The cardigan

The phone alarm beeped its annoying little beep into my left ear. I had been expecting it, tossing and turning as i had been for the last few hours in the devout hope of succumbing to sleep. I hit the stop button and slumped back exhausted onto the sagged and shagged Elizabethan hotel bed. What would London offer up today i wondered as i forced myself to rise and dressed into yesterdays (and the day befores) running gear. I slipped out of the hotel door to the bemused half interest of the night receptionist and started jogging towards the Thames. It was dark and it was cold. There were no other buffoons on the streets except well rugged up ones who had somewhere to be.

I had been here before long ago and i suspected that the grand old city would not recognise me. Layers of dust separated me from the one who had come before. Layers of waste, disappointment and sorrow as well as layers of other better stuff… Layers of life. What moods did London reserve for me now? What surprises of self discovery and what lessons of enlightenment? Perhaps she is as detached as ever with only ambivalent observation.

I ran past Westminster on the Pimlico side, through the beautiful riverside gardens. The odd sherry bottle lay discarded under park benches and the pigeons slept out of sight wherever it is they sleep. The river was still and dark in the pre-dawn sidereal light and i wondered again where the rowers and paddlers were? It seemed the city was asleep to all sorts of opportunities at this magnificent time of the day.

I washed quickly in the tiny shower and then crammed myself in front of the basin to shave. The dining room was a frantic morning pit stop for this week’s temporary residents of the Sydney Hotel. I sat at a small table that was loaded to the point of collapse with everything a breakfaster could desire. In fact there was barely room for breakfast at the circular dolls house of a table.

As the week progressed, increasingly familiar faces buzzed in and out of the basement cafeteria. All anxious to fuel up on the ubiquitous bacon and eggs for their carefully planned day. The Spanish family with the two young girls whom i had seen at the Camden markets the day before. The couple with the frail disabled teenage daughter who struggled so valiantly with her spoon every morning, seemingly content to lick it after each interminable struggle. I couldn’t watch her without feeling despair and pity even though i knew this was the immature reaction of one who would never have the patience to help rebuild a life so shattered.

There were other Australians there of course behaving as we always seem to do like large Labrador pups; boisterous and slobbering. Sitting in one corner on her own was a woman in her mid 50’s. She was not in the same wide eyed rush as the rest of the expectant, voracious diners. She sipped her tea and stared in a practiced detached manner into the middle distance. This strange woman looked as though she carried the amassed sorrow of the entire city on her tiny cardiganed shoulders. I wondered how she had found herself in the corner of such an ordinary dining room, alone in such an ordinary inner-city hotel. Perhaps she was wondering the same thing. I found it as uncomfortable watching her haunted possessed figure as i did the disabled girl although i could not understand why.

Breakfast finished and i walked out to the bus stop with no particular destination in mind. I got on the first bus and climbed to the front of the top deck. The morning was still cold and most of the locals on the 27 were dutifully coated with scarfs and gloves. I didn’t think it was that cold, but maybe that’s what the season demanded of them. I found myself in the National gallery a short time later. The beautiful cavernous foyer echoed with the footsteps and hushed voices of the steady stream of visitors. I wandered aimlessly spending as much time watching the bustling crowd as the magnificent portraits and landscapes. My eye was finally caught by a long narrow painting depicting Christ standing in front of the high priest.

He stood with dignity and grace, hands bound yet tall and resolute, beaming divinity, exuding love and understanding. The power of the gaze between the two holy men was indeed of biblical proportion: Christ passive and calm concentrating on the question being put to him by the high priest seated before him. The candle illuminates their faces in stark contrast to the rest of the dark yet densely occupied room. Soldier’s long spears and the smug faces of two nearby priests highlight the danger. Christs answer to the wordlessly painted question of Caiaphas will have to be a good one.

I sat down on the padded bench in front of the painting, mesmerised by its power and beauty. The raised finger of the high priest next to the single candle flame suggested that Christ was the one light even though his immediate situation suggested otherwise. Van Honthorst had created the illusion that true power rested with the meek albeit with the benefit of 1600 years of historical hindsight.

I ruminated on the work for some time. Faceless people sat next to me every now and again and then moved on. The bustle of the crowd sometimes obscured my view and i was half aware occasionally of loud asides and opinionated comments. Then i saw her, standing near the perpetually staring bust of some immortalised yet long forgotten duke or earl or king. How appropriate i thought that the cardigan woman from breakfast should choose such a style of art to wait by. Maybe that is how she perceived herself with all her resolute aloof resolve. She stood there across the room unaware of my interest and seemingly unaware of everybody else as well.

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