Is it really only a few weeks ago that we were still gathering in a crowded room above a pub to eat, drink, socialise and deliver our ThreadMash Five pieces to an eager audience of ourselves and others?
Yup.
But in these unprecedented times (oh boy am I becoming sick of hearing that phrase, “unprecedented times”) the only way we can ThreadMash is remotely.
So that’s what we did.
The brief for TheadMash 6 was set at ThreadMash 5. Rohan waved a leather-bound notebook emblazoned with the name “Charlotte Thomas” at us. Rohan had bought that notebook cheap in Paperchase on the Strand. Someone had ordered it before Christmas but had not turned up to collect it. “Who was Charlotte Thomas?”, Rohan wondered. The brief was simply to write a short story that addressed that question.
Eight of us have written Charlotte Thomas pieces. Four of us addressed the mystery of Charlotte’s leather-bound notebook in our stories.
Here is my story, steeped in the experience Janie and I had volunteering for Crisis At Christmas. The character, Sharla, is based on several of the vibrant characters we met at Crisis. As far as we know, none of them were actually named Charlotte Thomas in real life, but then again, you never know!
THE NIGHT OF CHARLOTTE THOMAS
The karaoke was in full swing. Not the best karaoke we’d ever heard, frankly. But also not the worst. This was not your semi-professional karaoke of regular singers hoping to be spotted. This was impromptu karaoke. Informal, party, Christmas night, karaoke.
We heard one of the guests belt out Delilah, rather well, in a strong Middle-Eastern accent. Then we heard another guest belt out My Way…badly. Daisy and I couldn’t see the karaoke. We were in earshot, well within earshot, but we were on duty and had to remain at our post.
Then we heard Sharla sing. We didn’t know that she was called Sharla at that juncture, of course, nor did we yet know what she looked like, but we did know that the quality of the singing had gone up several notches, above and beyond the Delilah guy.
“…I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key, If I’d known…”
Daisy gave me one of her “I’m impressed” looks. I responded with my “too right” nod. I wished that I could go and have a look over the balcony to see this singer, but that would have meant breaking the rules and leaving my post. I wasn’t about to do that.
About five minutes after I Will Survive had finished, a pint-sized, super-confident-seeming female guest came up to our station and engaged me and Daisy in conversation. Sharla was only one or two words into her husky, deep-voiced opening gambit with us and we both knew we were being visited by that singer.
In truth, Sharla had taken a shine to Daisy, not really to me, although she seemed interested in both of us once she learnt that we were not just a duty pair, but an actual couple in real life. At this stage, Sharla pretty much asked all the questions and Daisy provided most of the answers.
Soon after Sharla moved on, Daisy and I were reallocated to a different station; ground floor. It was getting late by then, perhaps midnight, but quite a few guests were still milling about.
We chatted with several interesting people down there, before hearing the unmistakable sound of Sharla singing. The karaoke had long since finished. These were snatches of songs, mixed in with chatter.
“Pull up to my bumper baby, In your…every time we say goodbye, I wonder why a little…”
Daisy complimented Sharla’s singing again and asked her if she’d ever considered singing for a living. Sharla told Daisy that she wasn’t the first person to have asked her that question.
Later, Daisy and I were advised to wrap up warm for front door duty. Now about 2.00 or 3.00 a.m., Boxing Day morning, gosh it was cold out there. A few guests still hanging out, some having a smoke, others just having a chat. Sharla appeared around the corner, a large mango in each hand. She told anyone who’d listen that a local 24 hour shop had given them to her. She vehemently denied the suggestion that she might have “liberated” them without the shopkeeper’s consent.
Sharla seemed in her element outside; indeed she told us that she was so used to rough sleeping, that she felt more in her element outside than inside at that hour.
Sharla must have spotted that I was feeling cold – at least Daisy had been given a padded hi-vis jacket to wear, I just had one of the flimsy ones…
…Sharla darted inside and badgered one of the indoor volunteers, who was wearing a fleecy hi-vis, to swap with me.
“Thank you, that was very thoughtful of you, Sharla”, I said, wondering why I hadn’t thought to take that action myself.
“I’m very grateful to you volunteers”, said Sharla, “unlike some of the fucking dickheads around here. I’ve seen some of ‘em being so fucking rude, it’s a fucking disgrace. I was in a bad mood last night, but I’m never that fucking rude to volunteers. I’m ‘avin’ the best night ever tonight”.
Outside, Sharla opened up to Daisy more than before. Sharla talked about her disorganised upbringing and the similarly chaotic upbringing to which she had subjected her own children. She talked about the drugs and the prostitution and the rough sleeping. She talked about her family in Jamaica and her desire to visit them. Not all of Sharla’s stories quite stacked up, nor were they all entirely consistent with each other. But all her stories were eye-opening.
“You have led a fascinating life”, said Daisy, “you should write your stories down and get them published.”
“You’re not the first person to tell me that”, said Sharla. “In fact, just last week, down by the Strand, I was talking to a nice gentleman and he said just that. He said he’d buy me a leather-bound writing book with my name on the front as a Christmas present. He even wrote down my full name and made me spell it out for him. Charlotte Thomas”.
“Ah, Sharla stands for Charlotte”, said Daisy, “our niece is called Charlotte.”
“Nice,” said Sharla, “anyway, that nice gentleman never showed up with my present.”
“Maybe he’ll show up with your present after Christmas,” said Daisy.
“Nah,” said Sharla. I knew he wouldn’t and I know he won’t. People make promises like that all the time, but they don’t really mean ‘em.”
We didn’t see Sharla again for the next few hours. We were on various dormitory floor duties and Charlotte Thomas was clearly not one for using the Crisis beds.
The last time we saw Sharla was at about 7:00 in the morning on our last duty; near the entrance, making sure that incoming daytime volunteers and wandering guests all went in the right directions. We replaced another pair who very quietly pointed to a sleeping Sharla, sitting in a chair, her upper body sprawled out across the table, fast asleep. “She pretty much fell asleep mid-sentence while talking to us”, a grinning volunteer told us, in a whisper.
And there slept Sharla…Charlotte Thomas, for the rest of our shift. The arms of Morpheus had finally got her, just when most of the other guests were getting up and starting to mill around again. What was Charlotte Thomas dreaming about, I wondered? Such a life she leads, so many stories she has. She really could do with that writing book. Maybe that nice gentleman really will turn up on the Strand with her gift after Christmas.