Chapter Three

 

Joe put the last few bolts into the raw bonnet part of the car before it went into the Paint Shop and left the Plant to wash his hands before he sat down to his own supper of corned beef sandwiches, with mustard. A tomato rolled out of his plastic container as he lay the box on the seat beside him. He never liked the canteen meals and besides, they were getting too expensive and the canteen was always closed for the night duty staff anyway.

As he munched contentedly, dreamily gazing through the windows in the factory roof at the shimmering moon outside, he smiled as he thought again of Freddie and of his yearnings to leave school and be a man. . . Were they not just the same thoughts and ambitions he had himself when he was a lad? Didn’t every . . . or at least most boys want the same? But then . . . not every boy had met the Doughnut Man . . . had they? . . . and then Joe remembered...

 

***

 

It was way back in 1936, on a cold and wet afternoon in November that Joe had stood for hours in the rain, soaked to the skin, waiting patiently to get into the football ground to see his favourite team play. The Sandforth Wanderers were playing a home match and he had managed, with great effort, to get a ticket for the game that afternoon.

‘Doughnuts . . . Hot, fresh doughnuts.’

Joe pulled his collar up around his neck and his cap down over his eyes. There was nothing to see anyway as he waited in the queue of three abreast, being pushed and shoved about any and everywhere. The rain dripped from his cap to his nose, compelling him to take his hands out of his warm pockets to scratch it. He remembered that day well . . He would never forget it. It was just three days after his tenth birthday.

‘Doughnuts . . . fresh doughnuts.’

He heard the voice again. He heard and saw the old man ply his trade in his stained velour hat with the brim tied to his head with a faded tartan scarf to secure it from the strong wind that was blowing up. His tattered raincoat was belted around his thin waist . . a coat that reached only to his scrawny knees and his shoes squelched as he trudged along the line of fans with his barrow covered with an old tarpaulin canopy to keep the rain from splashing into the boiling fat, in his deep, red-hot galvanized pans. The dough sizzled as he squished along in the fast running gutters.

Joe had seen that old man several times before when the weather was better and he was surprised that the old fellow would even attempt to sell his doughnuts in such wet and storm conditions, but then . . that was his trade, he supposed. That was his way of making a living. . . or whatever he liked to call it . It certainly wouldn’t suit Joe . . he was sure of that.

I don’t suppose he would have taken much notice of the old vendor if it hadn’t been raining so hard . . and he felt sorry for him. It must have been difficult, he imagined, to manoeuvre that old tub around in the best of weather, let alone on a rainy day . . and a wild one at that. The tarpaulin beat against the side of his trolley and it would have over-balanced if the old man hadn’t suddenly applied his squelchy brakes. The fat bubbled and sizzled as he moved, crackling and spluttering in defiance of the rain . . or perhaps because of it . .and the old man screwed up his weather-beaten face to show a thin dark line of a mouth, where there should have been teeth.

He passed very near and Joe could see his striking blue eyes piercing and narrow in the wind, staring directly into Joe’s, whilst he chewed something in that thin slit of a mouth that made his sharp chin touch his long thin nose in the absence of his dentures. The silver stubble on his chin was in contrast to the deep underlying tan of his hard skin and his hair shot out unruly in the same colour tufts, from under the brim of his old velour hat.

‘Doughnuts . . . doughnuts. Lovely fresh doughnuts.

He called out in a hoarse and ragged voice as he rubbed his hands together with the heat from the bright coke-fire brazier under his old barrow and puffed the flames to life occasionally with a weathered old set of leather bellows with dull brass surroundings, when the flame appeared to be extinct.

Joe could recall his actions vividly as he munched away at his corn beef sandwich . . with the mustard spread, that Maggie had prepared for him with tender and loving care . . .as he lay, sprawled out on two packing boxes with his legs crossed gazing at the moon as she disappeared from sight in his window vision. It seemed like only yesterday and not so long ago and he wondered whatever had become of that old man who tried to make a living in such an arduous and painstaking way, when surely he could have chosen some other.

“But that could be said of all of us,” he said aloud . . . as he went back to his memories.

 

***

 

The thunder clapped and the lightning streaked her rays across the stadium as the weather vein burst into flames of electric sparks and crashed its way to the ground, just a few feet away from the doughnut cart, which shook violently and toppled over on its side as the fat bubbled and spat into the air, spewing across the street, making a cloud of heavy blue smoke. The young men in the queue ran away, shouting and waving their hands with excitement . . Some of them slid around in the oil that had mixed with the rain and cursed the old man as they picked themselves up to join their friends who had already given up all idea of watching a football match. A sign had appeared at the turnstile which read, ‘Match cancelled owing to the inclemency of the weather. Tickets refunded or exchanged.’

There were screams and wailing cries fading into the distance as the angry crowd dispersed. People zigzagged in an effort to avoid slipping on the fat, skidding and sliding as they went and cursing the old man for being so idiotic as to cause so much trouble with his seemingly innocent and inoffensive trade. Some shook their fists at him and he stood in fear, unable to control the accident that had already happened.

“I’m sorry . . I’m so sorry,” he called out as he hopped about and circled around in a daze, hoping that someone might help him, but no-one heard his plea as everyone abandoned the very thought of a football match and made their way from the arena, thankful that things had not been worse than they were. No-one was scalded . . . as indeed could very easily have happened and soon the scene was quiet again as everyone scurried hurriedly away. Everyone except the old man . . . and Joe Osborne . . and Joe smiled sadly again as he continued in his thoughts of that day.

He remembered how inadequate he felt in his meagre attempts to help the old man. There seemed to be no way to even begin to know what to do, but he helped to pull the trolley to its wheels again and settle it in an upright position, when by this time the fat had completely run out into the street and the coke-fire spilled its cinders around in the rising wind, sending orange and red sparks into the air. The tarpaulin danced and jogged as if in the sheer merriment of its new found freedom to fly in the air and beat the stadium walls as it went.

Then the rain clouds burst with a further clap of thunder and the old man and the boy stood alone in the drenching rain, staring at one another; neither knowing which way to turn in such a hopeless situation. Eventually Joe grabbed hold of the man’s arm and pulled him into the shelter of the abandoned turnstile.

“We should wait her until the rain stops . . there is nothing more we can do for the moment,” said Joe and the two lonely figures stood in silence observing the doughnuts being washed away in the babbling gutter, racing their way higgledy-piggledy to nowhere and for no reason, as the old man dried his face in a large grey handkerchief and watched his hat, as it joined the exodus. He stood still, shaking beside the boy and cried. Joe put out his hand to touch the shoulder of the solitary figure beside him but the old man hid his face in his handkerchief and wept uncontrollably. “Maybe . . when it clears . . the weather, I mean,” said Joe, “We’ll be able to gather some of the pieces and build your barrow again . . do you think?”

The doughnut vendor shook his head slowly and blew loudly into his handkerchief.

“I should never have attempted to sell my doughnuts today, but there was such a crowd waiting to get into the football match and I had hopes, as no doubt they did, that it would stop raining. I never expected a storm, but I should have done, I suppose. . .Yes. yes, I should have done.”

Joe stretched out his hand before him and blinked as a heavy rain drop fell from his cap to his chin.

“Oh! . . it has stopped now, I think. We can gather as much as we can anyway . . come on.”

The old man dried his tears and looked to the sky.

“Thank you Sonny . . you are very kind. Yes, it would be best to do as you say and salvage whatever we can. I do appreciate your help.”

Joe remembered how embarrassed he had been at the old man’s gratitude. He wasn’t used to that sort of thing much at the Children’s Home.