Peter Maurin’s Easy Essay on St. Francis, printed in this year’s Summer LCW newsletter, refers to Johannes Jorgensen writing that ‘St. Francis desired that men should give up superfluous possessions.’ Similar words are constantly on my mind as I go about my daily business in London. I am typical of the guilt-ridden middle classes, all too aware of our good fortunes, born in the right generation at the right time. 1941 might seem an unlikely year, but I was fortunate enough to be geographically and socially placed to escape the worst events and their aftereffects. I am daily grateful for how things have worked out for me in the eighty years since.
A daily preoccupation of mine is how to give to the poor without becoming complacent, conceited, or indifferent. Living in London over the past 18 years, I’ve become increasingly aware that dropping £1 into a beggar’s plastic cup might be repeated ten times within half an hour, which is a shocking indictment of the steady deterioration in life for some people in my city. So, like most of my friends, I now restrict my offering to one a day and focus on the small, organised charities that have sprung up in recent years to reach wider groups of marginalised people. But I’ve been ‘softly’ mugged (meaning no threats, weapons, or violence were involved) at least twice.
On the first occasion, I was withdrawing money from a cash machine when a man tapped me on the shoulder, distracting me momentarily. He then snatched my card and ran off. I immediately rang my bank to stop the card, but the thief, having memorised my PIN number, had already stopped at another cash machine a few yards away and withdrawn £200.
An off-duty policeman had witnessed the entire incident and insisted on taking me to the local police station to report it. When I later commented, ‘What a sad way to lead a life,’ the policeman gave me a look of sheer disbelief. He had no time for ‘that sort of scum who need locking up.’ The loss was later covered by my friendly, helpful bank, so I was completely unharmed.
Then, the other day, I was walking along an unfamiliar street when a distraught woman rushed up to me and insisted that she wasn’t asking for money, but could I please exchange some cash for a ten-pound note? She claimed the hostel she needed for the night refused to accept cash. Though this explanation seemed odd to me, I wanted to be helpful. Looking into my bag, I did indeed have a ten-pound note, which I gave her. She began pouring the coins into my hand but suddenly switched to pouring them into my handbag.
I walked away, feeling smug (as I tend to after thinking I’ve been helpful), and decided to check the coins. Somehow, by sleight of hand, she had given me only £2. Over the next few hours, I cursed myself for my own stupidity. I warned other people, some of whom said this was an old trick, while others advised, ‘Call the police.’ Nonetheless, I decided to return two days later, and there she was—same place, approaching passers-by with a handful of coins, same patter. I went up to her and introduced myself, whereupon she beamed and said, ‘Thank you, darling,’ and attempted to kiss me on the cheek. I stepped back and said, ‘You short-changed me.’
‘Oh dear, did I darling? Let me repay you,’ she cheerily replied.
‘No, I wouldn’t dream of taking it, but I think you need to get your life sorted out,’ I sternly told her, at which point she turned her back and walked off. Which is what I should have done as soon as she approached me. But, as I said, the urge to be helpful is in the DNA of most of us. That ten-pound note, in any case, represented ten days of not dropping a coin into a plastic cup, so in that sense, it was superfluous to me.
The need to live on one’s wits has been around since the beginning of society, and before the Welfare State, it was probably the modus vivendi for many. But this incident has made me wonder how many of us, in fact, graft from others perceived as far stronger than ourselves. I admit, I enjoy taking home souvenir table napkins and sugar packets if ever I’m invited to posh places to eat (increasingly rare these days, sadly). The recent scandal about our Prime Minister’s wife accepting expensive clothes from a wealthy donor makes me wonder about the whole business of taking from others. I wonder why the acceptance of something we cannot get for ourselves is seen as self-enhancing.
The young man involved in my first mugging was, according to the policeman who kindly helped me, part of a large gang operating all over London for a gangmaster. Some months later, most of them were jailed for 18 months to 4 years. The cost to the state would have been hundreds of thousands, and I wonder whether these desperate men benefited from prison. The second mugging involved a very desperate woman, and it has left me wondering whether I owe her any further obligation. She is clearly in deep trouble, and I know of several places where she might turn for constructive help—should she want it. Equally, I have to recognize that she is a self-determining human, clever and skilled in her strategies to survive in a difficult life.
My social work days are well and truly over, and I am now at the stage of trying to shed as many superfluous belongings as I can bear to part with. In the process, I am discovering that much of my stuff holds deep sentimental value, so my drawers and bookshelves remain stuffed, though no longer over-stuffed. I have to restrain myself from buying things that look lovely in the shop (charity shops, these days). In pondering these things, I discover—not without a wry smile—that I am facing my own deep flaws: greed and covetousness. It’s an interesting revelation. While I am no longer of the self-flagellation mindset, at times it remains irresistible, and I conclude: ‘Must try harder.’
I wonder what St. Francis would say?