winter that bit deep. Even in the last weeks of Summer there was a foreboding among the ranks of the homeless regarding the onset of the cold weather. The dark months where the World became deadly and intolerant. Insidious in its desire to harm. Government policy, or, "reform" added new members to the numbers of deeply disenfranchised every year, while the Winter created an equilibrium in stealing seasoned  souls away. Once set in, the cold did not abate. It clung to you and worked it's way through however many layers you had attained from church halls and charitys in preparation for the onslaught. The cold stayed with you and whispered in your ear to remind you of your mortality. The anxiety caused by need to find a warm enough shelter every night was exhausting and Monty, a veteran of the cold, feared the start of every Autumn. 

        Nevertheless,  today had been a good day and the Sun had warmed him through to his bones and with a pocket full of gold, Monty had decided to seek out Ronnie " Smudge" Smith to see if he would put him up for the night in exchange for a couple of Frosty Jacks. Smudge was Monty's oldest pal. He was a smackhead but he had a flat. It was a bit threadbare but it had four walls and a roof and that would do for Monty. He knew where to find him on Friday tea time. He would be sat at a table in the church hall with a mug of tea, reheated KFC, mashed spuds and beans. Monty found him, joined him and had a feed himself. While there they caught up on events and reminisced on better days, the rule of nostalgia being that past times were always better. They shared a few laughs regarding people they knew both dead and alive then they had another brew and shuffled away filling their pockets with spare food. A quick trip to the offy and it was back to Smudge's to while away the evening. Smudge's front room was bare floorboards due to him setting fire to the carpet when he was off his tits one night. Monty picked his spot. He didn't need his sleeping bag tonight as it was toasty warm in the flat. He used it as a mattress. Smudge was preoccupied on his threadbare three seater, messing about with his gear. Monty selected the corner with no draughts where he could watch the sun setting. He had two bottles of Frosty Jack, a tin full of roll ups, five lighters, a safe place to sleep with a toilet and toilet roll where he wouldn't get his head kicked in.Today had been a good day. He started about his Frosty Jack and enjoyed his smokes. Smudge had entered his own private World and was currently laid out drawing patterns  in the air. As the cider did it's nightly job Monty's eyelids began to droop and he felt himself drift into slumber. His eyelids too heavy to open now, his breathing slowed and steadied, he could feel his dream coming on. A slight smile played across his mouth as he welcomed it into his mind.

        Now he stood in the wooded glade. Everything was the colour of the little cubes of paint he owned in a box of water colours he was given as a child, right down to the egg yolk yellow of the buttercups which dotted the lush, verdant grass of a scene where it never rained. In a well practiced routine, he looked down at his boots and noticed the brand new laces. He felt around his face and head where the scars of half a lifetime of hard knocks had disappeared. He ran his tongue across a full set of pearly white ivories that now resided in his mouth. He tried out a toothy grin, very successfully he thought as his attention was drawn to the orchard of trees to his left. He strolled the thirty or forty yards to them noticing the uniform brown bark and the leaves, always in the two shades of green his paint box allowed him. The trees were always in fruit in Monty's dream. One variety had new boot laces hanging  from it while another bore freshly laundered, warm, hole less woolly socks. The best trees of all provided lovely, ready made, barely smoked dog ends and Monty lithely jumped up and plucked one from a  lower branch in a way that he wouldn't be able in the other World, sticking it behind his ear in the same movement. Monty moved through his dream, carefully checking that everything was in its place right down to the royal blue sky and white fluffy clouds. He arrived at the clearing where there stood a white marble plinth next to a fountain on top of which stood a plate of red hot steak bakes for his delectation. The fountain gurgled as it flowed with a continuous supply of chilled, sparkling Frosty Jack. He laughed quietly to himself as he carried on with his routine and mounted the marble step up to the fountain, picked the dog end from behind his ear and put it to his lips. He selected a lighter from one of his pockets,  lit up and drew deeply. As he exhaled the blue grey smoke. He turned to face the point where the trees thinned to reveal the grey outline of Mount Kent in the background. Monty gazed at it for a moment, much less ominous now, in his own place than it had been so many years ago as a frightened young squaddie. He reached for the tin cup that always resided on the lip of the fountain and dipped it into the clear, cold liquid, raised it and pointed it towards the distant upland 

        "Cheers and bollocks to you" he announced as he took a deep draft of his beloved Frosty Jack...Today had been a good day.