Last Wednesday morning I had cause to be on the platform at
East India DLR station, and the view overlooking the River Thames towards the
O2 arena reminded me of when I first visited London.
I was sixteen at the time, and having lived a somewhat
sheltered life in rural Somerset, the big city, known as Smoke, was a bit of a
shock. The approach was by train on the Great Western Railway, terminating at Paddington.
I was with my brother who was reading theology at Kings College. I told him I
did not like the big city which was crowded and dirty. I couldn’t understand
why so many people were crammed together in terraced houses, street after
street. He wanted to show me Cable Street where, nearby there was a tiny house
in which two Franciscan friars lived. The road was a real dump. People were
standing around chatting, and it felt somewhat threatening.
Inside the terraced property there was a room that had been
converted into a miniature chapel. Within it there was a wooden table, on top
of which was a wooden cross. Half a dozen upright chairs completed the furnishings.
A bible was open before the cross. Only one friar was there to greet us. He
welcomed us into the living room, which was in effect a kitchen with a table, a
couple of chairs and a settee. The doorway through which we came led directly
to the street. Beside the door there was a small sash window almost hidden by dark
curtains that did their best to keep any light out.
My brother and I
relaxed on the settee while the friar made tea. At that moment there was
shouting in the street. Pulling a curtain aside, the friar took one look through
the window and said, “Stay put.” He calmly went outside, and within seconds brought a young man in and sat him down on one of the upright chairs. The
distressed youth was bleeding from a wound on his forearm. We gathered he had
been involved in a fight outside the house. The attacker, still wielding a
knife, fled after the friar bravely intervened.
Our host carefully
washed the wound and dressed it with strips torn from a pillowcase. He
then made a fresh pot of tea. All four of us sat together with few words spoken, until
the one who had been wounded felt it was safe to leave. My brother and I gave
it ten minutes before we left too.
I have other memories of my short visit to smoky London, but that was the most
vivid. I marvelled at the bravery of the gentle friar who was dressed in a
brown robe. Around his waist there was a threefold knotted rope to remind him of his
vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.
Links
Friars and Monks
Cable Street
The O2
Smoke, or The Old Smoke
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