Haringey's Song

Music plays in my head as I wait at the bus stop. The tune is tiny
and meek, like the dawn.

A middle-aged man stops in front of me. His eyes point in different
directions. He speaks slowly, chewing the words.

"Its me birfdee on Wednesdee." He says.

I look up, over him. The sun is still pulling itself clear of the
rooftops and timid light glints off the stranger's head.

"Oh, right." I say.

"Wednesdee, wednesdee." He looks so eager.

I smile. I look into his eyes. There isn't much to see there.

"That'll be nice." I say, without looking away.

He seems happy with that. After a moment's hesitation he walks on,
taking tiny, shuffling steps. I watch him go. He stops again at the
traffic lights and taps the driver's side window of a white van with
his fingertips. The driver leans out. Words are exchanged. I can't hear
them, but I reckon I know what they are.

The sun has made its escape and it hovers above the tiles and chimneys.
Its light is bolder and I feel a touch of warmth on my neck.

"Why wait for the bus?" I think and start to walk.
My feet find a rhythm on the pavement.

Bom

Ba

Bom

Ba

Bom

Ba

My strides quicken and the music grows louder in my head. Other sounds
combine, like an orchestra. The beeps of a pedestrian crossing, the
rattle of a security shutter, the revving of engines. They make a song.
It is the song of this place and it grows loud and strong. I let it
fill me.

To my left and right are the grocery stores. They never close, their
produce laid out in tidy rows. From them come words.

- apple - carrot - mango - banana - potato - coconut - kiwi - cassava
-

The song is nearly complete.
One man stands at the door of his shop, throwing a loop of worry beads
over his finger. He is small and dark and thumbs his moustache as I
pass.
From the bakery next door, the smell of fresh bread creeps up my nose
and makes my stomach ache. Inside, the girl behind the counter is
serving an old man.
"Kalli Mera" She says. Her voice is kind. She giggles. This too becomes
part of the song.

The music rotates inside me, looping and starting again. My breathing
is deep and satisfying. Ahead I see the old dread. Seeing him makes me
smile. Every day he's in the same place, outside the pub on the corner.
Sometimes he speaks to me, sometimes not.
Today he does. His words interrupt the song, but I don't mind.

"Where ya goin?" He asks.

"To work."

He's walking beside me now, stride for stride.

"I feel sorry for you."

I smile.

"Ya want some sense?"

"Its 6.30 in the morning." I shake my head.

"Best time." He says.

I smile again and he shrugs, slackening his pace, letting the distance
grow between us. As I leave him behind, the music builds again.
I reach the brow of the hill and a bus pulls up, emptying itself onto
the pavement. The crowd spills into the station. I am reluctant to join
them, but the streets are becoming busy. I have to go inside.

I take a long look back down the hill, towards the colours and smells
and life. Towards the place that makes the song. Then I turn my back on
it.
With heavy feet I enter Manor House. It is dark and grey and crowded
and airless and the song fades and dies.

Until tomorrow.