Monday, 7th February
Im twelve now, though it feels as if Ive been on my own for decades. Mum died when I was tiny, and Dad was never around much afterhe just vanished, really. Since then, Londons streets have been all I know.
Every evening, I search for a place to restmaybe beneath Waterloo Bridge, by the back of the British Library, or on benches in Hyde Park, clutching a shoddy old sleeping bag someone threw out. Most days pass with me doing odd jobssweeping steps, carrying groceries, begging for a spare pound or twoanything to see me through to the next morning.
Tonight, the city was cruelly cold, the sort of cold that seeps into your bones. I dragged myself through the city with the biting wind chasing behind me, wrapped in a threadbare blanket fished from a skip behind a charity shop. As I cut down a grim little alley next to a bakeryshutters long pulled downI heard a soft, pained whimper cut through the night. My heart thudded; for a second I thought of running, but I edged forward.
Among dumped cardboard boxes and split bin bags, an old man was lying on the freezing concrete. He mustve been close to eighty, his skin pale as milk, fingers shaking uncontrollably.
Please help me, he whispered when he caught sight of me, eyes pleading.
I didnt even stop to think. I crouched by him.
Are you alright, sir? Have you been hurt? My voice was trembling as much as he was.
He said his name was Mr. Ernest Blackwell. Hed slipped walking home, and just couldnt get up again.
Without thinking twice, I swung off my own blanket and bundled it around him.
Hold on, Ill go for help, I said, about to stand, but he gripped my arm.
No dont leave me, please, he begged, voice cracking.
I recognised the fear. Id lived it myself. I couldnt walk away.
With what strength I had left, I helped Mr. Blackwell to sit up, though it nearly finished me off. Is your house nearby? I asked, muscles straining.
He nodded towards the end of the alley. The pale yellow housejust at the end, he murmured.
Bit by bit, I half-carried, half-dragged him to his doora narrow, faded terrace. The door was already ajar. We shuffled inside, and I helped him into a battered armchair. For the first time all night, I felt warmth.
Thank you, lad, he said softly. I dread to imagine what wouldve become of me if you hadnt come along.
I shrugged off the praise. It was nothing. I just did what I thought anyone ought to.
Mr. Blackwell soon started telling me about his lifeabout losing his wife years ago, how emptiness slowly filled the house afterwards. No family, no friends left. I listened quietly. I suppose I understood.
After a pause, he asked me about myself. Wheres home for you, son?
I just stared at my shoes. Nowhere really. I sleep where I can.
His gaze was kind, and after a moment, he said, This house is big for one. I dont have much, but youre welcome here if youd like. No child should go it alone.
I could hardly believe it was real. For the first time since I could remember, it seemed I might have somewhere to belong.
Tonight, under a warm roof, a simple kindness joined us together: a homeless boy and a lonely old man finding something like family. Hope had found us, in the most unlikely placeon a freezing London night.
