Seymour headed towards the main road at his left, keeping in the exact centre of the alleyway, fearful of many things. Any of the gates in the tall ribbed fencing on either side, for instance, could be flung open to disgorge sudden terrors—large dogs who wouldn’t be calmed by the words of a peaceful stranger just passing through, or neighbours of Thelma (even though it was unlikely because she kept so much to herself) who might know that he wasn’t supposed to leave the house in her absence. Worst of all, there could be kids his own age—brash, tough kids who would give him a hard time, as they always did, because he was fair game. He knew very well that he was fair game, but hadn’t yet managed to figure out any defence mechanisms—only chameleon ones, which didn’t always work. Breathing anxiously through his mouth, he kept his eyes fastened on the whirl of colour and movement at the left end of the alley and hurried towards it as fast as he could.
The main road down there was called Upton Street and its shops faced each other across a tram route. Seymour had no money, but he walked along the nearest side carefully inspecting each shop in turn, as though he could buy anything he chose and had all day to think about it. There was a fruit shop, its counters piled high with golden oranges and soft dark grapes. Seymour looked at them with longing, swallowed hard and passed on. Next to it was a second-hand shop where he hesitated and then went in, because there were plenty of people in there and you could hide yourself easily enough in crowds. In a corner he found an old barber-shop chair, and added it to the private list of desirable things he’d one day have in his own room, if the situation of never quite knowing just where he’d be living ever resolved itself. He was always discovering things for that idealised room of his—cheerful bedspreads, desks with maps painted on them, carved teak chests. There was a chest in this particular shop, an old battered metal one with a rusty clasp. He knelt and tried to open the lid, visualising the whole thing enamelled in bright gloss with new brass hinges…
‘Don’t fiddle around with the lock, dear, unless you’re planning to buy that trunk,’ someone said, and although he hadn’t really been doing anything, he shot up, red-faced, and retreated to the door, stumbling over his feet. Anyone who spoke to him with authority tended to have that effect. He scooted over the Victoria Road intersection, then calmed down enough to stop and look into a sports-shop window at chrome and gleaming new leather. He pressed his palms sadly against the glass with pointless longing. How he’d love a new bike, not like that old battered second-hand thing which had been lost on one of their moves.
One time, before his mother had become so vindictive and bitter about such visits, he’d been staying with his father and came by a job cleaning out a butcher shop after school. He’d saved twenty-five dollars in a little tin box under his mattress. The flat box with embossed bells on the lid was a treasure trove, found on a rubbish dump. The butcher’s wife had told him that tins like that were used to send gift slices of wedding cake to guests who couldn’t attend. So the tin with its pattern of bells had seemed fortunate, a symbol of perhaps managing to save enough money to buy a new bicycle. It hadn’t fulfilled its promise, though. His dad had found the hidden money and spent it down at the pub.
After the sports shop there was a small wooden building with ‘Upton Street Gospel Hall—I Am The Word’ etched in flowery writing across a frosted glass window, and next to that a narrow park with palm trees and a sprinkler system maintaining a lawn. Seymour avoided the park—alarming, loud-voiced kids always hung around parks—and came to five adjoining shops under one long awning that made them look like a sliced log cake. They sold small multiple items—health food, baby clothes, wool, embroidery cottons. His mother was besotted with embroidery: ‘fancywork’ she called it—fussy little mats scattered with rosebuds and garlands. He had a fleeting, melancholy vision of his mum stitching away at her fancywork in the evenings. Heard her voice, carping monotonously about the troublesome life she’d had to lead ever since she’d become entangled with his father, the sacrifices she’d made. How she could barely afford that last dental bill, how his father never put himself out to get a proper job or hang on to one when he did, the promised maintenance payments that never arrived. Why, she could have married anyone! Given her time all over again, by now she could have a nice house and not have to work. Yes, she knew it was an old-fashioned viewpoint these days, but in her opinion women were happiest at full-time home-making. Only here she was in this miserable situation not of her own making, married to a no-good wastrel…
Seymour went very quickly past that particular shop window and came to a long stretch of ugly jerry-built flats riddled with little metal balconies. No one in their right mind would sit on balconies like that, he thought, even if there’d been room for a chair. Not unless they wanted to be asphyxiated by car fumes and deafened by traffic.
He crossed the street at the lights and began working his way back along the shops on the other side. There was a place where leadlight doors and windows were made, and a jovial man looked up and waved a soldering iron but Seymour moved on, too shy to wave back. An antique shop where a lady seated at a carved desk just inside the door gave him a hard, appraising stare when he peered in. A supermarket with howling toddlers and frazzled young mothers. An extension of the park which ran on this side also, cut in two by the busy main road.
The grass, dappled by leaf shadows, gave an irresistible illusion of coolness. He plucked at his long-sleeved shirt, which was made of cheap synthetic material. Thelma had bought it for him as he’d come to her house with so little clothing. Even with the sleeves rolled up, it was like being imprisoned inside a metal bin. He went into the dark a little way and had a long drink from a bubbler, then wet his hanky. Thelma supplied him with a fussily ironed handkerchief each morning, not believing in tissues, which she said were a wicked waste of money. Seymour folded the wet hanky across his forehead, and as the park was empty, sat on a bench under a trellis. It was a mistake.
A bunch of rowdy kids, smug with assumed toughness, suddenly came racketing in from the shopping-centre entrance. They were shoving each other about and making a lot of noise with skateboards, but spotted Seymour at once. He got up nervously and tried to edge past to the safety of the main road, for he was a target, and they knew it as well as he did.
‘Hey you, new kid round here, where’d ya score that shirt, off your grandpop?’ someone sniggered.
Seymour didn’t say anything. He pressed back against the bole of the tree, feeling the bark pattern imprint itself through his clothing, trying to make himself as secret as a lizard. But they didn’t give up, they formed a closer semi-circle.
‘Hey you, no spikka da English or something?’
Seymour kept his eyes on the ground, on the restless feet and little skateboard wheels. The wheels jiggled backwards and forwards, holding cached, impatient power, biding time. A hand darted out and grabbed at his handkerchief and someone yelled, ‘Geeze, a snot rag! Maybe he’s a little midget grandpa. Only grandpops carry hankies…’
He peeled himself away from the tree, plunged through an opening in the circle of feet, and scuttled back to the comparative safety of the shops. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that the kids didn’t intend to leave it at that. They’d followed, laughing and calling out after him, their day made. Heart thumping, he shot across the road with the green light, collecting a furious, ‘Watch where you’re going!’ from a woman with a shopping jeep. His racing feet whisked him past blurred images of embroidery wool, health food, I Am The Word, chrome and leather, golden oranges, purple grapes—and blessedly to the alleyway opening. He dived into its dark tunnel, but didn’t stop.
Corrugated fences flashed by, each looking exactly like the next, and in his bother he became hopelessly disorientated, couldn’t remember which was Thelma’s gate, even which side of the alley it was on. Those kids had spotted where he’d gone to ground. He didn’t look back, but could hear them storm into the Upton Street end of the alleyway, baying insults and threats which could mean everything or nothing. He could hear the clatter of little nylon wheels across flagstones, and pounding feet. An empty aluminium drink can sailed past his ear and clanged against a gate post—maybe it was Thelma’s gate post, but he couldn’t even remember what colour that was.
There was a sudden unexpected break in the wall of iron on his left, a splash of light from a gate left ajar, and he darted in there and slammed the gate shut and stood against it, quaking. The feet stopped, the wheels stopped and someone rattled the gate half-heartedly and said, ‘Aw, let’s forget about that little wimp, for the time being, know what I mean? Probably nicked inside to tell his old lady on us. Come on, let’s go down the oval.’
The feet stampeded past and there was just the muted, innocuous rumble of main-street traffic. Nothing was new, nothing under the sun…confrontation and flight, huddling in some secret place trembling with cowardice. It happened inevitably at each new school, every new place he lived. All his strong resolutions made in lonely hours seemed doomed to come tumbling down like a flimsily built tower of plastic blocks. Seymour stood pressed against the gate for a long time.
17 Acacia Avenue
Merken
Dear Judith,
I’m sorry to trouble you, but I wondered if you have any idea where Angela is living now? She really is very inconsiderate about not letting us know when she moves, and some urgent mail (bills etc.) has turned up here for her.
Judith, I’m afraid my husband must have sounded very abrupt and rude when he arrived to collect her belongings from your flat last month. We were all very upset and things looked so hopeless and impossible. I do apologise for Stuart, he’s been under a great deal of pressure and strain recently.
It was kind of you to put Angie up for those four days, especially when you’re so cramped for space with the new baby. I’m sorry she abused your hospitality like that, it was unforgivable. She had no right to inconvenience you when she could easily have come out here to stay.
I’ve enclosed a stamped envelope in case you do know her new address and can let me know. We worry about her so much, this whole dreadful business seems like a nightmare. You’ve been such a good friend to her all this time, and I certainly don’t blame you now for wanting to have nothing more to do with her after that scene at your flat.
If she does get in touch with you, would you please ask her to phone me immediately? I’ve tried all her other places and they don’t know where she is. We’re so terribly worried about her.
I was pleased to see how well you look, Judy. I hope the baby isn’t causing you too many sleepless nights. She really is a little pet and so pretty. Judy, if you ever find things a strain, please don’t hesitate to give me a ring or come out to visit. You seem to be coping marvellously, but I know how hard it can be with a young baby. You know, I often look back to when you and Angie were at school together, giggling over the phone to each other and trying out new hairstyles…oh dear, it seems only yesterday!
Take care, Judy, please let me know if I can help in any way, and please don’t forget to pass my message on to Angie if she contacts you,
Love from Jeanette Easterbrook