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Joe

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Bundles used to be a tramp in Chelmsford. No one really knew him or spoke to him and he troubled no one. Bundles would amble around, bent over in his filthy, heavy coat, never looking up to catch anyone's eye. I wonder if anyone actually knew what his face looked like. What precious possessions he could not carry with him in his bundles (hence his name), were often to be found, unmolested by any passer-by, in his camp that was in the bushes by the stream that ran beside the cinder track, near where the River Can passes below the railway line. He died probably 30 years ago, unmourned but remembered by many who, like me, saw this gentle man but never spoke to him.