Stray By PJ Ward
I stood at the top of the stairs, chair still in hand, waiting for him to rise up like they do in the scary films, but nothing. I put the chair back and tiptoed down. He might be pretending to be asleep. When I got three steps off the bottom I vaulted over the banister rail and ran. I ran through the house, only stopping at the back door to see if anyone was about, and ran and ran until the stitch in my side made it so I couldn’t run anymore. Someone was following me. I could hear panting. I looked around, but was relieved to see it was only old Mr Chan’s dog; it must’ve recognised me from last time. I slowed to a brisk walking pace. I needed to turn back and go home. It was dark now.
Barry Carmichael was a nice man, a humpty dumpty with a mullet, but that was the style then. He used to wheel himself down our street whatever the weather and everybody would say it was a crying shame that he had no one to look after him. Yet it didn’t bother him, he always had time for everyone. He’d talk to the women and would always address them by their proper titles. ‘Hello, Mrs Quinn, lovely day, you’re not cleaning those windows again are you? They’re spotless enough! Wouldn’t you agree Miss Davies? By the way, have you changed your hairstyle? Looks lovely.’ The women would then look at each other once he’d passed with pitying looks and smile. If ever there was someone working on their car or motorbike he’d stop and share a tale about how he liked to fix cars before the accident, or he’d tell a joke or two. The men were always in raptures when Barry was with them and the kids loved him too. They would often go round and ask him if he needed anything doing because they knew he always paid well. In the summer, when everyone was out he would often let the younger children sit on his knee while he took them for a ride on his wheelchair.
I liked going round Barry’s, he always had pop and crisps in, not like our house, and he was always pleased to see me. I knocked on the door but there was no answer, the back door would be open. Through the window, I saw Barry in his comfy armchair, sprinkling the tobacco onto a paper and then push it through his little green rolling machine. A miniature cigarette that looked good enough to eat, like the candy sticks. Sometimes he let me make some; he’d guide my hands through the machine, but I never could get the hang of it, although I had enough practice.
I opened the door and walked through the array of multi-coloured plastic strands that hung from it. I loved the way they brushed across my face making it look like I had really long hair, and I liked seeing how far I could get across the kitchen before I had to let them go.
‘Hiya Barry, only me, do you need anything?’ I said, opening his cupboards.
‘Yeah, a cup of tea, two sugars. Thanks,’ said Barry.
I gave him his drink and went and sat in front of the television. The room was full of things to sit on, there was the settee that was Barry’s makeshift bed, the rocking chair that had once belonged to his mother, the comfy chair and the commode, yet I preferred the floor.
‘You’ll get square eyes sitting that close,’ warned Barry.
‘What, like him,’ I said, nodding towards Dennis Taylor on the television.
We both laughed. Barry’s house was cosy, with the smoke fogging the room and the fire always on low, it was inviting. I began to feel sleepy, so relaxed, so warm, I curled up near the fire, the heat not too hot, but just enough to blanket me, when somewhere in the back of my thoughts I heard a knock on the door. I thought I did, but by that time I was back in the playground swapping stickers.
‘He should be here next week, you know how it is, gotta earn their trust, that way they’ll co-operate better,’ said a gruff voiced man.
‘D’you think the wheelchair act will win him over?’ said Barry.
‘Jesus, Barry, you’ve got everyone in the bleeding street fooled with that,’ said the man.
I didn’t recognise the other voice, but he didn’t sound friendly, and there was something in Barry’s tone that was different. I breathed a throaty snore.
The footsteps were going into the hall and the front door creaked opened. I looked up and noticed his wheelchair at the side of his comfy chair. Barry always needs his wheelchair to get around, why wasn’t he in it?
His heavy footsteps shuffled through and he slumped down into his chair. I waited what seemed like a lifetime then stretched and forced out a yawn. I didn’t know what they were talking about and besides, I was cold from having just woken up.
‘I think I’d better be going now, Dad will be wondering where I am,’ I said.
‘Can’t you stop just a little longer? You’re good company for an old man like me. Besides your dad will be flat out by now, so you may as well stay here for a bit,’ he said, staring at me intently. The thing was I knew he was right; Dad wouldn’t be looking for me. Out of sight and all that. It was the same every Sunday. The same every day really, but on Sunday’s the drinking started earlier, to get rid of the shakes from Saturday night’s bender.
I cleared the cups away when Barry piped up;
‘You couldn’t go upstairs for me, could you? For my photo album. I want to show you something. I’ve got some pictures of your mum when she was little.’
I looked at him eagerly.
‘Have you? Have you really? Where are they?’
‘They’re in my wardrobe. You might need to get the chair out of the back bedroom to stand on. I’d get it myself but, you know,’ he said, motioning towards his legs. Why was he lying? I knew he could walk, but he had some pictures of Mum when she was little, that’s all that mattered, and I didn’t have any of those.
I didn’t need telling twice, I was up those stairs two at a time. I flung open the heavy oak doors of the wardrobe; the musty smell of old people hit me full in the face. One part of the wardrobe was fitted out as shelves, each lined with newspapers, yet even on the chair I couldn’t quite reach the back of the top shelf. I wanted this photo album.
A couple of black and white photographs fell from one of the shelves, they must be his nieces and nephews; he had a lot of them. I took a handful of these loose photos and went and sat at the window. Mum might be in some of these. Some were black and white, some were colour, and every one had children in them, but no Mum. It must have been summer because they were all dressed in their underwear; one of them didn’t have any clothes on at all. I quickly turned that one over, it was rude.
I placed the photographs down on the window sill. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d never seen Mum as a little girl. I just remembered her having short brown curly hair that didn’t move, and big hooped earrings that would make a great swing for a tiny bird, that was all. Her face doesn’t exist anymore, just her hair, and the sticky smell of hairspray. The sky looked dusty pink through the sallow net curtains. I wonder if the stars will be out tonight.
The last remains of daylight were almost used up and the street below was empty, apart from a mange-ridden dog trying to scavenge in a bin. It must have been really hungry as it knew how to knock off the lid. I recognised it as being old Mr Chan’s. Everybody had thought it was a stray until I followed it home one night. I told Mr Chan to keep his dog locked up as it was frightening some of the younger kids with its scabby fur. I don’t think he understood me as he just smiled and kept saying ‘Thank you kids, thank you’, even though there was only me there. As much as the sight of it repulsed me, with its crusty skin showing through the wispy tufts of fur, I felt sorry for it. It looked lonely. All people ever did was shout at it, or try and hit it and kick it. Some people are just so cruel. Why do they want to attack something that can’t fight back?
What’s up? Can’t you reach it?’
I jumped. Barry was leaning against the bedroom door, as big as Giant Haystack, but more round.
‘I can’t see it cos that thing is in the way, where is it again?’ I said, pointing up towards the box, careful to control my voice.
‘Oh that, the games compendium. It doesn’t get used anymore, you see I’ve got nobody to play with,’ he said, looking sad.
But there was that tone again, like it was when that man was here. I needed to get out. He’d lied. He didn’t have pictures of Mum. How could I get past him when his big blancmange body was covering the doorway? I picked up the chair.
‘I can’t find it so I’ll just put this back for you...’
‘I think me and you need to have a little chat, don’t we Alex?’ he said, blowing smoke rings up into the air.
‘If it’s about being able to walk, then I won’t tell. I know how to keep a secret. My teachers always say I’m secretive, and...’
‘Oh, it’ll be a secret all right,’ he said holding his hand up, ‘just between me and you.’
‘Barry, I’ve got to go home now. It’s school in the morning,’ I said, my eyes welling up. I wiped them roughly. I didn’t want him to hit me just because I knew his secret. I promised I wouldn’t tell and I wouldn’t.
‘Hey, don’t get upset, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said, the cigarette between his teeth. He tucked his vest into his pants; smoke curling up into his eyes. He started to trundle towards me. He was lying. Dad says the exact same thing just so I’ll come close enough for a clip round the ear. All grown-ups are liars. He was going to give me a pasting, and I don’t know what for. Well, I wasn’t going to let him. I held the chair seat fast towards me, like a lion tamer. This was it. This was my only chance. I charged with all my might into his big bouncy- castle belly. I thought the chair legs might’ve punctured him and he’d go whizzing round the air like a popped balloon, but he didn’t. Instead, he clutched his stomach, and in doing so made him stagger backwards. And there he was, on the top step of the stairs, teetering, arms flapping birdlike, suspended in time.
Then he fell. Rolling and bouncing off each step, slowly at first then gathering speed until he reached a tremendous pace. There was no sign of him stopping, round and down and round and down he went like a big round cheese, down, down, down, thud.
Copyright PJ Ward 2012
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Barry Carmichael was a nice man, a humpty dumpty with a mullet, but that was the style then. He used to wheel himself down our street whatever the weather and everybody would say it was a crying shame that he had no one to look after him. Yet it didn’t bother him, he always had time for everyone. He’d talk to the women and would always address them by their proper titles. ‘Hello, Mrs Quinn, lovely day, you’re not cleaning those windows again are you? They’re spotless enough! Wouldn’t you agree Miss Davies? By the way, have you changed your hairstyle? Looks lovely.’ The women would then look at each other once he’d passed with pitying looks and smile. If ever there was someone working on their car or motorbike he’d stop and share a tale about how he liked to fix cars before the accident, or he’d tell a joke or two. The men were always in raptures when Barry was with them and the kids loved him too. They would often go round and ask him if he needed anything doing because they knew he always paid well. In the summer, when everyone was out he would often let the younger children sit on his knee while he took them for a ride on his wheelchair.
I liked going round Barry’s, he always had pop and crisps in, not like our house, and he was always pleased to see me. I knocked on the door but there was no answer, the back door would be open. Through the window, I saw Barry in his comfy armchair, sprinkling the tobacco onto a paper and then push it through his little green rolling machine. A miniature cigarette that looked good enough to eat, like the candy sticks. Sometimes he let me make some; he’d guide my hands through the machine, but I never could get the hang of it, although I had enough practice.
I opened the door and walked through the array of multi-coloured plastic strands that hung from it. I loved the way they brushed across my face making it look like I had really long hair, and I liked seeing how far I could get across the kitchen before I had to let them go.
‘Hiya Barry, only me, do you need anything?’ I said, opening his cupboards.
‘Yeah, a cup of tea, two sugars. Thanks,’ said Barry.
I gave him his drink and went and sat in front of the television. The room was full of things to sit on, there was the settee that was Barry’s makeshift bed, the rocking chair that had once belonged to his mother, the comfy chair and the commode, yet I preferred the floor.
‘You’ll get square eyes sitting that close,’ warned Barry.
‘What, like him,’ I said, nodding towards Dennis Taylor on the television.
We both laughed. Barry’s house was cosy, with the smoke fogging the room and the fire always on low, it was inviting. I began to feel sleepy, so relaxed, so warm, I curled up near the fire, the heat not too hot, but just enough to blanket me, when somewhere in the back of my thoughts I heard a knock on the door. I thought I did, but by that time I was back in the playground swapping stickers.
‘He should be here next week, you know how it is, gotta earn their trust, that way they’ll co-operate better,’ said a gruff voiced man.
‘D’you think the wheelchair act will win him over?’ said Barry.
‘Jesus, Barry, you’ve got everyone in the bleeding street fooled with that,’ said the man.
I didn’t recognise the other voice, but he didn’t sound friendly, and there was something in Barry’s tone that was different. I breathed a throaty snore.
The footsteps were going into the hall and the front door creaked opened. I looked up and noticed his wheelchair at the side of his comfy chair. Barry always needs his wheelchair to get around, why wasn’t he in it?
His heavy footsteps shuffled through and he slumped down into his chair. I waited what seemed like a lifetime then stretched and forced out a yawn. I didn’t know what they were talking about and besides, I was cold from having just woken up.
‘I think I’d better be going now, Dad will be wondering where I am,’ I said.
‘Can’t you stop just a little longer? You’re good company for an old man like me. Besides your dad will be flat out by now, so you may as well stay here for a bit,’ he said, staring at me intently. The thing was I knew he was right; Dad wouldn’t be looking for me. Out of sight and all that. It was the same every Sunday. The same every day really, but on Sunday’s the drinking started earlier, to get rid of the shakes from Saturday night’s bender.
I cleared the cups away when Barry piped up;
‘You couldn’t go upstairs for me, could you? For my photo album. I want to show you something. I’ve got some pictures of your mum when she was little.’
I looked at him eagerly.
‘Have you? Have you really? Where are they?’
‘They’re in my wardrobe. You might need to get the chair out of the back bedroom to stand on. I’d get it myself but, you know,’ he said, motioning towards his legs. Why was he lying? I knew he could walk, but he had some pictures of Mum when she was little, that’s all that mattered, and I didn’t have any of those.
I didn’t need telling twice, I was up those stairs two at a time. I flung open the heavy oak doors of the wardrobe; the musty smell of old people hit me full in the face. One part of the wardrobe was fitted out as shelves, each lined with newspapers, yet even on the chair I couldn’t quite reach the back of the top shelf. I wanted this photo album.
A couple of black and white photographs fell from one of the shelves, they must be his nieces and nephews; he had a lot of them. I took a handful of these loose photos and went and sat at the window. Mum might be in some of these. Some were black and white, some were colour, and every one had children in them, but no Mum. It must have been summer because they were all dressed in their underwear; one of them didn’t have any clothes on at all. I quickly turned that one over, it was rude.
I placed the photographs down on the window sill. I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d never seen Mum as a little girl. I just remembered her having short brown curly hair that didn’t move, and big hooped earrings that would make a great swing for a tiny bird, that was all. Her face doesn’t exist anymore, just her hair, and the sticky smell of hairspray. The sky looked dusty pink through the sallow net curtains. I wonder if the stars will be out tonight.
The last remains of daylight were almost used up and the street below was empty, apart from a mange-ridden dog trying to scavenge in a bin. It must have been really hungry as it knew how to knock off the lid. I recognised it as being old Mr Chan’s. Everybody had thought it was a stray until I followed it home one night. I told Mr Chan to keep his dog locked up as it was frightening some of the younger kids with its scabby fur. I don’t think he understood me as he just smiled and kept saying ‘Thank you kids, thank you’, even though there was only me there. As much as the sight of it repulsed me, with its crusty skin showing through the wispy tufts of fur, I felt sorry for it. It looked lonely. All people ever did was shout at it, or try and hit it and kick it. Some people are just so cruel. Why do they want to attack something that can’t fight back?
What’s up? Can’t you reach it?’
I jumped. Barry was leaning against the bedroom door, as big as Giant Haystack, but more round.
‘I can’t see it cos that thing is in the way, where is it again?’ I said, pointing up towards the box, careful to control my voice.
‘Oh that, the games compendium. It doesn’t get used anymore, you see I’ve got nobody to play with,’ he said, looking sad.
But there was that tone again, like it was when that man was here. I needed to get out. He’d lied. He didn’t have pictures of Mum. How could I get past him when his big blancmange body was covering the doorway? I picked up the chair.
‘I can’t find it so I’ll just put this back for you...’
‘I think me and you need to have a little chat, don’t we Alex?’ he said, blowing smoke rings up into the air.
‘If it’s about being able to walk, then I won’t tell. I know how to keep a secret. My teachers always say I’m secretive, and...’
‘Oh, it’ll be a secret all right,’ he said holding his hand up, ‘just between me and you.’
‘Barry, I’ve got to go home now. It’s school in the morning,’ I said, my eyes welling up. I wiped them roughly. I didn’t want him to hit me just because I knew his secret. I promised I wouldn’t tell and I wouldn’t.
‘Hey, don’t get upset, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he said, the cigarette between his teeth. He tucked his vest into his pants; smoke curling up into his eyes. He started to trundle towards me. He was lying. Dad says the exact same thing just so I’ll come close enough for a clip round the ear. All grown-ups are liars. He was going to give me a pasting, and I don’t know what for. Well, I wasn’t going to let him. I held the chair seat fast towards me, like a lion tamer. This was it. This was my only chance. I charged with all my might into his big bouncy- castle belly. I thought the chair legs might’ve punctured him and he’d go whizzing round the air like a popped balloon, but he didn’t. Instead, he clutched his stomach, and in doing so made him stagger backwards. And there he was, on the top step of the stairs, teetering, arms flapping birdlike, suspended in time.
Then he fell. Rolling and bouncing off each step, slowly at first then gathering speed until he reached a tremendous pace. There was no sign of him stopping, round and down and round and down he went like a big round cheese, down, down, down, thud.
Copyright PJ Ward 2012
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