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From a Ragman's Handcart to a Taxi
By the time I was eight years old I had become used to the beatings from my father. After that last beating I had, as I saw it, no choice - I had to go away. It was perfectly obvious that my real parents just weren't coming for me. There was no chance of that now. No new clothes. No hot food. It was a foolish dream. But what the hell, I didn't need them. There must be lots of places to go, lots of things to do. I could go off and find a wallet full of money and take it to the owner and he would welcome me into his big castle and I'd become a prince and my father would have to kneel before me and I'd keep him waiting and I'd spare his life and... My day-dreaming was broken by the sound of voices. The milkman was talking to my mother. His hand roughed up my hair but I didn't object. It felt kind of good so I smiled at him. He was the only person who ever did that and I always rewarded him with a smile. I would often wait for him at the corner of our street. When he came in sight I would run up to him and he'd lift me up high onto the seat overlooking the horse. I would then ride my covered wagon down the canyon. When we arrived outside our front door he'd let me climb down all by myself and he'd rough up my hair. He always looked so smart in his brown overall, and his leather money-bag made him look very important. He never rode the cart himself. He never had to, for the horse would start and stop all by itself. It was a fine grey horse with enormous hairy feet. It wasn't as big as the coalman's horse, nor as handsome, but it was friendly just like the milkman.
I looked up from my doorstep day-dreams at the horse and thought it right that I'd not had a ride today. I thought instead about how good it would be to ride him like a cowboy. Ride him right into the screen at the picture house and join the other cowboys forever. I'd ride alongside of Tom Mix and kill all the baddies. I wished I'd had a gun. With the gun cocked I'd walk straight up to my father and put the gun to my head and pull the trigger. Then he'd be sorry. He'd cry and everyone would tell him off. Then he'd really be sorry. The milkman was gone and my mother was saying, 'Go on, go and play, I'm going to scrub the step.'
Play? Did she really think I could play? And then, what was the point in scrubbing the step? It was clean enough already. She always scrubbed the step after one of those nights though, just as she would scrub the living room. No amount of scrubbing would clean the house or me for that matter. None.
As I walked aimlessly towards God knows where my attention was drawn to Dago's house. We all called him Dago but his real name was Malcolm Davies. His family were the first family in our street to ever go away for a holiday. While they were away our gang all climbed over their back wall and painted their windows black. The memory of this and of Dago's efforts to get us to confess caused me to smile inwardly.
'You'll never guess what colour they used,' he tempted. We mentioned every colour you can think of, except black of course, and he was going crazy. He knew we'd done it, and we knew he knew. It was a great game.
'Green?'
'Blue?'
'Yellow?'
'Red?'
'Yellow?'
'Green with blue stripes?'
'Yellow with red dots?' We revelled in the game.
No response from Dago. In the end he gave up and told us it was black and we said that black wasn't a colour and he'd tried to trick us. He was a right nutter because he believed us about black not being a colour. It was great fun but we wouldn't have done it had he not rubbed our noses in it by constantly going on about their holiday before they went off. He was alright really.
I forgot about Dago when I saw the racker pass the bottom of the street and instinctively legged after it. A racker was a steam-driven lorry which made a terrible racket as it snorted its way along on its solid rubber wheels. Rackers often carried unrefined sugar which we called toggi-sugar and these were fair game for any kid who could catch them and get hold of the stuff by running after the racker, climbing on the back and taking a knife to one of the sacks. It was glorious stuff, fit for kings. This time, though, the racker was too quick and too far off to hope to catch and my attention fell, instead, on the ragman coming around the corner of the street. His call of 'Ja ranks' (jars and rags) had a free musical tone which lifted me instantly. He did well in our area and his handcart was already piled high with rags. He knew how to operate too. He paid kids in comics and balloons for the rags they could fetch from their homes. There seemed no shortage of rags and kids would bring him armfuls at a time. Sometimes the comics were American, in colour, and were worth two English ones in a swap. I thought the kids who preferred the balloons must be retarded or something. I mean, those comics were currency. What the hell could you do with a balloon? He was a colourful man, the ragman, and wore a scarf around his neck the way gypsies do. I'd heard about gypsies stealing children and thought about how thrilling it would be to be stolen away by the ragman. He was always singing and made jokes with the women which I never could understand. But they must have understood them for they always laughed. He seemed too nice to steal children, let alone eat them as the story went. All the women seemed to like him so the story couldn't be true, could it? It must be one of those stupid adult stories designed to scare kids. But perhaps not. Despite the jokes the women kept their distance and even the other kids didn't stay around him that long. Could have been the smell of the rags, I guess. Could be they really believed that he'd eat them. Daft buggers.
I was looking at the pile of rags on the handcart and found them strangely appealing. I wanted to be with them. To be in with the dirt and smell of discarded unwanted filth. Trancelike, I was drawn towards the handcart. At first I just stood by it as the laughing ragman collected the rags and handed out balloons and comics. Then I found myself holding onto the shaft of the cart. Reaching out I pushed the rags in towards the centre. They felt good to touch, to be near. I would go with them wherever it was that they went. I belonged with them. When the ragman raised the shafts to move on I took my chance, darted under and stood directly in front of him. Taking the enormous shafts in my small hands I half turned and looked up to him and pleaded.
'Let me push?'
'You're far too small, me ould china.'
'I can do it. I can.'
'You reckon eh?'
'Look, I can lift it easy,' I lied.
He made no effort to push me away and even roughed up my hair a bit. He must be okay to do a thing like that, mustn't he? It was heavy, real heavy but using all my energy I lifted it and pushed. It barely moved. I pushed harder still and it slowly began to move forward. Once it got going it wasn't half as tough. I was going to be with those damned rags even if it killed me.
As we moved off the ragman began to sing:
'There was a boy,
a very strange enchanted boy.
They say he wandered very far,
very far over land and sea.
A little shy and sad of eye
but very wise was he.
And then one day,
a magic day he passed my way,
and while we spoke of many things, fools and kings,
this he said to me,
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return."'This song was called 'Nature Boy'. It came from the film The Boy with Green Hair and was written by Eden Ahbez.
As the streets went by the ragman tried all he could to get rid of me. I hung on for dear life. Not daring to let go I lifted, I pushed, I centred the rags on the cart and tried not to get in the way as he made his deals with comics and balloons. His skill at getting rags was impressive but I thought it unfair the way he conned some kids with his talk and laughter. They got only one comic or balloon when the rags they'd brought him were worth much more. I said nothing though. Still more streets and still more laughing. I was tired out and apart from not knowing where I was I'd become quite bored with the man. His laughter wasn't real at all. It was just part of his job. Turning yet another corner he looked down at me and said, 'Tired?'
'I'm okay,' I lied.
However, when he handed me six pennies and told me to go home I didn't put up a fight.
'Now, you know the way back, don't you me ould china?'
I didn't but said, 'Of course I do.'
I was done for. Completely exhausted. I couldn't have pushed that stupid cart any further. He laughed and sang that song again as he went on his way. I tried to make my way home. Home? I belonged with the rags ... but not today. Today I belonged to the streets which all looked the same to me. I was lost. I had no idea where I was and became both thrilled and scared. There's no need to worry, I told myself. All I have to do is keep my eyes open for that wallet full of money and when I found it, as obviously I would, I would take it to the castle and become a prince.
Look as I might I couldn't find the wallet anywhere and when I sat on a low garden wall in abject distress a woman stopped and asked me if anything was wrong. I was seriously tempted to tell her that of course something was wrong, I couldn't find the wallet. I shook my head and said nothing.
'You alright, chuck?' she probed gently.
'Yea, I'm okay. Why?' I defended.
'You're not from around here, are you chuck?'
'So?'
'You lost, are you?'
She was all nice and warm and I wanted her to hold me in her arms and tell me everything was going to be alright. I heard myself saying, 'Mind your own business, can't you!'
She wasn't shocked or anything. She just said, 'What's up, chuck?'
I stood and looked at her for a fraction of a second, but as I felt tears in my eyes I took to my heels and legged it as fast as I could. What was it my parents were always telling me? 'Children should be seen and not heard,' and 'Hold your tongue!'
I knew my place. I ran and I ran. It was stupid looking for a stupid wallet and I was stupid for looking for it. Everyone had their place and my place was at home with my family, right? Family? What family? A father I was terrified of. A mother who seemed to give all her love to my one-year-old sister Kathleen. My fourteen-year-old cousin who'd come to live with us and always went too far in play fights. He always hurt. My family was James, the brother just twenty months older than me. I ran and I ran. I was tired and wanted to rest but if I stopped and sat down then stupid women came up and asked me stupid questions. That's when I saw it - the solution. There on the other side of the road was a picture house. It was perfect. I had money enough in my pocket and there it was. I could always lose myself in the pictures. Could always get into the film. Perfect.
I ran across the road but before I'd reached the other pavement my heart had sunk down to my shoes. The picture was an 'A' and that meant I couldn't get in without a stupid adult. What was so special about being an adult anyway? They were just bigger and older that's all. Some of them were just big kids. I kicked the wall. Trying to figure out what to do next I walked up and down for a bit avoiding the cracks in the pavement. Then I figured that if I could walk backwards without standing on a crack I might find that wallet. I stood on a crack. Having lost the game I was forced to lean against the wall, finding as I did so that if I wedged my back between the bricks and the advertisement I could get a good position. I lifted a leg up behind me and tucked it under my bum and let my body weight fall onto it. My shoulders sank and with my hands in my trouser pockets I let my head drop so that my chin was on my chest. It was a good position and I could quite easily have gone to sleep. However, the noise made by the people going into the picture house was such that I couldn't. Besides, I could feel their eyes on me and didn't want them asking stupid questions. I kept my eyes down and looked at the shoes as they too walked on the cracks. If I'd looked up and into their eyes I'd have seen what they could see and I didn't want to see myself the way I was. Dirty and lost. I stayed there for some time.
An old pair of boots stopped directly in front of me and I stared at then as I had at the rags.
'Want to go in?' a voice asked.
I raised my head slowly. Slowly up from the old boots, the old trousers, the old raincoat, the old shirt, the old tie, slowly up to the old face. As I nodded my eyes met his and I saw myself clearly.
'Any money?' Old Boots asked.
I pulled out my fistful of pennies and held them out in the palm of my hand. Our eyes met again and without saying a word I asked him to take me in to the films. Taking the money from my hand he said, 'Come on then.'
The film had started and we had to go to the very front row to get seats. I'd never sat in the front row before and had to put my head right the way back to see all of the screen. I couldn't make out what the film was about but it didn't matter. I was inside and sitting down. No one would ask stupid questions in here and besides I was with this man, wasn't I? I felt my eyes getting heavy and let them close. I woke to the feel of his hand on my leg. It was on my thigh, just below the edge of my short trousers. It was just resting there and the fingers were making these small circles on my leg. It was kind of pleasant but felt strangely wrong so I moved my leg away. He instantly took his hand away and I was slightly disappointed. It was like being told half a secret and I wanted to know the rest.
'Like an ice cream?'
He didn't have to ask twice. I nodded. I was both pleased and relieved when he left his seat. When he came back though I was just as equally pleased and relieved. My confusions excited me. He'd taken off his raincoat and as he sat down, handing me the ice cream, the raincoat fell across my knees. I wasn't sure if he'd placed it there on purpose but as he didn't take it away when he sat down I assumed he must have. It seemed like a kind thing to do. It warmed my legs and it reminded me of the rags. It felt good. He must have known it felt good. Must have known I liked the feel of the raincoat on my skin. Must have known that I liked dirty things. Must have known that I'd been humiliated the night before. He must have done for he relaxed back into his seat and so did I. Then, when his hand went onto my thigh again, I knew for sure. I didn't move. This was the second part of the secret. His fingers went up under the edges of my shorts and touched my jimmy. That's what my mother called it anyway. Even though I knew that it shouldn't, it felt strangely good to be touched there. I was the centre of this man's attention and I enjoyed the role enormously. It was a tender caring touch and was better than my father's belt any time. The end of the picture came and I felt disappointed. The lights came up and as they did so he removed his raincoat.
Outside, the daylight had almost gone and Old Boots was asking me where I lived. The thought of home and my father swept me back into reality like a cold wind sweeps a bus ticket through the air.
'You look tired out.'
How right he was. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep but what was I to do? I was lost and had no idea where my home was. I said nothing. I knew my place.
'You run away or something, eh?'
Though I hadn't 'run away' the words seemed to make sense of the situation. I nodded my head. 'Like to come home with me?'
Once again I nodded. Other parts of the secret? My heart raced. What the hell. There'd be food and a bed for the night, right? He was a gentle man and there was no way he'd hit me with any belt. We arrived at his front door after a ten-minute walk in silence. As he put the key in the lock he whispered, 'Be quiet as we go in.'
What the hell did he think I was going to do? Jump up and down and sing a song or something? I just wanted to get some food and go to bed. Perhaps he would look after me now, the way a father should. We went down a dimly lit hallway and turned into what should have been the living room but there was a bed in it. The room was bursting with loads of beer bottles, even a beer barrel as well as stacks of old newspapers. He closed the door behind him and put the light on.
'Wow, it looks as if you've been having a party.'
'Yes, I suppose it does.' chuckled Old Shoes.
'Have you? Had a party?'
'Yes, in a way. I bet you'd like a drink wouldn't you? Tea?'
'Not half, and with loads of sugar.'
'Sit yourself down, I won't be long. Loads of sugar, right?'
'Loads.'
I looked around the room for a place to sit. There was one chair and a single bed. I sat on the bed. It had sheets on it so he couldn't be poor. The room wasn't at all clean but he'd had a party. He obviously hadn't had time to clean up after it, had he? It must have been a huge party to account for all the bottles and things. He returned and handed me the cup of tea. It was hot, sweet and very welcome. He moved his coat off the one chair and sat down opposite me. Pulling the chair closer as he did so I got to smell his breath. It was worse than my father's. It stank! His free hand went to my legs and I let him rub it the way he had in the picture house. We finished the tea and he asked me if I was tired. I told him that I was and would like to go to bed.
'You'd better get ready then.'
His hands went to my pants and he began to fumble clumsily with the buttons. Stupid adult. He didn't know how to undress me. I always took my shoes and socks off first, then my jumper and shirt and then my pants. He was starting at the pants and that wasn't right. I pushed his hands away as firmly as I could, intending to stand up and do things the right way around. Before I could get to my feet he was a nervous wreck.
'It's okay... don't make a noise... it's okay... I won't touch you...'
I was utterly confused. Here was a pathetic old man as jittery as a wimp. His eyes darted from me to the ceiling and back again with repetitive jerks, his hands attempting to speak the words he just said all over again. Why was he suddenly so afraid? I suspected it must be something to do with the secrets.
'What would happen if I screamed?' I teased as I too looked up to the ceiling.
'Look... er... it's okay ... Here, look... I'll give you a couple of bob... okay?... okay?...let's call it quits, eh?... There, take it...'
He thrust some money into my hands. He was so pathetic and for the first time in my life I felt the thrill of having an adult in my power. He'd touched me, that was it, and was scared of being found out. I would never forget this lesson.
'Okay,' I said calmly.
I stood up, tucked the money into my trouser pocket and pulled my clothes straight. He turned my stomach. I allowed him to lead the way to the front door and I left him there, sweating. The fool. If he hadn't gone in for all that stupid talk... Well, anyway he did didn't he? He did and I was now walking a dark street with no place to go.
I found my way back to the picture house and stood under the main entrance to get out of the rain. It wasn't heavy but I had no coat on. Before an hour was up I was being walked to the police station by an enormous policeman. He lifted his coat over my head to protect me from the rain and I thought how decent that was of him.
At the police station they were kind to me but they wanted to know my name. 'Hold your tongue,' right? 'Never let the right hand know what the left is doing,' right? 'Children should be seen and not heard,' right? 'Keep your place,' right? If I tell them who I am then I'll have to be me and my father will come and collect me. He'll beat the hell out of me for running away. I said nothing. Not one single word. When a policemen asked me if I wanted a cup of tea I just nodded. I wasn't daft.
They sat me up on a table and gave me the biggest mug of tea that I'd ever seen. It was almost too big and too heavy to hold. Once again I was the centre of warm attention and I loved it. Policemen came and went, some saying stupid things like, 'Who's this then?' and 'What's your name then?' I knew what they were up to. They were just like Dago when he tried to get us to confess about painting his windows black. I wasn't going to fall for that. I kept my mouth firmly shut. The policeman who found me came up to me and said, 'You know little fella, if we don't find out who you are we'll have to put you in a home.'
I was delighted! He had obviously tried to scare me but his words were music to my ears. It was everything I could ever wish for. A new home. No more belt. Once again I had learnt an important lesson. That is, if you run away from home and keep your mouth shut when the police pick you up they find you a new home. Fantastic! I looked into the policeman's eyes and hoped that he could see why I didn't answer him. He tried again a number of times, then took me to a room which didn't have any windows and told me that I could get some sleep in the bed. He left the lights on and the door open. I didn't undress. I just lay on top of the bed with a blanket over me. I'd never felt better in my whole life. I was asleep within seconds.
'Richard ... Richard ... come on, shake a leg ... come on your mom and dad are here.'
I opened my eyes and horror filled me. There he was, my father. My mother stood slightly behind him, her face full of pain. I couldn't believe it. They'd promised me a new home. How did they find me? Why did they come? Why didn't they go away? I looked from them to the policeman for help. He smiled triumphantly. I screamed a silent scream.
'Be a good lad for your mom and dad... Go on, off you go.'
We went home by taxi. The first time in my life I'd ever been in one. Neither of them spoke and neither did I. There was no belt when we got in and I was allowed to go to bed immediately. James's breathing was odd but as I cuddled into his warmth he relaxed. I dreamt of pigeons without wings and how the cat always played with its prey before killing it. I pissed the bed that night and James never said a word about it or my absence the next day. Nor did I.
The remarkable discovery that 'running away from home' could change the way in which my father acted towards me was a discovery which may very well have saved my life. Being picked up by the police brought a momentary halt to the insanity of being beaten. It threw a spotlight on the family in a manner which didn't require that I tell the police anything. Indeed, I felt no great urge to tell anyone anything about my father for to me he was what a father was. I could see, could feel the difference in him after I'd run away. He became less hostile towards me and if that's what it took for him to be that way, then so be it. If running away reduced the violence then it was perfectly clear that I would have to run away from time to time. It was the most creative thing to be done if I was to survive his insanity.
Running away became a regular activity which no one outside of myself could make any sense of. The beatings would then stop for a time and a kind of peace would be arrived at. I could walk within smacking distance of my father and not be smacked. I would experiment with this and even try sitting close to him but it made little difference. He didn't seem to notice. He was somewhere else-in the newspaper, in the radio or inside himself. Talking to him was a complete waste of time for he would merely grunt a grudging reply. Never once did he talk with me about anything. He would talk at me, even to me but never with me. His world seemed to me to be the saddest place in the world. How lost he seemed. To have walked, just once, with him through a park would have been the greatest gift he could have given me. But he never once took me out anywhere. I never knew him to enter a shop for that was for kids and women.
His pain must have been almost too much to cope with, so he shared with me the only thing he had to offer, anger and violence. Never once did I see him happy or laughing. He spoke through his belt and I never understood a word. Running away brought him face to face with a reality he couldn't ignore. He could and did ignore me but he couldn't ignore the police when they knocked on the front door to inform him that they had found his son. It was a way of dragging him unwillingly out of his locked-up world, out into the reality most of us live in. I never knew his love and I grieve for it still. But as my mother would constantly remind me, 'Blood is thicker than water... We should all stick together.' That's fair enough I guess, but to ask a child to be a parent to his father is asking just too much.
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