To Four Kind Londoners,
Written by Louise Miolin, Illustrated by Hayley Thoms - October 15th, 2020
A year ago on a hot morning by the mucky Thames I said the hardest goodbye of my life. This is a letter to thank you, you four strangers, for noticing my pain and soaking it up with kindness that morning.
The city sweltered in the middle of July. The evening before, my love and I dangled our feet from a shitty hotel room window. We clung to one another and the heat clung to us. Hour after hour ticked by and sweat mingled with tears as we tried to laugh and stay awake, well aware each minute we spent sleeping was one closer to our parting.
When we did eventually part – a million last hugs later – I walked exactly one street with tears in my eyes before I thought, fuck it, and let out a sob. It was liberating, to cry in the street like that. In Australia, cities are too small to cry in public – with every tear you’d increase your chance of bumping into an uncle or a colleague or an ex. I’d been in England a year, and its anonymity was still novel. I passed countless business people that morning. Their suit jackets wilted in the sun and they stared blearily ahead, too embarrassed to catch my bloodshot eye.
And then the first of you found me. I was power walking by this point, past un-airconditioned cafes and streets that are always utterly charming, except during the few weeks a year when London gets hot enough to smell. You were leaning against old brickwork on a corner, smoking in a pencil skirt.
You called out, “Hey, hun, are you ok?”
I smiled weakly, embarrassed that you had broken out of anonymity and into concern.
“I’m ok,” I retorted, pathetically.
You hollered after me, “Shit love, look after yourself.”
As soon as I walked past you, I wished I hadn’t. I thought about you for hours afterwards: as I lugged my life down cramped hotel stairs and as I drank lukewarm iced coffee and as I triple-checked my flight time. I wondered if it would have been weird to walk back and ask you for a cigarette. I don’t usually smoke, but I could have used one that day. You probably forgot about me within a few minutes, but I remember you well. You were the first to extend your kindness. I’m sorry I didn’t take it Stranger Number One.
The day I left England, Boris Johnson had just been declared PM, and the tube jammed on melting tracks: everything was hellish. I was leaving after a year in Leeds, and I didn’t want to go home. England was freedom, irresponsibility, and my partner – and after years together across Australia and the UK, I had no idea how we’d cope apart.
I’d spent the year surrounded by love, but I was leaving England alone, and everything about it felt counter-intuitive. London is not supposed to be stinking hot. Men with bad hair and worse ideas are not supposed to rule the world. My love and I are not supposed to live on opposite sides of the globe.
This is what I was thinking about when I met the second of you.
I’d cleared my tears enough to see my way through the airport. The plastic liquids bag I’d dutifully reused for a year of travelling finally split as I packed my toothpaste. I fumbled with tiny bottles of shampoo and moisturiser, keeping them – and myself – together, barely.
We met when my bag triggered the scanner. I waited through those dreaded seconds when the tub is perched precariously on the belt before it’s pushed down the wrong slide; the slide that says something is Not Right.
You asked, “Is this your bag?”
I cried, and your face melted with kindness. I’d forgotten to take out my laptop, and when I apologised you quietly asked what was wrong. You were all eyebrows and coiled hair and deep smile, and when you spoke, East London came out. I managed a feeble laugh and said I’d had some hard goodbyes.
You said: “S’orright, we ain’t goin anywhere. You can always come back.”
I thanked you and walked resolutely on. I turned back a second, and you waved me goodbye.
Well, Stranger Number Two, you helped me hold it together for all of five minutes, but your wave was too much for me and I started crying again. This time I was cross-legged on the ground, tethered by my phone charger to a stark white pillar because I’d nabbed a scarce departure lounge power point. I was hysterical now – I actually started laughing through my tears, so absurd and embarrassing was this relentless crying!
Stranger Number Three, you walked like a goddess to my pillar. Striding out of MAC with posture as perfect as your lashes, you handed me a bundle of tissues.
“We’ve plenty more where that came from, babe. You just come over if you need me, alright?”
Number Three, I think you were younger than me, but as your shiny ponytail swished away I thought I hope I can be like that one day. You were forthright and unabashed in your practical kindness. That packet of tissues didn’t last long, but my memory of you has – whenever I see a makeup shop, I think of you.
With drier eyes but a still swollen face, I plonked myself on a bench near my gate. I wasn’t crying now, but the remnants of my morning would stay on my face for hours; I was a patchwork of blotches. Stranger Number Four – the short guy in the green tee – this is how I looked when we met. You stared at me a while, and I was angry with you.
I get it, I thought, I’m a fucking wreck.
In hindsight though, I don’t believe your stare was rude. In fact, I think your stare was a rehearsal for what you did next: you rose from your seat, placed a hand on my arm, and told me “It’ll be ok, don’t worry.”
You walked on before I could respond. I am still in awe of your intuition: you knew I didn’t want to talk or listen to advice, that I just needed some validation. And you were right, short stranger in the green tee. It’s been a year, and you were right: it was okay.
My four London strangers, thank you. You were strangers to one another as much as you were to me, but in my head you all know one another: a dedicated network of kindness.
Sometimes I imagine you all gathered round a dinner table, plotting to help distraught travellers. In a city of stoicism you gave me a little bit of yourselves, and I remember you often. Because of you, I will never let a person on the street cry alone.
"I’d spent the year surrounded by love, but I was leaving England alone, and everything about it felt counter-intuitive. London is not supposed to be stinking hot. Men with bad hair and worse ideas are not supposed to rule the world. My love and I are not supposed to live on opposite sides of the globe."
- Louise Miolin