tenderly to a sitting position, Winks’ hand for a chair-back. I relax into his hand, reassured, comforted, warmed. A shortbread and glass of milk are lifted to my lips. I nibble and sip and remind myself that I’m still acting, I’m not giving in to any love.
To prove it, I’m going to run away. Tonight. I’m almost eleven, it’s time I stood on my own two feet. Winks left home at eleven—those timber yards and gravel pits and one roast potato for dinner Heels goes on about. It must be such a frightening thing and a lonely thing to do. But it seems to be admired in him, all part of having lived a life where you’ve worked hard and have the right to boast about it and criticise others for not having done the same.
It is expected of me, leaving home, it’s obvious to me. For other boys the time will eventually arrive but for me the time is now. Heels and Winks have successfully weaned me. Is that what has happened? As horses are weaned I have been weaned: first by turning me against horis, then Heritage, and now by turning me against them . I’m ready to go, to step out into the world. I suppose there’s no to-do or ceremony about it. No teary goodbye or the like. Winks never spoke of ceremonies or a great to-do or teary goodbye for him. I just pack my bag and slip out, that’s probably the way I’m expected to go.
Sydney’s a warm place. A cardigan, two shirts, some sin-glets, underwear, socks. Never that goat coat. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. The shoes I’m already wearing. It won’t all fit into my school satchel so I’ll put on my pants, the ones Heels calls my casual slacks, and wear my good pants, the ones for going out, under them, the ones Heels calls special. I’ll wear my cardigan under my windcheater. One shirt. One singlet. A pair of socks. One lot of underwear. No toothbrush or Macleans. I roll them up tight and stuff them in. An apple. Two apples to tide me over. How will I pay for food and for tickets? Someone will pay. Someone always pays. Has paid up till now. But now it will be different.
There’s that donation money for the Celtic softball club in the beer mug on the Private Bar bar. It’s not going to be enough and it’s all in coins, heavy coins. The till money is hidden in those calico bags under Winks’ bedside for morning banking. Surely it’s not stealing, not in my case, my being his son. It’s more like initiative. What if it is stealing? Just a few notes out of those calico bags isn’t stealing. Some cigarette packs for trading with someone for something, for food.
A few bottles of beer for trading or drinking? I can’t cart bottles of beers around. I’ll take a couple or three notes from the calico bag, and the softball club change no matter how heavy.
A message to say goodbye, in my best handwriting: I’m leaving. Thank you for everything. Goodbye. I don’t put Love at the end of the message as a punishment for the beating and being made to wear the goat coat to the factory.
Why don’t the trains stop? Every night they clitter-clatter past my bedroom window. They clitter-clatter past on the hour or thereabouts when the clock dongs ten, twelve, one, waking me pleasantly, but they’re not stopping. I stand on the platform, the only person, waving, shouting at the blur of steel boxes and tree-trunks but the blur shouts back an icy wind and then the platform goes quiet and the air settles on me with all the wet chill of a frost. Am I standing in the wrong place? No. This is Heritage Station, a stone’s throw from the hotel, the centre of town. This is the place where trains stop.
They blur and shout past, blur and shout. I can’t keep awake any more. But I can’t quite fall asleep because of the awful cold. I sit on a slat bench, I lie on it but it’s just a damp bed of cold. I curl up in the doorway, pull up my legs. My eyelids keep closing, so heavy, they’re so heavy.
“Wee fella. Up you go, wee fella.” The Senior Sergeant. His pyjama collars poke out
To prove it, I’m going to run away. Tonight. I’m almost eleven, it’s time I stood on my own two feet. Winks left home at eleven—those timber yards and gravel pits and one roast potato for dinner Heels goes on about. It must be such a frightening thing and a lonely thing to do. But it seems to be admired in him, all part of having lived a life where you’ve worked hard and have the right to boast about it and criticise others for not having done the same.
It is expected of me, leaving home, it’s obvious to me. For other boys the time will eventually arrive but for me the time is now. Heels and Winks have successfully weaned me. Is that what has happened? As horses are weaned I have been weaned: first by turning me against horis, then Heritage, and now by turning me against them . I’m ready to go, to step out into the world. I suppose there’s no to-do or ceremony about it. No teary goodbye or the like. Winks never spoke of ceremonies or a great to-do or teary goodbye for him. I just pack my bag and slip out, that’s probably the way I’m expected to go.
Sydney’s a warm place. A cardigan, two shirts, some sin-glets, underwear, socks. Never that goat coat. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. The shoes I’m already wearing. It won’t all fit into my school satchel so I’ll put on my pants, the ones Heels calls my casual slacks, and wear my good pants, the ones for going out, under them, the ones Heels calls special. I’ll wear my cardigan under my windcheater. One shirt. One singlet. A pair of socks. One lot of underwear. No toothbrush or Macleans. I roll them up tight and stuff them in. An apple. Two apples to tide me over. How will I pay for food and for tickets? Someone will pay. Someone always pays. Has paid up till now. But now it will be different.
There’s that donation money for the Celtic softball club in the beer mug on the Private Bar bar. It’s not going to be enough and it’s all in coins, heavy coins. The till money is hidden in those calico bags under Winks’ bedside for morning banking. Surely it’s not stealing, not in my case, my being his son. It’s more like initiative. What if it is stealing? Just a few notes out of those calico bags isn’t stealing. Some cigarette packs for trading with someone for something, for food.
A few bottles of beer for trading or drinking? I can’t cart bottles of beers around. I’ll take a couple or three notes from the calico bag, and the softball club change no matter how heavy.
A message to say goodbye, in my best handwriting: I’m leaving. Thank you for everything. Goodbye. I don’t put Love at the end of the message as a punishment for the beating and being made to wear the goat coat to the factory.
Why don’t the trains stop? Every night they clitter-clatter past my bedroom window. They clitter-clatter past on the hour or thereabouts when the clock dongs ten, twelve, one, waking me pleasantly, but they’re not stopping. I stand on the platform, the only person, waving, shouting at the blur of steel boxes and tree-trunks but the blur shouts back an icy wind and then the platform goes quiet and the air settles on me with all the wet chill of a frost. Am I standing in the wrong place? No. This is Heritage Station, a stone’s throw from the hotel, the centre of town. This is the place where trains stop.
They blur and shout past, blur and shout. I can’t keep awake any more. But I can’t quite fall asleep because of the awful cold. I sit on a slat bench, I lie on it but it’s just a damp bed of cold. I curl up in the doorway, pull up my legs. My eyelids keep closing, so heavy, they’re so heavy.
“Wee fella. Up you go, wee fella.” The Senior Sergeant. His pyjama collars poke out
Similar Books
