In September 2001, Victoria Beckham released her album. Reaction to this and the WTC disaster was a prolific circulation of “Man with the Wallet” stories. There were variations on the following theme.
A friend of a friend at a busy railway station in London sees a man in front of her drop his wallet. She picks it up and runs after him to return it. In gratitude, he opens his returned wallet to reward her with a handful of £50.00 notes which he casually pulls from a large wad. She turns down his offer, despite his heavy insistence. Therefore he glances around him quickly, and tells her in a very confidential tone of voice, “At least let me give you a piece of advice which will save your life…..”
And here the story varies from ‘Don’t be in London on 8th October’ (or some other date) to ‘Don’t buy Victoria Beckham’s latest album’.
A colleague of mine told me this story as having actually happened to a friend of hers. At the time, with the events of 11 September and the anthrax scares still very fresh and current, I did not know what to think. But I did recall a personal ‘lost wallet’ story.
It was in the late 80s and I was with some friends in a pub in London. Towards going home time, we picked up a filofax which seemed to have been left behind by someone. We looked inside it and there was a considerable amount of cash: about £150.00. At the time I was a struggling single-parent, and would love to have had that amount for my weekly income, never mind the rent. There was also a photograph of the owner, with his name, address and telephone number. He was not my type: weedy and with a moustache.
Between my friend and myself, we decided that the best thing to do would be to not leave it at the bar with the landlord, but to either take it to a police station or return it to the owner ourselves. We felt that if we left it to a third party, someone might take the cash before contacting the owner, who was Canadian. Expecting that he would not be familiar with London, we felt that we had to help him as much as we could.
The address was one at Clapham Junction, which was just south of the Thames from where I lived at the time, in Fulham, so it fell to me to volunteer to return it. Whether or not I completed my mission, no-one would ever know.
I did not open the filofax again except to get his contact details. I phoned the number the following evening. He seemed surprised that I knew about his filofax when he didn’t even know who I was. I told him where it had been found, and he seemed vague. Anyway, I told him that I could return his filofax if he was going to be in the next day, which was a Saturday. He said that he would be, and thanked me. We agreed that I’d be calling round at about nine o’clock the next morning.
As it turned out, getting to his flat was far more complicated and long-winded than I had anticipated. I had to walk a mile to the bus-stop, take a bus up Putney High Street, take a train to Clapham Junction, and walk another mile to his flat. Although I had left my home at 8.30, I did not reach Clapham Junction until after ten o’clock, and I was beginning to regret my thoughtful deed.
It was almost half-past ten that Saturday morning when I knocked on his door. Because there was no response, I thought that he could not wait in any longer for me, had to leave, and had left me a note so I started to look around for one. There was none, so I rang the bell and knocked again. This time I heard movement indoors.
The door opened, and he stood there, recognisable from his photo in the filofax, but in his dressing gown, unwashed and obviously just out of bed. I kept up a cheerful front and smiled as I handed back his filofax as we exchanged polite greeting words. When his response was far from warm, I allowed myself a cross “You were still asleep! I thought you’d be waiting for this.” He retreated halfway behind the door, held up the filofax in his hand, and said in a most disinterested tone of voice, “Well, thanks for this.”
I was too taken back and shocked to say anything, so just shrugged a shoulder, stepped back to turn around and begin my journey home. I wanted so much to snatch the filofax out of his hand, go right back to the pub I had found it in, and dump it there; but I knew that if I started to do that, he’d call the police and I’d be nabbed for stealing.
All the way home I was simmering and seething. The journey home was again well over an hour, and I was exhausted by the time I got back. His whole attitude bothered me for many days after that, and even into weeks, with the same intensity. It still bothers me today, but in a different way.
I should have helped myself to all the cash in the filofax, stuck pins into his picture, burned the pages and posted the rubbish to his address. Instead, I had put myself out, did a stranger a favour, gained nothing for myself except lost hours and a knotted stomach, and no-one knew.
WELL, DAMMIT – THAT’S WHAT HAPPENED – SO NOW YOU KNOW, SO NOW GO TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW, BECAUSE IF I EVER COME ACROSS THAT TWERP AGAIN, I’LL DO US ALL A FAVOUR AND THROW WEEDKILLER ALL OVER HIM!!!!!