Care? We don't even want to know: Contact with a mentally handicapped man teaches Brian Jenkins something about society's - and his own - prejudices

People always try to avoid David. This is a pity because David is one of the friendliest people around. Most days he commutes by train, and he always tries to talk to other passengers; but they usually ignore him. Apart from being so friendly, what makes David different from other commuters is that he is mentally handicapped.

When I first saw David (not his real name), I put him down as someone to be avoided. But it was not easy. Every morning there he would be, chatting to whomever was around, shouting greetings to the platform staff and waving to the train drivers.

Most people he spoke to quickly acknowledged him, and walked on. Everyone else, including me, steered clear. Then one day he caught me unawares. I was reading when I heard a voice close by: 'Hello'. I looked up and there he was, grinning widely.

'Oh, hello,' I mumbled, forcing a smile, and turned back to my book. He said something I could not understand. 'Pardon?' I replied. He repeated it; again I could not make it out. Not wishing to appear rude, I replied, 'Oh really?' I tried to look engrossed in my book and wished he would go away. He did not. Instead he became my regular travelling companion.

Every morning I shared half an hour on the train with him and while I never found out much about him, I learned a bit about myself and my prejudices, and something about our society.

David must be in his late forties, he is just under 6ft and quite stocky. He has difficulty walking, and shuffles his feet. His short-cut hair is grey. He is always smiling, and there is nearly always a drip on the end of his nose. His clothes seem to fit badly, his trousers sag and his blue jacket is a little small.

He always sports a few railway badges and carries a shoulder bag that contains his notebook and packed lunch. When he reaches his destination for the day, he will stand on the platform, noting down the numbers of passing trains, and later will noisily eat his cling-film- wrapped white-bread sandwiches.

Every day he would shout his greeting across the crowded platform. I felt everyone's eyes on me. They seemed glad it was me, not them. Sometimes I heard comments like, 'It's all right, that man must be looking after him' or, 'They really shouldn't let these people out.'

A few years ago Jasper Carrott exposed our fear of mentally handicapped people when he asked 'Why does the loony on the bus always sit next to me?' By laughing, we shared the feeling.

As I spent more time with David, I wanted to find out about him. But anything other than questions such as where he had been and where he was going were met with a blank smile. Once I told him I had seen a very unusual train. He asked me if he was going to see it. I replied that there was no way I could know, but he asked me again and again if he was going to see it.

I believe David lives with his family, and I presume they pay for his travels. As he is out and about almost every day, and occasionally he goes farther afield for a few days, his fares must cost quite a bit, even with his Disabled Person's railcard. Perhaps he had an accident that left him like this, and he is living off the damages or a pension.

One day he showed me some photographs, mainly of trains, stations and gardens. One picture was of an elderly woman. 'Who's this?' I asked. 'My mum,' he replied indignantly, as if I should already know. There was another one of him and a young woman. They were standing under a tree. She looked friendly and kindly. He had his arm around her. 'That's my girlfriend,' he said.

Some time later I met him the day after his birthday, and he told me about the presents and cards he had received. But, he added sadly, he had not received even a card from his girlfriend. This was the first time I ever noticed his smile fade.

There was a time when I found myself almost envying David. He did not have to worry about his job, his mortgage, or the rust on his car. He spent every day doing what he liked, train spotting. I thought there was something endearing about this adult with a child's outlook. Then, when I caught him off guard, I saw he looked sad and lost. And I remembered that children have sadness and frustration as much as, if not more than, adults.

After some weeks of commuting together, I started to tire of his company. The difficult conversations that led nowhere were hard work. David did not respond to the usual polite signals. I was trying to tell him I did not want his company, but he did not understand.

I had to face up to a dilemma. Should I treat him as an equal and explain that I needed to be left alone, or should I make a special allowance? The one thing I did not want was to hurt his feelings. In the end I decided to do what I wanted: I explained that I needed to work on the train, and asked if he would allow me to get on with it.

It did not work. In the end I would avoid him at the station. I would duck behind pillars or lurk at the end of the platform. But sometimes he would still see me, and would rub my nose in my guilt by coming over, full of smiles, to say hello. Occasionally he would offer me a Mars Bar, or ask if I wanted a coffee.

Then I changed my commuting pattern, and I no longer caught the same train as David. In a strange way I missed his company. For months I did not see him, then one day, out of the train window, I saw him on the platform. There he was smiling away, talking to a woman. She obviously was not enjoying his company.

I realised how awful we are: David is seriously disadvantaged, and yet all he wants from the rest of us is a bit of friendship. It made me see how the concept of 'Care in the Community' was flawed. As a community, we just do not care, we do not even want to know. And that is probably our loss.