The Night Porter Monologue

THE NIGHT PORTER MONOLOGUE


      I don’t know what it is about me, but people just seem to tell me things. As far back as I can remember people have confided in me. My sisters, my friends, and random people I had only just met on the street, on a bus. The list just goes on. I’d like to think that I have an air of compassion about me but it could equally be that I just don’t have the heart to tell people to leave me alone. There is something about me that is for sure.
      One time I remember I was standing at a bus stop with a woman standing beside me. It took me a few minute before I realized that she was crying. She started talking to me, told me that her husband had died the previous year and she was off to visit his grave. When my bus came I got onto it. I felt like a right bitch the whole way home. The woman wasn’t old, early fifties, and she had lost her husband. All I could do was worry about getting home.  Ever since then I’ve never refused anyone my time. After all what is half an hour in the course of your life? I get told some fucked up stories.
      I used to work in a hotel near a small village in the Borders. I washed the dishes in this hotel, it was a tough job, but I needed it and the people were a good laugh. The hotel was in the middle of nowhere; on a Saturday night I used to stay over in it. I had a good craic with some of the other workers, we use to have a pint and play poker for match sticks. Sometimes I even won.
      Most weeks I couldn’t sleep on that Saturday night stay over. Maybe it was that fact that I was out of my own bed. I don’t know. When I couldn’t sleep I’d go down to the kitchen and make myself a sandwich, that was where I met the night porter. He was a nice man, in his late forties, never married, polite and friendly. We used to sit for an hour or two talking. He’d tell me about his life and I’d tell him about my short life. I think he was flattered by the attentions of a young girl. Not in a seedy way though, he would never have thought anything inappropriate, never mind try anything.
      I told him all about how my dad had just died from Asbestosis. I didn’t want sympathy but I just wanted to air the fact. You see no one ever admitted what was really wrong with him. According to my mum he had emphysema, bronchitis, and asthma. But when I was around eight I remember watching a documentary about asbestos, it talked about the Leith Dockers and how they all worked with it. I said to my mum later that day.
      “Mum, you know how daddy was a docker? Well does he have that asbestos on his lungs?” I couldn’t understand why she cried when she told my dad that I knew what was wrong with him.
      Well, I told the night porter this and he told me a story of his life.
      “I was born in Berwick upon Tweed, when I was sixteen it was Nineteen Seventy Four and there was nothing for me to do.” He said. “Me and a pal of mine were bored so we decided to go on the run! Well we didn’t really go on the run but that’s what we called it. We packed a few bits and bobs and a tent and got a bus to John O’Groats. Once we were at John O’Groats we camped our way down the full length of Scotland and England. We had a great craic, the best time of my life. We slept in fields and worked as casual laborers getting drunk and taking girls out at night.  When we got back to Berwick upon Tweed a year and a half later we expected to settle down, get a job and maybe get married. We were in for a shock. It was Nineteen Seventy Six and there was fuck all work in Berwick upon Tweed, fuck all anywhere north or south of the border. I didn’t know what to do so I did what I had to do. I joined the army.
      “One thing you should know about the British army is that there are good eggs and bad eggs in it. I’ve killed people sure I have, but it was always a matter of life or death. Either I die or they do. I never harmed an unarmed man, I never hurt a woman or child. I joined the army because I needed a job. Some people join because they want to kill people.
      “I was in Northern Ireland twice. One time I remember, och it was terrible. All the Catholics were having a civil rights demonstration in Derry. It was a bloody peaceful protest, but we were there to keep an eye on things. One man was with me, he was a bad egg. I remember that things got a bit rowdy. Nothing militant going on but just a bit rowdy. Soldiers started firing plastic bullets into the crowd; I didn’t fire but I was still there, with them. This man, the bad egg looked at me and laughed. He aimed and fired. Shot a poor wee girl in the back of the head. The girl was only fourteen, there with her daddy and brother. She died, of course, but not before a lot of pain. I remember seeing her being carried to the ambulance, screaming and wailing. The man looked pleased with himself.
      “I often think about that poor wee girl. She’d be forty one now.”
      I often think about that poor wee girl too, and her family. Whenever I hear of someone who is in the army I wonder.