clear.
'In the quarry,' I answered. 'It was just lying there.'
'Oh good,' she breathed. 'That's a prayer answered for a start.' To my chagrin she relieved me of the coin. 'If nobody comes for it,' she said fixing me in the eye, 'I'll give you a penny next week.'
This, it appears, could be labelled the early criminal part of my life, because before long I stole something else. This time it was a vegetable marrow.
On my way to school I had spied this large and lush green object, lurking below its leaves, at the foot of somebody's garden. I had no idea what it was but it looked good enough to eat. After a couple of days I took a kitchen knife to school and on my way home I cut it and staggered the rest of the way, running with it in my arms like a big green baby. My mother, however, was less than pleased. 'I can't cook that!' she protested. 'We don't like it. Where did you get it?'
This time the quarry was out. I confessed. She bore it back to the owner. After that I had to make a long detour to and from school to avoid the scene of the crime but, even so, I saw the woman waving her fist at me in the distance. I did not steal anything else after that. Nothing large anyway.
As it was, I thought the police had tracked me down. On top of the hill where we lived there was no road, only a footpath so if a policeman appeared then everyone knew that he was on his way to one of the neighbouring houses and observed him spitefully. Shortly after the larceny of the marrow I was digging in the patch of ground next to our front door when a constable appeared, black and lofty on the horizon, and strode purposefully towards our house. Some little girls, who had recently heard me use some bad language and threatened to report me, were playing by the path and the policeman paused and asked them something. Skinny arms went eagerly out and accusing fingers pointed towards me. No, I thought, no . . . surely not . . . not the police ! All I had said was 'bugger'.
Not daring to look up I counted every footfall as he approached. I could feel my small body shaking. Nearer and nearer . . . and then he turned into our house.
'Hello, sonny,' said the policeman. 'Is your mam in?'
Struck speechless, I led him towards the door. Should I make a run for it now? Fancy ruining my life for a marrow . . . Or perhaps it was because of the half-a-crown . . . or the swearing. My guilty past closed in.
'Mrs Thomas?' said the officer when my mother appeared. I stood slightly behind him rolling my eyes and shaking my head to prevent her shopping me.
'Is anyone dead?' she asked with almost dramatic hope. 'An accident is it? An explosion?'
'No, no,' he said, at once both a disappointment and an assurance. 'Not dead, drunk. Your husband, I think.' He looked down at his notebook. 'David James Thomas. Drunk and incapable.' He looked up with some sort of interest. 'Got out of the train at Newport station . . .'
'On the wrong side,' she finished for him. She nodded sad confirmation. 'He's done it before,' she sighed. 'When he came back from burying his father. Where is he now?'
'In the cells,' he replied dramatically. I had heard about the cells. Letting out a toddler's cry of anguish I set off down the hill weeping and shouting. 'My daddy's in the cells! My daddy's in the cells!' Before my mother and the policeman could catch me everybody in the district knew. They would have known anyway because it was in the South Wales Argus that night. 'Drunken man fell from train,' it said. The old man cut the piece out and used to keep it in his wallet.
On this occasion I went with my mother to court although all I remember is her having to pay the two shilling fine and muttering 'Bunny rabbits' as she looked for the money in her purse. The kindly court officer collecting the cash enquired what the phrase meant. 'I always say "Bunny rabbits" because it saves me swearing,' my mother explained piously. At that moment my father, ashen-faced, was brought out to freedom.
'In the quarry,' I answered. 'It was just lying there.'
'Oh good,' she breathed. 'That's a prayer answered for a start.' To my chagrin she relieved me of the coin. 'If nobody comes for it,' she said fixing me in the eye, 'I'll give you a penny next week.'
This, it appears, could be labelled the early criminal part of my life, because before long I stole something else. This time it was a vegetable marrow.
On my way to school I had spied this large and lush green object, lurking below its leaves, at the foot of somebody's garden. I had no idea what it was but it looked good enough to eat. After a couple of days I took a kitchen knife to school and on my way home I cut it and staggered the rest of the way, running with it in my arms like a big green baby. My mother, however, was less than pleased. 'I can't cook that!' she protested. 'We don't like it. Where did you get it?'
This time the quarry was out. I confessed. She bore it back to the owner. After that I had to make a long detour to and from school to avoid the scene of the crime but, even so, I saw the woman waving her fist at me in the distance. I did not steal anything else after that. Nothing large anyway.
As it was, I thought the police had tracked me down. On top of the hill where we lived there was no road, only a footpath so if a policeman appeared then everyone knew that he was on his way to one of the neighbouring houses and observed him spitefully. Shortly after the larceny of the marrow I was digging in the patch of ground next to our front door when a constable appeared, black and lofty on the horizon, and strode purposefully towards our house. Some little girls, who had recently heard me use some bad language and threatened to report me, were playing by the path and the policeman paused and asked them something. Skinny arms went eagerly out and accusing fingers pointed towards me. No, I thought, no . . . surely not . . . not the police ! All I had said was 'bugger'.
Not daring to look up I counted every footfall as he approached. I could feel my small body shaking. Nearer and nearer . . . and then he turned into our house.
'Hello, sonny,' said the policeman. 'Is your mam in?'
Struck speechless, I led him towards the door. Should I make a run for it now? Fancy ruining my life for a marrow . . . Or perhaps it was because of the half-a-crown . . . or the swearing. My guilty past closed in.
'Mrs Thomas?' said the officer when my mother appeared. I stood slightly behind him rolling my eyes and shaking my head to prevent her shopping me.
'Is anyone dead?' she asked with almost dramatic hope. 'An accident is it? An explosion?'
'No, no,' he said, at once both a disappointment and an assurance. 'Not dead, drunk. Your husband, I think.' He looked down at his notebook. 'David James Thomas. Drunk and incapable.' He looked up with some sort of interest. 'Got out of the train at Newport station . . .'
'On the wrong side,' she finished for him. She nodded sad confirmation. 'He's done it before,' she sighed. 'When he came back from burying his father. Where is he now?'
'In the cells,' he replied dramatically. I had heard about the cells. Letting out a toddler's cry of anguish I set off down the hill weeping and shouting. 'My daddy's in the cells! My daddy's in the cells!' Before my mother and the policeman could catch me everybody in the district knew. They would have known anyway because it was in the South Wales Argus that night. 'Drunken man fell from train,' it said. The old man cut the piece out and used to keep it in his wallet.
On this occasion I went with my mother to court although all I remember is her having to pay the two shilling fine and muttering 'Bunny rabbits' as she looked for the money in her purse. The kindly court officer collecting the cash enquired what the phrase meant. 'I always say "Bunny rabbits" because it saves me swearing,' my mother explained piously. At that moment my father, ashen-faced, was brought out to freedom.
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