Nobody Came (4 page)

‘
T
he headmaster wants to see you,’ my teacher told me several weeks after I had started school. ‘This lady,’ and she indicated a plump, middle-aged woman who had just come into the classroom, ‘is going to take you to him.’

I shot her a scared look. I had been told that the headmaster only asked to see us when we had done something very bad and that a punishment would always follow.

‘Don’t worry, Robbie,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘He just wants to give you and your brother something.’

As I followed the lady along the long corridor I hoped she was right. My mind scurried round trying to think of any misdeeds, but none came to me. On the other hand I couldn’t think of anything the headmaster could be going to give me.

The lady smiled at me again when she knocked on a large wooden door.

‘Don’t look so worried, Robbie. You’ve not done anything wrong,’ she whispered just before he shouted out ‘Come in!’ and she opened the door.

To my surprise John was standing there.

For a moment I felt a wave of panic. Had something bad happened at home? I looked at John but he avoided my gaze and stared at the floor instead. That added to my panic.

I held my breath and waited.

‘Robbie,’ the headmaster said, ‘I’ve spoken to your brother about the way you both come to school. We have written to your mother on several occasions and someone from the welfare has called on her.’

The words floated in the air above me. I tried to catch them and hold them still so that I could understand what they meant but before I could do that more followed, such as ‘unacceptable’, ‘filthy’, ‘smelly’, ‘offensive’ and ‘can no longer be tolerated’, before he paused for breath.

I knew he was waiting for me to speak but I couldn’t think of anything to say. What did he want us to do? Again I glanced at my brother hoping for some help but I quickly saw there was to be none from that direction; he still appeared to find the floor more interesting than my presence for his gaze was firmly directed at it.

Seeing my confusion, the lady took pity on me and knelt down until she was at my height. She gently held my elbows, her brown eyes looked earnestly into mine as she explained, using words I could understand, the meaning of what the headmaster had been saying.

‘What your headmaster is trying to tell you is that you must look better when you come to school. Your clothes are nearly worn away. And I know you are only a little boy so it’s not your fault, but they smell as well. You’ve got to be clean and neat when you come here.’ She paused for breath and I looked at her uncomprehendingly. After all, what could I do?

The headmaster started again. ‘We have a charitable fund at our disposal for boys in your position and we have decided that you certainly qualify for a sum of money to be spent on you. Mrs Johnston,’ he told us, indicating the lady who had brought me to his office, ‘is going to take you shopping. She will choose the right clothes for you. In turn you two boys are to come to school with clean hair, hands and face. There is no excuse for you to come here dirty.’ His hand snaked out and caught John’s ear and he quickly inspected it. He continued: ‘That means neck and ears, my boy. Yours are grey.’

I continued to stare at him; suddenly I didn’t want to meet John’s eyes. I had seen the blush that suffused his face until even the tips of his ears had turned a bright crimson. I knew he felt diminished somehow by the headmaster’s words and it was even worse that I, his little brother who hero-worshipped him, had been present to witness his embarrassment. I wondered if we could go – but no, the headmaster hadn’t finished with us yet.

‘One more thing. It’s been reported to me that you never bring a lunch box with you. Is that right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ answered John, shuffling his feet and still inspecting the floor.

‘Look at me when I’m talking to you,’ the headmaster barked. John’s head shot up. I saw his hands clench and knew that he wanted to be anywhere but in this room.

‘Mrs Johnston will organise a charity lunch box for each of you,’ he said dismissively.

I wanted to shout at that headmaster and tell him all about my wonderful brother. He had no idea who John really was. He had never seen how he cared for Davie and me and kept our flat as clean as he could. He didn’t hear the abuse that Gloria heaped on him or see him run errands for his drunken mother who for some reason – maybe just because he was the eldest – seemed to blame him for the many misfortunes in her life. He just saw two uncared for and unloved children standing in front of him and judged them as being worthless. He gave no consideration to our pride because we were only two grubby boys who qualified for a charity hand-out. And once his duty was done, he dismissed us.

Mrs Johnston took us to a shop that stocked suitable school clothes for us. After she had chosen the most inexpensive but serviceable shirt, shoes, trousers and a jumper each, it was all wrapped into two parcels for us to take home.

On the way home, we were excited at receiving new clothes that would mean we fitted in better at school, but apprehensive about Gloria’s possible reaction.

She screeched when John said he was getting the bath out. ‘Where do you think the money’s coming from to put in the gas meter?’ John didn’t answer. He just went to the jar where loose change was kept and took the money out. And for the first time she backed down – not without muttering that no one was going to tell her how to bring up her kids, but the heart had gone out of her complaints.

‘Oh, do what you want – you always do,’ she finally said after John repeated that we had to be clean before we wore the new clothes.

The next day we were scrubbed clean. Dressed in our new uniforms and smelling of soap, we both, in different parts of the school, received a charity lunch box of food.

I felt the heat rise on the back of my neck when I was given mine. I just knew that every child in the class knew what that little container, placed carefully on my desk, meant. I could feel everyone looking at me as I opened it and examined the contents: hard-boiled egg sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, a bottle of orange squash and a small piece of fruit cake. I would rather have had an apple and a piece of cheese from John’s pocket – anything rather than the shame of a charity lunch box that marked us out as ‘different’ and ‘unloved’ just as clearly as our old, ragged clothes had done before.

A
few weeks after we had been called to the headmaster’s office, school broke up for the Christmas holidays. The festive season was cold and rainy that year – not that it made any difference to us.

We knew there wouldn’t be a Christmas tree covered with imitation snow and draped with paper chains with a glittering star on top. Neither, we were sure, would there be a sack of presents waiting to surprise us. And there was no point looking for stockings stuffed with oranges and sweets at the foot of our beds.

We knew that other families celebrated with presents and special meals. We had seen brightly decorated rooms and trees with piles of presents sitting under their branches through the windows of other people’s houses. And we could imagine how Christmas day would be in their homes: carpets strewn with wrapping paper torn off presents by excited small children, air perfumed with the rich smells of a mother’s baking and dishes full of fruit, nuts and chocolates on the dining-room table.

If, when we saw those children who glowed with the confidence of being cared for, we felt emptiness, a hollow space under our ribs that should have been filled with love, we said nothing. For what is put into words becomes reality and we were happy, weren’t we?

All the word Christmas meant to John and me was a day off school, and to Davie it meant even less. So that year when we woke on Christmas morning we were prepared to find it was just another day.

Our mouths fell open when we went into the sitting room and saw four parcels wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Three smaller ones had been put on the table and a bigger one lay on the floor. John jabbed me in the ribs and we stared at each other. Davie ran over and grabbed one.

‘Better leave that alone,’ John said quickly.

‘Where do they come from?’ I asked.

‘Not Father Christmas, that’s for sure,’ said John with a knowing laugh.

At that moment Gloria’s door opened and Stanley came out with a huge grin on his face.

‘Merry Christmas, boys,’ he said. Then he called over his shoulder, ‘Come on, Gloria. It’s time to open our Christmas presents.’

Gloria, still in her old, stained dressing gown, with the baby on her hip and a cigarette in the other hand, stopped dead when she saw the parcels on the table.

‘Bloody hell, what’s this then?’

‘You won’t know until you’ve opened them,’ Stanley answered. ‘You all sit down and I’ll hand them out.’

We three boys dived obediently onto the sagging couch. Gloria sank into her corner of it, one thinly plucked eyebrow raised enquiringly.

Stanley picked up a parcel and read out what he had written in pencil on the brown paper: ‘To my dearest Gloria. Happy Christmas. Love, Stanley.’

‘I hope you don’t think I got you anything,’ she said, snatching the present from him.

We watched her tear off the paper and give a squeal of surprise. Stanley had bought her the latest record by Johnnie Ray, ‘Somebody Stole My Girl’. Gloria had been going on about it ever since its release.

‘Do you like it then?’ asked Stanley.

‘Of course I do.’ Gloria gave him a quick peck on the cheek. It was the first time I’d seen her show Stanley any affection and he flushed with pleasure.

Next it was Davie’s turn. He was so excited he couldn’t sit still. This was the first present anyone had ever given Davie in his life. His big blue eyes were shining as John helped him untie the string. He pulled out a small wooden toy soldier with a rifle over its shoulder.

Davie immediately dropped to the floor and began marching his soldier up and down.

‘Here’s yours, John,’ said Stanley.

It was a wooden pencil box with a sliding lid.

‘Thanks very much, Stanley,’ said John politely but without much enthusiasm. ‘That’s just what I need for school.’

He gave Denise a soft little teddy bear and she shoved it straight into her mouth.

‘And now it’s your turn, Robbie.’

There was only one present left – the big one that lay on the floor. Stanley gave me a smile as I ran across to get it. My heart was pounding as if it was going to jump right out of my chest. I fumbled at the knot and ripped off the paper, then I gasped. It was a wooden easel, just the right size for me, and with it came a thick stack of drawing paper.

Stanley set it up for me.

‘I know you like drawing, Robbie, so I thought now was the time for you to have this.’

I was flooded with such happiness I could hardly tear my eyes away from it.

John said, ‘That’s nice, Robbie,’ but I could see something sad in his expression.

I rushed over to Stanley and hugged him around his legs and he gave me a pat on the head.

Maybe it was the excitement of the Christmas presents or maybe it was the gin but Stanley somehow persuaded Gloria to cook us lunch. Of course, she complained a bit but she ended up frying some pork bangers on the two-plate cooker. She also managed to make some lumpy mash and opened a tin of baked beans.

Stanley produced a punnet of jellied eels, which we had first, and a tin of peaches from South Africa was emptied into a bowl for afters. He’d also brought a bottle of sweet sherry and he poured some into a glass and gave each of us boys a taste. Davie took a sip and pulled such a funny face we all laughed. The only ones who didn’t have any were Denise, who had wakened and was sitting propped up on the couch watching us all with interest, and Gloria.

‘I’ll stick to my own poison, thank you very much,’ she said, holding out her glass for Stanley to top up with gin.

Although to other people that might not seem much of a Christmas lunch, it’s one of my great memories of happiness. I can see us all now: Gloria with her head thrown back laughing, Stanley looking content, Davie excited, John relaxed, and me – I just wanted to get to my easel.

After we had eaten, Gloria put her new record on the turntable. The smooth tones of Johnnie Ray filled the room and Stanley got up and, with a mock bow, asked her to dance.

‘Oh, go on with you,’ she said. But she eventually agreed. She and Stanley started to dance and John picked up the baby. Holding her in his arms he slowly danced around the room with her. For once, Gloria didn’t yell at him to leave her alone. I took Davie’s hands and we did a sort of gallop around the room. We were all laughing and Davie started to shriek with delight.

‘You lot had better keep it down or you’ll have the old bitch from downstairs coming to complain,’ was all Gloria said.

When the record was finished Gloria played it a couple more times before Stanley said the lunch and sherry had made him feel sleepy so he and Gloria went into her room and closed the door.

John walked over to the window and stared down at the street. It had started to rain earlier and was pelting down.

‘Bleedin’ rain,’ he said. ‘I wish it would stop so I could go and see my mates.’

But going out was the last thing I had in mind. I took a sheet of paper and carefully set it up on the easel. I fetched my crayons and started to draw a picture of us all dancing.

John found himself an old
Beano
to read and Davie and Denise fell fast asleep clutching their new toys but I was in another world as I worked on my picture. I let my imagination go and had us dancing around a Christmas tree. We were all smiling.

Later, when Gloria and Stanley came out of the bedroom, he turned on the radio so we could hear the Queen’s speech. We’d missed the afternoon one but it was being repeated that evening. It didn’t mean anything to us but we sat and listened quietly even though John made me giggle by looking at me cross-eyed. That earned me a sharp look from Gloria. She loved the royals and read every article about them in her magazines.

When the speech ended Stanley turned off the radio and Gloria held out her glass to him.

‘Pour us another one,’ she said. ‘And this time take it easy on the lemonade.’

‘Don’t you think you should call it a day, Gloria?’ said Stanley and as he said it I got an uneasy feeling in my stomach, knowing how suddenly Gloria’s good humour could vanish.

‘Don’t you tell me what to do, you miserable git,’ she slurred as she pulled herself off the couch. ‘I’ll get my own bleedin’ drink. What do I need you for? Just because you gave me a stupid record you think you can tell me what to do. Why don’t you just bugger off?’

I remember feeling sorry for Stanley. He’d tried so hard that day to make it nice for everybody, but he always backed down when Gloria turned on him.

Looking downcast, he said quietly, ‘I think it’s time for bed, boys.’

We didn’t have to be told twice. John picked up Davie and the three of us dashed downstairs to the privy and hung about down there for a bit. It was peaceful there because Mrs Stone was away for the day with her family.

We knew it wouldn’t take long for Gloria to be dozy enough to ignore us when we returned. As soon as we got back upstairs I dragged my easel into our bedroom and closed the door.

Gloria’s turn of mood failed to spoil that Christmas for me. I climbed into bed and pulled the covers up over my ears, leaving my easel on the floor right next to me. I stuck out my hand and touched it. It made me feel as if I was special. I thought of all the pictures I would draw for Stanley. I wanted so much to make him proud of me. I knew he’d got me the best present of all of us and was very happy that he was my Dad.