Hand Me Down World by Lloyd Jones Read Free Book Online

doing. That’s one of the harder questions I’ve had to answer recently. What am I doing? There’s only one answer I can give her. I tell her I don’t know. She says I must know, otherwise, why would I be lying on the bench? She puts down the washing bag. She asks, ‘Did something happen?’ Am I experiencing chest pains—again? She insists on taking my pulse. By now I’m sitting up. I tell her I’m fine. She’s fussing over nothing. Just because she saw me lying along a bench doesn’t mean I am dying. Many people lie on benches. I’ve seen them myself. ‘Who?’ she asks. I nearly say black people. Instead I say, ‘Members of the public.’ She says she can’t recall the name of a single person who she’s seen lying along a bench like a common drunk. So that’s the problem. But she’s smart enough to shift tack. She reminds me of my father’s death, my uncle’s death, the whole motley collection of hearts whose club I have no choice but to accept membership of. In the end she makes me promise to see a doctor.
    Well, that night I get up for a piss. I check on my way to the toilet. This time the woman is sitting on the bench, very upright. I decide I won’t flush the toilet. I don’t want to wake my wife. I put on a dressing gown and slip my feet into a pair of sports trainers. On the landing I have a change of heart. The only people out in dressing gowns and trainers in the middle of the night are nutters. So I go back inside and put on my clothes. I slip out of the apartment. I take the stairs. The lift at that hour can wake the entire building. It is very late. Four am. For some that is an early hour. For me it is both. Possibly more late than early. Depending on chess nights. There’s no one else around. As soon as I come out to the street the woman looks up. I have an idea she had been sleeping. An African face. That’s a surprise. You don’t see many blacks around here. Up north in Rome, yes. On the beaches selling trinkets, those tall, robed guys with skullcaps, and on TV. I used to watch a lot of NBA; that was back in Split. I wander across the road, hands in my jacket pockets. She gets up. I hold up a hand to show that I mean no harm. She’s in a smart blue coat. There’s a plastic bag of belongings beside her. When she sees me look at it she quickly picks it up. The view from the window was misleading. I can see she’s not your usual piece of crap whose life has bottomed out on drugs or bad luck. It’s probably why I ask if she would like a cup of coffee. I’ve never offered a stranger a cup of coffee before in my life. I’m surprised how normal and natural I sound to my own ears. I’m also surprised to hear myself say that I’m an insomniac, which isn’t true but could be. She puts her plastic bag down on the bench. In English she explains that she doesn’t like coffee. I know some English from the British soldiers stationed in Split. My English wasn’t good enough for communications. Socially it was good enough. Funny to think of them still there playing tennis and cricket while we are now in Italy. My wife is Italian, which is why we are here.
    A taxi with a single person slumped in the back goes by. I begin to notice the cats. During the day I never notice them, but at this hour the streets are filled with strays. The place I had in mind for a drink is closed. So we set off for another one which I prefer anyway. After ten minutes’ walking we discover it is also closed. Our lack of success has made her nervous. She wants to return to the park. We’re standing under a street light. For the first time I get a good look at her. She’s young. Mid to late twenties. She might be older. It’s hard to tell with blacks. I ask her where home is. She doesn’t answer—not at first. But because I continue to wait for an answer she says she has no