The Street is bustling tonight. It's Friday. Time for letting off steam, seeing friends, or simply indulging in your vices. You know the ones. The ones catered to on Holland Street.
Where the cops don't go unless they are called by the bouncers, or to collect their weekly pay off.
It is going to be a good night. Break time nearly over. Time to be getting back inside.
Glance across the street and up three floors to the dirty, peeling windows that look blindly out, heavy curtains cutting off all bar seams of light. Fourth window along. Know very well what is behind those curtains. One room with dingy and peeling wallpaper. Furniture that a hobo would sniff at. A few meagre possesions. The one I love more than life, who makes everything bearable.
The light is on. Not started work yet then. Drop the cigarette butt, carefully grind it out underfoot. Old habits. Strange how they stick with us, when no longer needed. The street is hardly going to catch fire. Turn to re-enter the bar. A second glance up, as the light clicks off in her room. Her shift is starting.
Moody, the bouncer, sees the direction of my gaze. He pats me once, gently, on the shoulder as I pass.
"We'll keep an eye on her, man. We always do." His voice is harsh, he is not. Not to the people who live and work here on the Street. Give him a nod of thanks. He'll do it. Last time a guy tried something on with her, Moody, and Silvio from next door, tied him in a knot.
Through the doors to a blast of noise. The smell of weed and tobacco is overpowering, the smoke hanging in the air like a fine fog. Sure, it's illegal. But this is Holland Street. Laws don't apply here. Get back behind the bar. My leg is killing me. Gonna rain soon. But not tonight. Drop into the mindless routine of serving up drinks. Some for the bar sitters, more for the tables. Hands working automatically. Gives me time to think. Too much time. The girls waiting tables get the big tips. They earn them. I get the odd drink bought for me by the rummys who sit at the bar. I pocket the money, and drink ginger ale. Every penny extra is worth it.
Longing for just a single glimpse of my beloved. To remind me why we are here. That it is all worth it.
Once upon a time, there was a small farm. Nothing much really, but we made a living by working hard. Just me, my wife and our daughter. Didn't have much money, but we had love and laughter aplenty. Music too. My mothers piano was in constant use. We had 9 happy years.
Then came the drought. Our savings dropped and dropped. We have been through them before. Hard, but survivable.
There she is. She always starts her beat near the bar and gives me a wave if she can. Looking fine tonight. Tight shorts, a gossamer top, heels. Just the right amount of make-up, hair artfully disarrayed. A guy walks up to her. Talks, smiles. She nods and they walk off down the street together. I grip the edge of the bar. Doesn't matter how many times I see it, that hurts so fucking bad. Like someone ripping out my heart. Every fucking time. Love hurts. Not loving hurts worse.
Then came the accident. A coma. Oh, we put her in hospital, sharpish, but treatments cost money. Money we didn't have. Getting to the city to see her was a nightmare. We couldn't even afford fuel, insurance, nothing. Ate what we managed to raise, and damned little of it. Every penny went on her.
With heavy heart, we decided to sell the farm. Then came the fire. I woke, in hospital, with a leg burned to almost uselessness. Of my beloved, there was no sign. Just the money coming in to pay the hospital bills. There is only one way here for a woman to raise enough money for that.
Holland Street.
As soon as I was discharged, I went looking for her. It really didn't take long to find her. My love. My life for the last ten years. As I healed, I started to work. There are good people here, they helped out. Found me a job, look out for her. There is a lot of love here on Holland Street.
We still have the hospital bills, true. Every single extra penny goes to them, to keep life support going. To stop them pulling the plug. We agree on that.
2 AM. Shift end. Not cleaning up tonight, that is Reg's job. Wearily limp across the road to the transient's hotel. Room 319. It isn't much, but it's home.
Make a cup of tea, and heat some soup on the hotplate. She'll be home soon, and hungry. Rattle of the key in the lock, and she enters the room in a blaze of glory. Beauty personified. Beauty soiled, by what she has to do. She smiles at me, melting my heart once more.
"Dad, can we go see Mom tomorrow?"
