Chapter 1 “So now, ladies and gentlemen, we’ve turned off Parkgate Street and we’re heading into the Phoenix Park, the biggest enclosed park in Europe. Dublin’s playground, you might say...
That’s the famous Wellington Monument on your left. That’s right – named after the Duke of Wellington. The Battle of Waterloo and all that. And over there on the right you can see the Garda Headquarters – that’s the police headquarters. And over there as well, just past the headquarters, you can see Dublin Zoo. There’s a secret tunnel connecting the two of them – that’s just a little joke. And down below, down that hill there, you can see the Hollow. I beg your pardon? The building down there? Oh, that’s the bandstand. There’s no band today, though. Sorry, was that another question? Who are the men sitting down there in the bandstand? Oh, they’re – well, they’re homeless men. From Eastern Europe. And over there, to the left, you have the Phoenix Cricket Club, founded in 1830. Now, does anyone on the bus understand the rules of cricket? Hands up, don’t be shy.”
He is not homeless. But his home is far away and it is more than six months since he has seen it. He sits here, at the side of the bandstand, every evening. Before it gets dark. Before he goes to find his tent. He sleeps in a tent. His wife and son sleep in their beds, at home. They do not know that he has no bed. He has not told them, and he will not. He has slept in hostels but he prefers the tent. Especially now that it is summer – or, it seems to be. The cold can still surprise him. A hot day changes into a cold one when he turns a street corner. A blue sky can darken in minutes. He came here, to Dublin, for work. He had a job at home but the articles he read in the newspapers talked about wages four or five times higher than he could ever earn at home. He discussed it many times with Kasia, his wife. There were reasons to go, reasons to stay.
He stands up. He picks up his bag. He nods to the other men. Tonight, there are seven. He does not know them but he has seen some of them before. He will see some of them again tomorrow. He used to think differently. He used to think that he would find a job the next morning, on a building site, under one of the big cranes he saw everywhere, and that he wouldn’t have to sleep in a tent again.
He climbs the slope, out of the Hollow. He looks behind – none of the other men have moved. He likes it here, in the park. Or, he would like it if he was visiting, at the weekend, with his son and his wife. He stops walking. He takes out his wallet. He looks at the photograph of Andrzej, his son. His smiling three-year-old boy. It was his birthday two weeks ago. He looks at the picture now, because it might be too dark by the time he has pitched the tent. It is too gloomy among the trees, where he feels safest. There are some cars parked along the avenue. They seem to be empty. And more cars being driven, but not many.
There are no people walking that he can see. He walks towards the trees. He knows exactly where he has hidden his tent. He bought the tent in Lidl, for €16.99, two months ago. He also has a sleeping bag which he brought with him from home, and a foam mat. He is in among the trees. He looks back. There is no one following.
He unfolds and erects the tent. It takes only a few minutes. He uses a stone to hammer the pegs into the soft ground. He removes his boots and sits into the tent. He unfolds the mat and then the sleeping bag. He takes off his trousers and climbs into the bag. He opens his other bag, his rucksack. It is darker now, but he can still see. He takes out two cans of a beer called Dutch Gold. He sits in the bag as he slowly drinks the first can.
He never opens the beer at the bandstand. The sight of a can seems to make some of the other men restless, perhaps dangerous. And he does not like drinking beer that way, in public, as he has seen homeless men, and even women, do. He is not homeless.
The beer will help him sleep. He does not drink the second can. He puts it back in his bag. He lies down. He listens to the wind, the branches. He hates this time – this short time before he sleeps.
