A bridge too far

My son has a good job. He’s been in London now for nearly six years and has paid off all his student debt. He’s even got himself a girlfriend, but he said it was too soon to bring her home this time.
He hasn’t told me much about her apart from they work together and her dad’s a lawyer down there.
It’s a bit of an awkward meeting — his mum, my ex-wife used to hold all the family conversations together — she never shut up basically and it annoyed the hell out of me in the end. That, and the denial of her problem — the elephant in the room as the glass recycling box got progressively heavier every second week. The blue covers had blown away ages before and the whole street could judge us based purely on fortnightly alcohol consumption.
We’re heading out for some lunch, my treat, and then to watch the rugby. Mark says he couldn’t face it in London on account of it being Scotland vs England.
There’s a pub on The Royal Mile we’re going to eat at before heading down to the Cowgate in time for kick-off. The city centre is chaotic as expected and I’m looking forward to my first pint as we make our way down Waverley Bridge, the late-winter wind still carrying a bitter chill from the north.
Then I see a guy out of the corner of my eye, sitting staring at the pavement in a hunched position. I stop briefly to do a double-take before Mark tells me to hurry up.
I’m sure I know him though and it’s really bugging me that I can’t think who he is. Mark starts to walk back towards me, clearly annoyed that he’s had to turn around.
I go to put a pound in the man’s empty coffee cup, when he lifts his head and looks me in the eye.
“Thanks pal, God bless,” he says. And that’s when it hits me.
Mark’s not in the mood for hanging around and grabs me by the arm.
“What are you doing? Staring at some down and out? Come on!”
Nobody uses that phrase anymore and I feel a tinge of shame when I realise he probably first heard it from me.
I decide to tell Mark who the guy is, and his face drops. He looks like he did when I had to tell him the dog had been put down at the vets all those years ago.
“It can’t be,” he says and then walks off slowly before breaking into a sprint.
I sit down next to the guy and he already knows.
“It must have been a right shock for him,” he stammers slowly.
“For me too,” I reply.
Mark’s biological dad had to give him up when he was three after his wife got run over and killed by a tour bus just yards from where he’s sitting now.
He’s seen him a few times over the years, but not since he finished High School.
About 10 minutes later Mark sends me a text saying he’s just boarded the 12.35 service to King’s Cross.
