A Cockney's Journey (7 page)

Shit! What was the time?
I started to run towards Lyndhurst Way.
Come on, faster
, I goaded myself on. I was flat out when I reached my turning. As I ran round the front of the house, I could see that there were no lights on.
Oh shit!
On reaching the back gate, I noticed a glimmer of light in the kitchen.
Thank God someone’s up.
I put my hand on the back door handle and turned it. To my utmost relief, it opened. My mother was sitting by a candle, watching a pot boil on the gas stove.
    “You’re late again. Every time you go out, you’re always bloody late.”
    “Sorry, I missed the bus, Mum.”
    “I saved you a bit of dinner. It’s in the fridge.”
    “Cheers,” I said.
    “Lock the door, will you?” she muttered.
    I locked the back door and, while I was sliding the top bolt across, I heard him walk into the kitchen.
    “Still not on, is it? Bloody third power cut this month. I see you managed to get home,” he barked aggressively.
    “Yeah,” I replied quietly. I opened the fridge door and reached in for the dinner plate that was covered with salad and a boiled egg. I groaned to myself and promptly sat down and scoffed the lot.
    After I washed and dried my plate, I asked for a candle but was reliably informed that there were none spare.
I bet that lot upstairs have got candles
, I thought to myself, as I climbed the stairs in total darkness. My arms were outstretched while I blindly felt my way up towards the top of the house. Halfway up the second flight, I noticed that there were faint lights coming from under both the bedroom doors.
I bloody knew it!
Tiptoeing past their bedrooms, I could hear whispering and faint noises and then one of the doors opened and a head appeared.
    “What are you creeping about for?” she snapped, peering through the gap in the door. My sister was a complete plum.
    “Are you serious, you bloody idiot! I can’t see fuck all. That’s why I’m creeping about, you dickhead.”
    With that response she shut the door and I was plunged into darkness again. Halfway up the third flight, I tripped up the step and went flying forwards and my chin smashed down onto the banister handrail.
Sod this. I’ll have to take a chance.
I reached into my pocket and retrieved my petrol lighter. In an instant, the stairs were flooded with light. I quickly ran up to my bedroom. Once inside and sitting on my bed I snapped the lighter shut.
He’s like a bloodhound. If he smells the petrol lighter, I’ve seriously had it.
I cringed at the thought. I sat there freezing my nuts off! Only one fire in the house and that was downstairs in the living room; everywhere else was at the mercy of Jack Frost! I climbed into bed with my clothes on and drifted off to sleep, thinking of Ann.
    I suddenly awoke to a rustling noise in my bedroom. I was trying to focus my eyes on the direction of the noise, as I was aware of a presence in the room. Without warning, an immense pressure was put upon my chest.
    “Where is it, you bastard?” my dad screamed, maniacally.
    He put his hand around my throat and pressed down on my chest with his knee.
    “Whhhhat?” I cried.
    “You know very well what.”
    “I don’t, honest,” I gasped.
    “I can smell petrol on the stairs, you fucking liar.”
    His grip around my throat tightened and his breath stunk of booze as he dribbled onto my face.
He’s been at the whisky again. God help me!
    “Tell me where it is,” he shouted angrily.
    He shook my neck violently. I couldn’t breathe properly, let alone answer him.
    “Answer me, you little shit or I’ll kill you, do ya hear me?”
    I was just about to pass out when my bedroom door flung open. All I could see were four candles sparkling in the dark.
    “What are you doing, Dad?” I heard and he let go his grip to turn around.
    “Nothing for you lot to worry about,” he said, in a soft caring voice. He pushed himself upright and walked towards the door. A sudden surge of air hit my lungs and I sat bolt upright coughing and spluttering, struggling to get my breath. I felt light-headed and sick. He ushered my brothers and sisters out of the room, shutting my bedroom door. That was the closest he’s come to killing me. I had to get away from him and this house before he did. I sat there crying and shaking; my throat was dry and sore. I curled up into a ball and lay there until morning. I must have dropped off to sleep at some stage because the church bells ringing in the distance awoke me. As I sat up and peered through the windowpane, I noticed the ground was white and icy and the cars were covered in snow.
More wet feet. This just gets better by the day
. I sighed. I crept down to the bathroom, had a wash and brushed my teeth. As I was looking in the mirror, I noticed the bruises on my throat.
I must cover them up or everyone will know.
I went back to my room and started to look for something to wear.
This will have to do.
I had no choice, as I pulled over my head the hideous white Val Doonican roll-neck jumper with orange and yellow zigzags. I looked like a piece of seaside rock. I finished dressing and picked up my pumps.
Dry, at last.
I quietly descended the stairs to the kitchen.
No one’s up yet? Thank God!
I opened the drawer and took out two plastic carrier bags. I put one on each foot, tucked them into my socks and quickly put my pumps on. I opened the bread bin and took out two slices of bread. Then I opened the fridge and broke off a lump of cheese and stuffed the lot in my pocket. I put my hand on the back door handle, whilst with the other I turned the key in the lock. Nothing happened and then I realised it was already unlocked. I froze with fear. Someone was up and in the garden. As I opened the back door, there was a thud and splosh as a snowball hit the door.
    “Nearly got you,” he laughed. “Are you OK, Eddie?” he asked me.
    My younger brother was playing in the snow. He had actually built a snowman and it was pretty good.
    “Yeah, not too bad.”
    “Did he hurt you a lot?” he asked.
    “Yeah, I suppose so. Have you seen my tennis ball?”
    “It’s over there, Ed,” he pointed.
    “Cheers. See you later,” I closed the gate behind me. I was strolling around the streets in the snow. I glanced at the church clock.
It’s only half past eight; no one will be out yet.
I headed towards the sandpit, entering through the gate. There was not a soul in sight. I cleared the snow and sat on the wall, eating my bread and cheese, thinking that I didn’t care if I was alone.
At least I’m safe from him, that’s all that matters.
After I had finished my grub, I lit a fag up, even though all my fags were squashed from last night’s attack. I should have taken them out of my jeans pocket before I jumped in bed. I sat there, rolling the fag gently between my fingers trying to straighten it out as I smoked it. The silence was broken by a large van spluttering along as it tried to cope with the damp, cold weather. The van ground to a halt outside the sandpit gates and out jumped this guy wearing a cap and a green coat with a roll-up hanging from his lip. He walked to the back of the van and pulled the shutters up and, as he did so, he glanced over and winked at me. I smiled back.
    “Wanna earn a few shillings, lad?” he shouted.
    “Doing what?” I asked.
    “Come over here and I’ll show you.”
    I didn’t know it at the time, but this guy was going to be my saviour.
    “My name’s Laurie,” he smiled.
    “Eddie’s my name,” I said.
    I looked into the back of the van. There were rows and rows of basket-type shelves, with apples, oranges, pears and every vegetable you could think of, along with sacks and sacks of potatoes.
    “I deliver fruit and veg on Sundays. I start at nine and finish about lunchtime. Do you wanna give me a hand?”
    “Yeah, I’d love to, Laurie.”
    “Great. Sack of spuds to number nine, then.”
    I picked up a bag and delivered it to number nine, along with some carrots, cabbages, onions and parsnips. This went on all morning, until the van was empty.
    “Bloody good grafter, you are son,” he remarked as he handed me two one-pound notes. “What do you do on Saturdays, Eddie boy?”
    “Play football with my friends. Why?”
    “I could do with a lad of your calibre. Do you fancy a Saturday job?”
    I didn’t even hesitate; my reply was a resounding yes.
    “Good lad! My fruit and veg shop is in Rye Lane market. Be there Saturday at six in the morning, OK?”
    “Absolutely,” I said, all excited.
    Laurie dropped me off in Lyndhurst Way. It was half past one.
After school tomorrow I’m going to buy myself a watch before I go round to see Rose. I’m going to need one now,
I grinned to myself.
    I don’t mention much about my school days; they’re best forgotten really. I hated school. My reports were bad, well, I really mean atrocious. I would get marked down in everything except religious education, wood-metal work and physical education. Everything else was a red-inked E-grade! I wanted to tell someone, anyone, how my violent father beat and abused me, but I was too scared. I couldn’t concentrate on my lessons. To be honest, all I was interested in was survival. Ever since I can remember, it was me against the world. Even to this day, I have nobody to turn to when in need. The words
you’re big enough and ugly enough to sort your own problems out
still echo in my ears from when I was a young boy.
    As I approached the back gate, I could hear his drunken ravings in the kitchen. I was tired and hungry. I stood there for a few moments and then decided not to go in. Instead, I walked round the front and headed towards Brian’s house. As I knocked on the front door, I could hear
Match of the Day
on their television. The power-cut must be over, I thought. Auntie Joyce opened the door.
    “Hello, Eddie,” she smiled. “Come in. They’re watching the football. Brian, it’s Ed,” she shouted over the roar of the match. As I walked in the front room, the pair of them were stretched out on the sofa.
    “All right, son? Sit down.” Dave pointed to the chair.
    “Just started, Ed. Chelsea v West Ham,” Brian informed me.
    “Great,” I said. I disappeared into the sofa.
So soft and comfortable.
Joyce walked in.
    “Ten minutes,” she beamed. “Then I’ll dish up. Do ya want a bit of dinner, Eddie?” she asked with a smile. “There’s plenty to go round.”
    “Of course he will, Mum,” was the response from the both of them.
    “Yes please, Auntie Joyce. If that’s OK,” I replied eagerly.
    “Where the hell did you get that jumper from, Eddie?” Dave laughed hysterically, shaking his head in disbelief.
    “And what’s that sticking out of your socks?” he roared.
    “It’s all I’ve got to keep me warm. The plastic bags keep my feet dry.” With that remark, Dave got up and pulled my pumps off. “Bloody hell, Ed. How long have you been walking about in those?” he asked sympathetically.
    “About a year, maybe more,” I mumbled in total embarrassment.
    “Take them off, Ed,” Dave ordered.
    I did what I was told and took the bags off my feet. I must admit to really liking David. Good as gold, that guy; always looked out for me.
    “Mum, can you bring in that bag of clothes under the stairs, please?” David asked. Brian stared at me, quite shocked; his eyes were full of sadness. He didn’t say a word. He just sat there watching the show. Joyce entered the room carrying a large bag.
    “Have a look at this, Mum,” Dave held my pumps aloft with his fingertips.
    “Good God. Lino over the holes?” she looked at me with a tear in her eye as she opened the bag. Dave stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a pair of pumps.
    “Try these on, Ed,” he handed me the pumps. I slipped my feet into them. “Blimey, they fit,” I said, all excited. “Thanks, Dave.” Meanwhile, Dave proceeded to pull out three jumpers and two Ben Sherman’s.
    I gasped. “Are these for me as well, Dave?”
    “I’ve got something else you can have as well, Ed.”
    He ran upstairs and came straight back down with an overcoat. “I’ve just bought a new one and a lot of other new clothes. Mum was going to give them to the Oxfam shop in Rye Lane,” he said with a caring smile. “Stand up then, Eddie. Let’s see if it fits,” Dave beamed. “That’s my good deed done for today.” I looked over at Brian; he had a smile on his face as he winked at me.
    “Right, Ed, All you need to do now is to get rid of that gross jumper,” Dave said. He handed me a black Lacoste jumper with a crocodile motif on the front. In my excitement and eagerness, I completely forgot about my throat. I pulled my jumper over my head and it wasn’t until I was pulling my arms through the jumper that I realised my mistake. Dave and his mum stood staring at me with their mouths open.
    “Who the hell did that to you?” David blasted angrily.
    “Put your jumper back on, Ed, Auntie Joyce demanded. “This one wouldn’t hide that.”
    Brian got up and had a look at my throat.
    “Your old man did that, didn’t he, Ed? The cut on your eye, and your swollen face, that wasn’t done in Rose’s garden, was it? And all the other times over the years? The split nose and stitches to the head? What’s going on, Eddie?”
    “How long has this been going on,” David said. He screwed his face in anger and disbelief. I stood there in silence, all confused.
I can’t tell them anything. The consequences would be catastrophic.
    “My brother jumped on my back. I was mucking about, giving him a piggyback and he squeezed his arms too tight around my neck. That’s all, honest!” I said. I shrugged my shoulders and sat back down, staring at the telly. Joyce left the room and returned with some cutlery and plates and laid them on the table.
    “Sit down, boys. Dinner’s ready.” We sat there, waiting in silence. You could have cut the atmosphere with a knife.
    “Sorry for what I said about your old man,” Brian said.
    “That’s OK, Brian. Forget it.”
    “Yeah, we got a bit paranoid for a minute,” Dave laughed.
    “Sorry about the match on telly,” I said, apologetically.
    “Didn’t miss much, anyway. I was at Stamford Bridge yesterday and the Hammers beat us 1-0,” Dave said in disgust.
    
Was I glad that was over? I must be more careful in the future.
    Joyce brought in the Sunday roast with all the trimmings and thick gravy. We all started to tuck in. I was starving and emptied my plate before you could say Jack Robinson. During dinner, I told them about my new Saturday job in the market.