“Fine. Well if it was just for me, it would probably besomething involving nature and my camera,” he replied. “Is that really sad?”
“Not one bit sad,” she said, reaching for her backpack. “Get planning.”
Tom got off the bus at Tottenham Court Road and walked, unsure what he was looking for. He took in Denmark Street with all the famous guitar shops and wandered past The Ivy where editors often took him for dinner, a taxi driving slowly down the road with its light on. He walked through the streams of theaters competing on opposite sides of Charing Cross Road and onward, all the time looking out for someone or something to focus his camera on. Streetlights lit up the pavements and the dawn sky filled the spaces between buildings and rooftops with a navy glow. A man ran past him, breathing heavily as though he’d spent all night pounding the streets in his fluorescent yellow trainers.
Eventually Tom found himself at Trafalgar Square where he stopped for a minute, never having seen it so quiet before. London at dawn truly was a place he was falling in love with. He scanned the giant statues of lions, which were normally covered in tourists, lying empty as they stared out across the park. Tom’s eyes landed on the fountain in the center and his heart jumped as he caught sight of a homeless man beneath it. His head was resting against the wall and as Tom moved closer he could hear the man was singing a sea shanty about winds blowing and bows dipping. Tom slowed, listening to the gentle rumble of the man’s voice as it filled the square. Every so often he would stop and laugh to himself, seemingly for no reason at all. Tom reached for his camera.
He was probably in his fifties or sixties and he had shoulder-length dark brown hair and a white beard. He was dressed in a worn flannel shirt, every button but the top one done up, witha tweed-like jacket over the top. Tom crouched a small distance away, though there was little chance of the man noticing him. He was completely in his own world. Tom waited, his camera pressed against his face, his hand on the lens. Each time the man stopped to laugh to himself, Tom hit the shutter, taking stills. It was after six in the morning and the sun was starting to rise behind the buildings that sat as the backdrop to the fountain, a warm yellow orb filling the sky. Tom’s subject couldn’t see any of this because his back was toward it, but it made the image even more poignant as he sat there, resting against the fountain as the warm glow of light bounced off the high-rises and onto the ground around him.
Tom flicked back through the pictures he’d taken and got the same familiar rush he’d had at the ceilidh; as though he had been present to capture a beautiful moment.
He approached the man, who stopped singing and fixed his eyes on Tom. They were sharp and focused.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Tom started, realizing too late that he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say. “Do you think maybe I could...” He looked around, spying a Pret. “...take you for breakfast?”
The man broke into a grin and Tom wished he’d had his camera ready. He had a couple of teeth missing and his eyes crinkled at the corners.
“Stormy,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Tom,” Tom replied, shaking it. He had a fleeting thought. Did this count as doing something alone? But no, he was fairly sure it was quite the opposite.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took some photos of you,” Tom told him as they made their way from Trafalgar Square and to the café opposite. A few people dressed in suits were walking in ahead of them. Thank Godthatwasn’t the reason he got up early. Tom would never have suited a smart office job. Hisdad had said it to him from a young age and he’d been right. He was always different, apparently, in that way. Never aspired to go down the academic route. “I was wondering if I could, perhaps, use them. For an exhibition I’m holding.” It was only as he said it that Tom realized he was going to do what Daisy suggested. He was going to contact the gallery she’d messaged him a photo of minutes after she got off the bus.
Stormy shrugged. “I’ll tell you after breakfast,” he said, a cheeky smile breaking out beneath his beard.
Tom sent out a silent prayer that he’d say yes. He’d be able to tell for sure when he got them onto his computer and further still when they were edited and printed, but he was pretty sure he’d taken something he was really happy with. Something that, when blown up and put on the wall of a gallery, might take people’s breath away.
“No problem,” he said instead.
Tom sipped his coffee as he watched Stormy make his way through a hot bacon baguette and a cup of tea.
“Why a sea shanty?” Tom asked, wrapping his hands around his mug.
“Worked on the yachts,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “I was the happiest deckhand you ever saw. It takes me back there. If I close my eyes and sing it, right by that fountain, with the water running, I can feel it all.”
“What happened?” Tom asked.
“I guess you could say I chased my dreams so far I forgot what it was I wanted to hold on to, you know? Fell in love with a chief stewardess and worked my way up the ranks until I was captain. We were saving,” he said, raising his eyebrows. “We were going to move to New Zealand, but the higher I went, the sadder I got. I liked the physical work of being a deckhand. I needed it. I lost it all,” he said, his eyes glazing over. “If I’d just stayed on the deck, I bet you a thousand pounds I wouldn’t behere.” He erupted into a raspy laugh, exposing his rotten teeth. “Or I would bet it, if I had it. But if I had a thousand pounds, I wouldn’t be here either.” He started laughing again, rocking forward on his chair.
“I’m so sorry,” Tom said.
“It was all for nothing, in the end,” he said. “Lost the job to booze. Lost the girl. Spent the money. Sometimes chasing it all isn’t what it seems, especially if you’re not feeling it here.” He banged a fist against his chest as Tom watched, swallowing down the lump in his throat. He’d been missing that feeling himself and he was only just starting to realize that.
“There I was thinking you were just singing a happy song,” Tom said.
“It’s happy sad,” he said, shrugging.
Tom nodded. “I guess a lot of things are. I’m actually thinking about an exhibition, exploring happiness,” he said, his brain one step ahead of him. “It’s always more than that, isn’t it? Like, perhaps it’s a more complex emotion than I realized.” He paused, thinking about Sophie. “I took some photos of my ex-girlfriend, thinking she was happy and when I zoomed in months later, she was crying.Sadcrying. The photos of you,” Tom added, signaling his hand toward Stormy. “I thought you were in a moment of ecstasy but I took you at face value.” He stared at his mug, pulling at his lip. “So many of people’s battles are invisible unless we actually speak honestly to one another.” God, where had that come from? And why was he sharing it with this man?
“Of course,” Stormy said. “No one can be happy one hundred percent of the time. You know what I wish I’d done, back when I had more of a choice? I wish I’d just tried to be happier. Permanent happiness sounds impossible, but being happier? Maybe we can all do that.” He pulled up his sleeves, a mass of colorful tattoos exposed on each arm. “And if I had, I wouldn’thave felt like I was failing. I might not have turned to drink to solve it all for me.” His eyes clouded over and Tom searched for the words that might make him feel better, but he wasn’t sure if he had them. “Right now,” Stormy continued, “talking to you, I’m a bit happier, and that’s a good feeling. Especially for a man in my position. So thank you. Thank you for that.”
He picked up his tea and made a loud slurping sound as Tom watched him, in awe of this man who could still be grateful for things. Who could hold on to the good.
“Well, thankyou,” Tom said, meaning it.
“And the laughter...” Stormy added, amongst chewing, “I make myself do it. I make myself do it every day until my body thinks it’s the real deal. I learned it at this laughter therapy retreat.”
Tom shrank back in his seat, eyebrows furrowed. “Laughter therapy retreat?”
