The dark shadow in the doorway rises and falls steadily, accompanied by the occasional grunt, the odd snuffle, and sometimes an unmentionable noise. He knows who it is, so is not afraid. The Shadow is one of the street people of Neuilly and is often to be seen around the Marche - sometimes taking refuge from the wind, and maybe the rain, in the bus shelter, or in the porch of the BNP bank or, if it's cold but not raining, laying over one of the warm air vents from the underground car park below the Marche. On the occasional snowy day, the Shadow may be seen in the foot tunnel of the metro, hurrying commuters side-stepping the prone body. He once saw the shadow make unspeakable use of the bus shelter, quite unconcerned about any audience. He was always disturbed by the odour emanating from the clothes, long overdue the pummelling of a washing machine, and the sight of the Monoprix supermarket trolley, brimming with belongings of the kind even a rag and bone man would avoid, just made his stomach heave. He once saw another of the street people, in a deep stupor, at the rear of a skip that had become a make-shift bedroom whilst it stood outside the post office re-build. He remembers feeling deeply perturbed, thinking the skip might be collected, together with its human detritus, and the contents removed to one of the rubble heaps in the caverns beneath he city streets. He thinks the locals of this very smart area are mainly tolerant of the street people. He has seen baguettes being offered fresh from the boulangeries and, on the days of the Marché, fruit and other comestibles change hands in their direction. Sometimes a kind madame, or monsieur, is seen to drop the odd coin into a proffered plastic cup. He has never seen the shadow proffer a cup, nor ask for funds, but quiet delight has been expressed when he has passed over a fifty cent piece, or perhaps a euro. Was the Shadow really a nobody? Wasn't the Shadow a somebody to someone? There was undoubtedly a story to tell. How did the Shadow come to be in such a plight? Had this pathway been chosen or was it a forced eventuality? What could be the reason? What was the previous way of life? Where had the Shadow come from? Had there been good times and what brought on the bad times - for surely this was a bad time? What about family, friends and work? Was anybody missing this person, maybe wishing and waiting for them to return home - or praying that they wouldn't? Sometimes when he'd called at Le Relais for a pre-dinner aperitif and sat at an outside table or near the window he could see across the Marche and discretely observe the Shadow. The age was indeterminate but he felt homelessness must surely add years to one's appearance. He'd once caught sight of something gold upon a wrist that didn't correspond with being a street person. Stolen property - or a memento left from the past? Another time he'd had a glimpse of some oddly lustrous hair, a residue of her feminity. So many questions that he'd not the courage to ask. Even if he had, his French wasn't up to understanding an in-depth explanation... .................... Le Anglais in the Rohan coat was sitting outside Le Relais, sipping an aperitif. He often came by her with a jaunty tap-tap of his stick. Sometimes he handed her a coin or two. She would wonder what brought him to Neuilly and what he did here. She'd formulated so many questions about him that she did not have the courage to ask. Even if she had, her English wasn't up to understanding an in-depth explanation... Carol Greenhalgh April 2012

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