Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 2

A (his given name's initial not his condition) was not the only long-term listener that day. A man found his own spot sitting on the same steps where I had had the delightful surprise of seeing, a few weeks ago, the London friend from my teens whom I thought was in Hungary. This man stayed seated. He didn't approach, he didn't leave, he didn't speak, but he did stay within earshot. Meanwhile a woman approached somewhat gingerly. I can't remember what began the conversation, but it was undoubtedly her response to a song after which she confessed an interest in Fenland history. She asked where my boat was moored and I gave the non-committal answer I reserve for this question. I would not dream of approaching a stranger in the street and asking for their address, but people don't appear to see that asking where my boat is moored amounts to the same thing. Seeking a diversion from the ensuing silence I talked about how the banks that held these waterways in place constituted the longest cemetery in the country. She sounded doubtful. I got on to the subject of the slave labour used to build the Fenland waterways and explained how Rex, the late husband of one of the lock-keepers, found the skull of a young boy at the lock. I asked her if she knew about the numerical nomenclature of several of the Fenland drains - the Sixteen Foot, the Twenty Foot, the Forty Foot, the Hundred Foot Drains or Rivers. She tried out the usual responses - width, depth and so on - but in the end I told her I would sing a song to explain it all, "Every Foot Of Progress". She confessed to not knowing any of this and asked me for my sources. I suggested she look for Trevor Bevis' little book, "Prisoners Of The Fens", which was my source and basis for much of the historical information in the song.

She was grateful for the reference. She later wrote me a message on Facebook admitting that she had missed many of the words. I sent her the lyrics. It seems that A had found a new person to talk to and was trying to get her attention right through the song. At least that meant he was no longer standing directly in front of me and other people could see and hear me more clearly. 

The town was beginning to shut down for the day and it felt like it was time to call a halt to this session. As I began to pack up the silent man on the steps approached and said how much he'd enjoyed the songs. As we talked he said he'd only been there to pass the time while his friend was having his hair cut at the barber shop across the road. There must have been a very long queue or his friend was enjoying the most high-end coiffure available because the silent man had been there for at least an hour. Quietly he told me that he thought I'd been very patient "dealing with" A. 

"I don't think I'd have been as patient," he confessed.

In my turn I confessed that I didn't know what else I could have done. I don't know how much of the conversation the silent man had heard, but I don't suppose A chose his alcoholism. Alcoholism chooses its victims and doesn't care. It ruins lives indiscriminately. A may have made it harder for me to concentrate, but he wasn't doing anyone harm. He was also very apologetic when I asked him every now and then to stand to one side so others could see and hear more clearly. It was interesting how he kept creeping forward like a moth to a flame, but he was very biddable when I reminded him. The silent man took this in then dug into his pocket for some change which he dropped into the hat. He also asked to buy a CD, which made me very happy.

"It's for my mum", he said, "I think she'll really like it."