11 November 2006

It is a full hour before the parade starts and I see trucks passing in front of me dropping saw dust onto the black empty streets that are usually thick with sound and metal. “Must be for the horses,” I say to the gentleman who has just walked up beside me to lay claim to his one foot square of private space within this very public space right in front of St. Paul’s. Then I think to myself, “What if there are no horses in this parade and this man, this stranger, is thinking that what I just said was really stupid.” But he just smiles and I realize I like him. A grandstand fills behind us and people flock and secure themselves on either sides of the street behind the barricades. I feel something rising along this route that is expanding everyone. I buy a 2 pound Union Jack from a passing vendor and wave it hesitantly. The patriotic upsurge lifts me just underneath my arms and pulls me high over London, like a victim being rescued.

The conversation begins with my new parade mate. He’s friendly but I never feel scammed or once-overed by him. We’re both just very excited to be right here, right now. He tells me he hasn’t been to a Lord Mayor Show since he was a little boy. He’s 81 and flashes of his memory go off in my head, of another London. But for now, he wears a black long single breasted wool coat with a red poppy growing out of his lapel–white shirt, tie, and a black beret to top him off. He looks at his flag in my hand and with apologetic pride; I tell him today I am British. He doesn’t see me as a typical American usurper but seems to be pleased with me. Though I haven’t earned this flag, he does not seem to mind me borrowing it for the day. I enjoy taking in his face as he talks. The years have softened this strong man’s features and his eyes must have looked the very same when he was twenty. On his face, there appears a boyish blustery red tint that reveals the chill in this mid November morning.

His name is Lloyd and he was in the war, the second one. In the late part of the war he was 18 and working as a reservist in a factory as a mechanic. He said the women would keep asking him why he wasn’t fighting when all their husbands were. So he finally went to the recruiter to sign up because he just couldn’t take it any more. The officer told him to stay right where he was because that’s where he was most needed. But he went through several channels, higher up on the food chain, until they eventually allowed him to volunteer. He joined the army and was a gunner in a tank squad. He said, “I killed a lot of people, but that’s what you did then, you had to.” I could tell it still bothered him. He said he knew those men had mothers and families. There in front of me was a boy in uniform confessing. We discussed the war today, the situation. I asked him how he felt about Iraq. He was deeply troubled by it and he felt we needed to leave. He said he was glad he was leaving this earth soon so he wouldn’t have to worry about the troubles ahead. I told him his family would be upset if they heard him say that. But I was the one upset. I suddenly loved this old man standing beside me. I wanted to put my arms around him and tell him. I wanted to give him peace and forgiveness. I wanted to give him reassurance. But I said nothing. I listened.

He told me he used to get so angry and was ready to fight anybody who wanted to have a go at him, but he had calmed down a bit now. He said he went to church but it wasn’t out of faith; it was because he loved being around the people there. He said he believed in God, but he had more doubts now than he used to. He said you went to church when you were little because you didn’t have a choice, but that there are so many religions–how was he to know which was the right one. He told me that he was once a debt collector and would go to people’s houses to repossess things. He had to stop because he couldn’t handle it. Sometimes he had to go off alone and get by himself for a while or he’d just lose it.

We talked about the immigrants coming into the city and he said that when he came to London now it just wasn’t like it used to be, that he hears other languages far more then English now. Sometimes, he says, he gets upset about it and rants about it to this wife and family, but then he realizes he should just listen because he may not always know what’s right.

As the parade gets ready to start I ask him about the different uniforms. Some policemen are wearing red sashes and I ask him what that means. He tells me to just go up and ask them, and if they don’t want to talk to you, just go your own way. I cringe at his push for me to go ask questions of a stranger, and he points to his cap. “See this,” he says pointing to a silver insignia on his beret. This means, “Fear not.” I wonder how many times he’s had to say those words under his breath.

The parade begins and bands play in full uniform before us; we have the front row. Big bushy black hats march in perfect step, instruments glinting. This atmosphere has me electrified, Lloyd must be bursting. Rows of men clop past us on prancing, black horses beautifully dancing. Horse drawn carriages of politicians and civil servants go past. They wave with furry tiger hand puppets. A brigade of tank soldiers goes past and spies the medals on Lloyd’s overcoat. They whisper to each other, point to him, and then salute him. One of the walking men in army fatigues comes right by us, palm up, and says, “Hello, young man” to Lloyd. He’s been acknowledged. It’s as if they’ve looked into him and have seen his soul. There is instant understanding and camaraderie. He is one of them.

As the Lord Mayor comes past in a fairy tale carriage that I’ve seen before in the LondonMuseum, he waves frantically out the window. His appearance signals the end of the parade. People begin the mass dispersion, and I turn to my new friend. “I’m really glad I met you,” I say. I shake his hand with both of mine. -----