So, my names Edward. Ive been working the baggage claim and lost property desk at Victoria Station for two decades now. Its always buzzingpeople hurrying about, tannoy announcements blaring every other minute, the air thick with the scent of diesel and Cornish pasty.
But do you know who I always notice? I call them the Anchored. These are the folks who never actually board a train. They sit around on the benches with three, sometimes four, hefty holdalls by their side. Every trip to the loo, every trip to Greggs, those bags come along for the ride. Theyre either between homes or just down on their luck, and literally everything they own is crammed inside those bags. Can you imagine trying to land a job but having to drag a sleeping bag in with you to the interview? Or viewing a flat when you cant leave your stuff anywhere safe? The station lockers are £16 a daymight as well be a kings ransom for most.
Last winter, a young bloke named Jack started hanging around. He looked fresh-faced, smart enough in a shirt, but he was lugging two big suitcases and a hiking rucksack. Parked himself by my counter each day, looking absolutely stuck. Ive got an interview at two, he said to me one Tuesday, kind of desperate. Out near the trading estate. But what am I supposed to do with all this? He nodded at his baggage. If I leave it, someone nicks it. If I haul it in, theyll know Im rough sleeping and thats the end of that.
So, I glance at the Lost Property room behind mesupposed to be for errant umbrellas and the odd forgotten Barbour. Hand them over, I tell him. Pardon? The bags. Ill tag them as Found Pending Claim. That gives you 24 hours. Go smash the interview. Swing back before I finish at six.
He looked at me like Id given him a winning lottery ticket. Instantly slid his bags over the counter, stood a good few inches tallerlike hed had a load taken off, literally and figuratively. He didnt hang about. And at five, he came back beaming. Im through to a second round! he said, almost bouncing.
Thats when I started doing it for others, when I could, sorting a bit of a system. If I spotted someone trying to have a wash in the toilets but battling with their worldly possessions, Id catch their eye and murmur, Tag it? Kept a logbook just for them. Called it The Anchor Register. It wasnt about looking after lost kitit was about keeping their burdens safe, just so they could catch a breather, get a foot in the door somewhere.
Three months went by before the management clocked on. Mr. Fletcher, my boss, found half a dozen extra cases stashed in the back. Edward, this isnt a baggage depot, its a risk! he snapped. Not storage, I said. A lifeline. That red holdall? Thats a woman at an interview down at the café. The blue one, a chap doing his GCSEs.
Pulled out my register. Jack popped back last weekdidnt need to stash a bag. Just buying a ticket. Got a flat sorted. Off to Leeds to visit his mum.
Fletcher stared at the bags. At me. Didnt sack me though. Instead, he cleared out an old cleaners cupboard right by the station entrance. Put up a sign and everything: Work Opportunity Lockers. Free for Job Hunters. Ask for Edward.
Weve even teamed up with the local shelter now. Got an interview? You get a locker token. Easy as that. Im 62 now, still tagging bags every day. But you know, Ive realised, if youre carrying your whole past on your back, its damn near impossible to move forward. Sometimes, the best thing you can give someone isnt a tenner. Its a safe place to leave their stuff, just for a bit, so they can walk through a door with their head held high.
