THE QUALITY OF MERCY

I used to live in London,England, and for the duration of the time I lived there, I was a member of a large choral society called THE GOLDSMITHS CHORAL UNION. It was the third largest choir in England, and were proud of the fact that they were the only choir who somehow kept going during the WWII years.

They rehearsed in a large hall near Charing Cross Road. I’d go to rehearsals on the tube (underground) and for the duration of the trip there, I’d take out my music and try to learn my part (I sang second soprano). One evening, I was sitting on a seat that pointed sideways, and was quietly humming the notes on my music sheet, propped up on my lap.

There was a buzz of conversation going on around me and suddenly it stopped. Curious, I looked up to see what had caused it, and saw a man had entered my railway car who had caused a ripple of disquiet to run through the carriage. It became obvious why – people were struck by his appearance which was, to put it mildly, bizarre.

He was a tall man, over 6 ft I’d say, gaunt and very thin. The first thing that struck me about him was his air of quiet gentility. No street bum he, no he was gently born and carried himself with an erect posture, that belied the way he was dressed.

It was winter time, and he wore a coat that was too small for him, the sleeves only reaching halfway up his long arms. It was clean, but incredibly tatty and was secured in the front by five rows of large safety pins.

Under his jacket he wore a shirt, with a grayed collar also pinned tightly to his neck, probably for added warmth.

His trousers were dark gray and had patches at the knees. He wore a tatty woolen had which he deferentially removed from his head as he took his seat opposite me.

Then I noticed his feet. They were shod in shoes whose soles were missing, obviously padded from the inside with newspaper as were his ankles.

He struck me as having been a man of class and status who had, for some reason, fallen on hard times, and had given up trying to climb out of the poverty pit in which he’d found himself.

Everyone in that carriage shuffled uncomfortably. They looked away, but kept darting him quick glances, very surreptitiously. Their disapproval was so obvious that you could’ve cut it with a knife.

He felt it too, and I watched him cringe, shutting his eyes momentarily, to blot out the hard accusatory looks cast his way, that told him as nothing else could, that his presence was unacceptable in that railway car.

Suddenly, he turned to a woman sitting next to him. He held out his railway stub and asked her “How far can I go on this ticket?”

She looked at him in scorn and contempt, got up and moved to another seat. He cringed again.

This was more than I could bear. I got up and sat down next to him. “Here, let me see that ticket,” I said smiling at him. His mouth fell open in astonishment, then he broke into a huge grin. He did not smell of alcohol, so I knew he wasn’t a drunken sot. Silently he handed the ticket over.

“Where is it you want to go?” I asked him.

“Waterloo – I sleep under the bridge there.”

“Yes, that will get you to Waterloo Station,” I replied. I paused. “When was the last time you had something to eat?” I blurted out, blushing furiously, worried he’d be offended.

“Can’t really remember,” he said wistfully, “But I think it was breakfast yesterday.”

I promptly dug into my handbag, took a sandwich I’d brought along with me for supper, and handed it to him.

He unwrapped it lovingly, broke it in half and offered me the other half.”

“No, it’s okay,” I lied “I had a big lunch and I’m not hungry.”

Although I’m sure he was ravenously hungry, he ate that sandwich slowly, savouring every bite, a look of rapt pleasure and intense enjoyment on his face.

And then something strange happened. People getting off the train stopped by us, and pressed money into his hands. I have never been able to figure out why, minutes previously they’d been hostile and resentful of his presence, but now all of a sudden, they were giving him money. Go figure.

He blinked back tears as he thanked them. So did I.

I concluded that perhaps this change of heart on the part of our fellow passengers, was because indeed, the quality of mercy is not strained. Well I like to think it isn’t.