Helping Donna

So,

it’s been sunny this morning

then rain,

heavy,

now sun again

and light hazes through spring leaves

dappling the cycle path

as I walk down the ring road.

Will she be there?

I can’t stop myself thinking it

and my heart sinks a little.

She often is.

Sitting

crumpled in the Waitrose underpass.

- Can you spare any change?

- Sorry, love,

I often lie,

I haven’t got anything today.

Or there is an almost grudging,

embarrassed

reaching for my change purse

and a fumbling count through change

trying to judge the right amount to give

that will balance

the desire to give

with the desire to walk away,

that will alleviate guilt

and still leave enough for a bus fare

or a snickers.

It’s my money

but if I stand there trying to choose how much to give

the whole business becomes sordid,

ridiculous,

layered with guilt and inadequacy.

After all – what’s she going to do with it anyway?

Just drink it…

But is that really the point?

She needs it more than I do?

Does she?

Then give it all.

But then I won’t have any for…

emergencies…

Then don’t give her any…

But that’s mean!

Giving grudgingly

is no gift at all!

So,

today,

I’m thinking ahead.

I’ll sort it out now

before I get there

and so I fetch the change purse

from the bag on my back.

A quick count through and I reckon I’ve got

thirty pence

I can spare.

Thirty pence?

Really?

Is that all?

Oh,

ok.

I have another look and take out the fifty.

Fifty?

Yes, fifty, that’ll have to do.

Otherwise I’m giving her coppers,

and you certainly can’t do that.

Well you can’t.

But you've got thirty

and that wasn't in coppers...

Look, it's fifty, ok!

it's just...

neater!

Ok.

So,

I’m coming to the underpass

and I can see her

across in the opposite subway

– my exit –

where she always sits.

There she is

wrapped in a damp blanket.

She’s under cover

but the rain has come kicking down

the passage under people’s feet

and has puddled up the concrete

 to where she sits.

What’s her name?

Her name..?

Yes.

I don’t know.

What, you’ve never asked?

No, why should I?

She’s a person, she must have a name.

Yes, well,

I’ve never asked.

Donna…

Donna.

She’s probably thirty five,

Donna,

but looks forty five –

yes, forty five with added wine.

She’s trembling under the blanket.

Not shivering,

it’s bigger than that,

it’s a shaking grown up from a shiver,

it’s a quaking grown from disease

and fear.

But I’ve got my fifty pence

ready in my hand.

How generous am I, eh?

I’m not even going to wait for her to ask,

I’ll just pop it in the woollen hat

she’s got sat

on the ground in front of her.

Down it goes,

“There you go, love!”

There, I’m helping - 

Helping Donna.

Donna’s actually still saying it

“Can you spare any change, please?”

after the deed is done

 and then she’s trying to find 

the energy for a thank you.

She can’t raise her eyes to mine

but she lifts her eyebrows

and mumbles a weary

“Thangyu”

But I don’t need thanks –

I’m so generous, me

- that was fifty pence, remember,

not thirty,

fifty!

Just at this point,

a woman corners

into the underpass,

bowling from the Waitrose end

towards us.

She’s floating along,

energetically,

riding her buoyant hips.

She’s a busy thing

and she spies Donna,

helpless.

I’m past her now

and just as I reach my

clean getaway

I’m hearing her say

“So,

do you know where you can get food?”

She’s taking charge,

showing practical support,

helping Donna,

and my fifty pence,

is melting

like a chocolate coin at Christmas,

and my generous glow

is fading to ashes.

And the last thing I hear

as I re-enter the outside world

is a strong

and determined Donna,

suddenly revived,

and the words she utters

fill my heart with a strange,

mischievous joy

as she gives a resounding

“Fuck off!”

to this Good Samaritan.