John Henderson sold books just outside West Hampstead station. He was originally from Scotland, and as he would happily admit, he really liked to drink. He used to have a three legged bull terrier called Sugar, and she was the sweetest dog I’ve ever met. She died in 2016, and John died in 2019. I wrote a letter after his death, and stuck it at the memorial for him by the spot he used to sit at.
It’s now been two years since John died:
“When I was younger, my dad used to bring me to work with him on Saturdays. Almost every time, I had to shake hands with the scary homeless man at West Hampstead station while my dad spoke to him for a few minutes. He had a thick Scottish accent and I was a little afraid to talk to him because I was only 7 years old. Over time, I became less afraid, and I suppose I learnt an important lesson that I think a few of us still haven’t – don’t judge a book by its cover.
As the years went by, I began to know him as John, the guy who sells books at West Hampstead. His Bull Terrier was similar to him; you might have seen her and thought it would be better to just cross the road. However, you could not have been more wrong. His dog, Sugar, had only three legs, and she was as friendly as any dog I’ve ever known. She unfortunately passed away in 2016, but a blue plaque was put up to remember her – something John was very grateful for. Eventually, I stopped going to work with my dad, and started going into the city on my own. Still being an awkward teenager, I used to try to walk past John but he’d always shout at me to come say hello.
When I was around 16, I actually stopped to talk to him about the books he sold, and I ended up buying one which I still have today. After that experience, I realised that I no longer saw John as just a man on the street, but as a friend. Every time I went to the station and saw him, he’d see me and get up to give me a hug, then I’d sit beside his dog Sugar and pet her for a bit. He’d ask how my dad was, and he’d ask about my family. If I was with my dad, he’d kiss my dad and we would end up missing our train because we were talking to him. In hindsight, I wish we’d missed more trains.
I remember one time bringing my mum into London and John was there, so I introduced them to each other. Every time she saw him since then, she was always impressed with how polite he was. Near the end of 2018, when it started to get cold, she surprised me by giving me a thick pair of gloves and asking me to give them to him. Sometimes, if it wasn’t busy, John would talk to my dad and I about some really serious stuff. He went into the details about his troubled past, and the difficulties he faced every day.
He spoke about his children, and told us about his living situation – he wasn’t homeless but often slept rough near the station. Occasionally, we would find him a little drunk but he was never any trouble. Many people would also buy him coffee, tea, or a bottle of water. I know that people were generous with food too, and many local businesses would help also. We were never worried because people looked out for him. John had a very challenging life, but he gave me a new perspective on my own, and I will forever be grateful to John for doing so.
When I wrote John a Christmas before he died, I said that he was not only a friend, but part of my family. Today, I have lost a member of my family. Like many people, it will feel very strange commuting through West Hampstead without John being there. I want to thank everyone who took the time to talk to him, or help him. He was a good man, and I will never forget him.”
(pictured with John is my dad)
