Bill Farrelly’s reflection The Beggar who loved to sing was highly commended in The Good Oil 2025 Writers’ Award, which has the aim of supporting and encouraging both emerging and published writers.

Robert Reginald Bagley did not consider himself a beggar, but that’s what he was.

Robert Reginald was 47 years old, six foot four inches in the old money, trim, taut and – if you took the time to listen on those rare occasions when he spoke – terrific.

But he still presented as a beggar.

Except.

Except when he sang. And he loved to sing. And he could sing. And sometimes he kept singing when you didn’t want him to because you had to get to work. To earn money. To put in Robert Reginald’s cup. Or hat. Or whatever implement he chose, depending on his mood or the day of the week.

Robert Reginald, as you probably have gathered, was an eccentric. He looked a bit like Dick Van Dyke. Remember him? Dick was one of the funniest men on television, but that was a long time ago so maybe I should think of someone more contemporary. He was long and rubbery like, um, John Cleese perhaps. Only not as solid.

Anyway, he had this quirky little habit of changing his collection implements.

Most were more or less ordinary and, after a while, you knew what to expect. But occasionally you would walk up from the underground, turn the corner and be taken aback by Robert Reginald, sitting on the footpath, legs akimbo, in full flight, the sweetest alto lifting the spirits of all but the most curmudgeonly, and in front of him would be an antique bedpan. Or a sump. Or a handbasin. Or, for heaven’s sake, a grotesque mannequin piccaninny, hands cupped in supplication.

Robert Reginald was not, needless to say, politically correct. Nevertheless, on that occasion I suggested he would offend less and earn more if he employed a little more tact.

You might be wondering exactly when Robert Reginald was 47 years old. Was it the first time I passed him or was it the last, more than a decade later?

In fact, I don’t know. You see, Robert Reginald told me one day, quite early in our acquaintance, that it was his birthday and that he was 47. Thereafter, each year, he would tell me on a particular day it was his birthday and that he was now 47.

Jack Benny, for those of you who remember, stopped at 39. For those who don’t remember Jack, he was pre Dick Van Dyke and just as funny.

Robert Reginald was not a funny man. Odd, not funny. Although I have told you he was 47, when I first met him he was perhaps in his early forties. But I am guessing.

He appeared to be neither learned nor cultured but nor was he uncouth – piccaninny notwithstanding.

He rarely spoke, even when spoken to. But he always bowed his head and a smile played on his lips when a passer-by deposited a few coins or a-sometimes-crumpled note into that day’s collection device.

You will not be surprised when I say beggars make me feel uncomfortable. More precisely, I feel uncomfortable when I see a beggar. And the first time I saw Robert Reginald, whose name of course I was totally ignorant of – and nor would I have wished to know – I felt decidedly ill at ease.

That discomfort lasted all of half a minute at which time Robert Reginald began to sing. I was stunned. I was rooted to the spot. If it had cost me my job it would have been worth it. And more.

When, after several minutes, he paused, I wanted to shout bravo but, though the traffic was humming and spewing obnoxiously and anaesthetised passers-by scattered past lost in their own worlds, it seemed sacrilegious to break the spell. I scraped in my pocket for the change that, blessedly, was there and dropped it into a small wicker basket. He bowed his head slightly and I took my leave.

He was gone when I returned that evening but he was there the next morning. A part of me wanted to avoid him, a stronger part made a silent prayer his music would transport me once more. But there was no music. Just a beggar and an old upturned slouch hat and a crudely written sign: UNABLE TO WORK. FAMILY TO SUPPORT. I avoided his eyes, focusing instead on the flashing DON’T WALK sign and willing it to turn green.

The next day I took a different exit from the underground so I would not see him. I did not see him. Instead, I heard him. I turned around, rushed down the steps against the hoards of people coming up, dashed to the other exit. I stood transfixed again. I heard no other sound, was ignorant of my fellow-man. At that moment, such was the sensuality of his music, I felt I understood what the Aborigines meant when they speak of singing the land.

The first time he spoke directly to me – it was a freezing Friday morning (I remember because that weekend it snowed in our village for the first time ever) – he told me it was his birthday. He also told me his name. Reluctantly, I am now ashamed to admit, I told him mine. I did not want him – I did not want a beggar – to own any part of me.

Embarrassed, I wished him a happy birthday and placed ten dollars in his hat and hurried away, not wanting to receive his gratitude.

He read my mind and yet I did not feel judged. And so I was even more ashamed.
The following Monday I forced myself to walk by him. He did not look my way but as I passed he began to sing and I felt as if I were at the gates of heaven. I turned, walked back, waited till he had finished and smiled my gratitude.

I never asked and he never offered an explanation of his circumstances. More than once, however, he insisted that he was not a beggar.

Despite the sign indicating otherwise, I suspect he did not have a conventional family. But it may well have been that he supported others less gifted than himself.

By what I later, much later, ordained to be divine providence, I was with Robert Reginald the morning he died.

I was running late (again) and, though I could hear Robert Reginald’s siren voice even before I had reached the subway stairs, I ought to have taken the shorter route and gone directly to my office.

That I did not, I will be eternally grateful.

I hurried to where that music soared, I waited until he had finished, I bent quickly to drop a few coins in his cup and I stopped in my tracks.

I spoke his name but I already knew he would not respond.

Several other commuters stopped and together we tried to revive Robert Reginald. Someone called for an ambulance but one among us was a nurse and she told us what I knew already: Robert Reginald Bagley was dead.

To my mind, whatever else Robert Reginald Bagley was, he was also an angel and if my beliefs are correct we will meet again.

When we do I will thank him for the joy his sublime music gave me.

More importantly, I will thank him for making me a more compassionate human being.