by Ron Thomas
‘Get the bastard!’ Harry shouted. The five thieves turned, some more reluctantly than others. Gilbert waited no longer. He turned and sprinted away, with the Forty Thieves strung out on his tail. Gilbert Maggs was used to running, and soon he’d outpaced all but Harry Moon.
‘Now, you’re about to get a kicking, you little bastard!’ Harry yelled. Gilbert wasn’t about to turn around and give cheek. It was much too serious for that.
Terror began deep in the pit of his stomach as Gilbert could hear Harry’s breathing, and realised that Moon’s longer legs were slowly gaining on him. Then the awful moment came when he knew he’d eventually be caught. At the corner, momentarily out of Moon’s view, he searched desperately for some way out, some means of escape. There was none except for a couple of loose palings on the fence. He pulled one away, hoping to enlarge the gap and squeeze through, but there wasn’t time. Harry’s footsteps were close on his heels, and desperation kicked in. As his pursuer rounded the corner Gilbert swung the paling like a sword with all his might and Harry took the blow directly across the bridge of his nose. His legs kept running as his neck snapped back and bright blood spurted from his flattened proboscis. The back of Harry’s head hit the pavement with a sickening thud. He lay on his back, spreadeagled and inert, with bright blood pooling around his head, both from his smashed nose and the back of his head.
Not knowing whether his pursuer was alive or dead, Gilbert knelt briefly, but jumped to his feet again as he heard more footsteps approaching. He threw down the bloodied paling and ran on, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Only at the end of the next block, was he game to look back. The Forty Thieves were gathered around their fallen leader, who was still prone on the footpath. Nobody was chasing, and he walked on for another hour, putting as much distance as possible between him, Riley Street and the Forty Thieves.
Chapter 6
The Doll House
The nights were long under the stairs of the Doll House, and the late-night traffic up and down that worn flight directly above his head meant that his slumber was fitful at best.
It didn’t take long for Gilbert to learn that a cold, miserable, hungry boy finds restful sleep hard to come by. More than once over the lonely weeks he called the stairs home, he thought of going back to his warm bed in Palmer Street, and only morning sun renewed his resolve.
As nights came and went, Gilbert began to wonder about exactly what might actually be happening above his head. Finally, in the dead of night, unable to sleep and stiff with the cold that permeated every part of him, he decided it was time to find out. A reconnaissance mission was called for. The Doll House was situated above a shop that sold cheap rugs, and from the look of it, it sold precious few. There was no direct entrance to the first floor from Cathedral Street, except the laneway stairs that had become his only home. On the opposite side of the building to his stairs, he discovered a gateway leading to a narrow path down the side of the rug shop. It was latched, but not locked. The path led to a small, barren courtyard. A second set of rickety steps, somewhat narrower than the ones that had become his home, led up to a small, dilapidated balcony. It was dark, and there didn’t appear to be anyone around, so he began to slowly climb the stairs, ready to run for it at any sign of danger.
The boards of the balcony had seen better days, and many of them creaked. No matter where Gilbert placed his feet, and how slowly he shifted his weight, they let out squeaks of protest that sounded very loud in the quiet night.
There was just one door leading from the balcony, set squarely in the middle of the back wall, with a rusty-looking fly wire screen door. On either side, equally spaced, there were two partly open sash windows with the last remains of paint peeling from the frames. Both rooms were in complete darkness and Gilbert couldn’t hear any sounds from either room. He couldn’t be certain there was nobody inside, and he was about to retreat back down the stairs when he heard voices from the hall. With his back to the wall beside a window, he stood holding his breath, ready to make a dash for it if the owners of the voices came out onto the balcony.
The bedroom door creaked and the light went on, flooding the balcony with brightness and leaving Gilbert feeling very exposed. As he stepped back into the shadows, he glimpsed a gaudily-beaded lampshade.
The door squeaked again as it closed, and he clearly heard a key turn in the lock, then a seductive woman’s voice.
‘Welcome, big boy,’ she said huskily, her voice dripping with honey. The man’s voice sounded nervous and uncertain, and Gilbert couldn’t make out what he said. The light level dropped as she doused the room light and switched on the bedside lamp. His heart skipped a beat and he held his breath when she was suddenly at the window, just inches from him.
‘Oh, Reginald, it’s so hot in here,’ he heard her say. Then her hands appeared and she pushed the sash upwards until the window was completely open and the breeze caught the lacy curtains.
Gilbert didn’t dare look in the window. The occupants of the room conversed in whispers for the most part, while Gilbert was torn between the urge to get out of there, and fascination for the events unfolding inside.
In the end, the rhythmic squeaking of bedsprings won the day. The man’s gruntings and the woman’s fascinating little squeals of pleasure ensured that curiosity overcame prudence and Gilbert sidled into the dim rhombus of lacy light from the window. His eyes opened wide. The man was balding and obese and he wore only a singlet. He was straddling a red-headed woman, whose gaze was fixed on the ceiling. Her bare legs were wrapped around the man’s loins and although her cries and actions were urging her rider to greater effort, her face wore an expression of boredom and Gilbert could see that she was chewing gum. Chew, chew, squeal, chew. Unthinking in his fascination, Gilbert stepped closer to the curtain and either a squeaking board or his movement must have given him away.
She turned her head towards where he stood, frozen. He expected her to scream, but she didn’t. Her eyes widened momentarily, she stared at him for a long moment without interrupting her movements. Then she winked at him! The spell was broken in an instant, and Gilbert fled in panic across the balcony and down the stairs. He only stopped momentarily to gather the few measly possessions he’d accrued from his nest under the stairs and departed the Doll House and Cathedral Street, ashamed, embarrassed, stimulated and confused.
Chapter 7
Benny’s Forbidden Fruit
As attempts at stealing go, it was a pretty poor effort. The moment the red-headed boy came into the shop, his behaviour aroused Benito’s suspicion. He was glancing from side to side and making a poor pretence of examining the fruit with a view to purchase. Benito continued to stack his cabbages while he watched the boy from the corner of his eye. It appeared that he’d forgotten Benito was watching him. With a quick glance left and right, the boy stuffed a hand of bananas inside his jacket.
Benito hurried around the fruit displays intent on intercepting the thief as he made for the street, but his movement caught the boy’s eye.
‘Stop!’ he shouted. The boy took off with his right hand holding the bulge inside his jacket. He grabbed the edge of a fruit trolley piled high with mangoes, then hared away as an avalanche of mangoes tumbled to the ground and rolled across the footpath.
‘Stop that thief!’ Benito shouted at the top of his voice. He danced his way through the rolling mangoes and sprinted after the thief, trying to take off the heavy leather apron he was wearing as he ran.
The thief looked around at a most inopportune moment. A passer-by stepped into his path and he crashed head long into the man’s crotch and bounced back, sitting dazed on his backside. The man moaned and bent double, cradling his injured manhood. Just as the boy struggled dizzily to his feet, Benito arrived and grabbed his ear in a pincer grip.
‘Gotcher, you slippery little bastard!’ Benito shouted triumphantly. The boy howled and a crowd quickly gathered. Not all of them were friendly at first, but when Benito reached inside the boy’s jacket and extracte
d a half-dozen partly squished bananas, the rights of the matter became obvious.
‘He wrecked a pound’s worth of mangoes, getting away!’ Benito wailed, then frogmarched the struggling young thief back in the direction of Benny’s Fruit Market.
***
‘Don’t call the cops,’ the grubby boy pleaded. ‘I was hungry.’ Benito sat him down on a chair in the little room at the back of Benny’s. One of the bananas had been badly squashed in the melee and, without speaking, Benito peeled it and passed it to him. The boy wolfed it down.
‘What’s-a your name, boy?’ Benito asked.
The boy thought a little too long before answering. ‘John Smythe,’ he said uncertainly.
‘You look more like Ginger Meggs to me, carrot top. If you are John Smythe, I’m the Pope and this shop’s the Vatican. Now, what’s your real name and where do you live?’
The boy clammed up, with a sullen look on his face. ‘Perhaps I will have to call the cops,’ Benito said, though he had no intention of doing that. The last thing Benito Battaglia needed was a visit from the law.
A tall, dark-haired man dressed in a snappy, wide-lapelled suit entered the front of the shop, combing his slicked-down hair. ‘What’s-a going on here, Benito?’ he asked. ‘There’s mangoes all across the street. I leave you for an hour to get a haircut and the place is a firkin’ disaster.’
‘Ask this little bastard, Uncle Guido. I caught him trying to steal bananas and he wrecked the friggin’ mango stand as he tried to escape.’
‘Did he now? That’s serious!’
‘He won’t tell me his name. He says he’s John Smythe, but he’s lying. I reckon he’s really Ginger Meggs. I’ve seen him in the paper.’
Guido turned to the boy. ‘Well, Ginger Meggs, I think it’s time you gave it up.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his coat and suddenly pulled out a Bengal-style barber’s razor, and flicked the blade open. He grabbed the terrified boy by the hair, stropped the razor a few times on the sleeve of his coat, then held the glistening blade to the shoplifter’s throat. ‘Real name, Ginger Meggs.’
‘Gil. Gilbert Maggs!’ the panicked boy shouted.
Suddenly, the man called Uncle Guido threw his head back and laughed. ‘Gilbert Maggs!’ he guffawed, then resumed his laughter. ‘Gilbert Maggs! Ginger Meggs!’ Suddenly Benito got the joke and joined in. The only one who didn’t see the funny side was the terrified boy, who expected to have his throat cut at any moment. With a flick of the wrist, suddenly the razor was back in Guido’s pocket.
‘That’s the best laugh I’ve had since Frank Green got kicked in the nuts,’ Guido said with a chuckle. ‘I think I’ll call you Meggsie. Now, where do you live, boy?’ he asked. ‘Don’t make me ask twice,’ he added for emphasis.
‘I don’t live anywhere,’ the boy said. ‘I had a fight with my father and I’ve been living on the street. I was hungry. That’s why I took the bananas.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Benito, give him a couple of bananas,’ Guido said. ‘I can’t stand the look of him.’
‘I already gave him one,’ Benito replied. Guido thought for a moment.
‘Better yet, give him some of those bruised mangoes. It might teach him to treat the fruit with some respeck.’ He watched intently without speaking, as the boy ate greedily, his cheeks and chin awash with mango juice.
‘Is your name really Gilbert Maggs? Or were you pulling my leg?’ Guido asked. The boy nodded, then resumed his eating.
‘How old are you, Gilbert Maggs?’
‘I’m thirteen. Almost fourteen.’
‘Where do your parents live?’ Guido asked.
‘In Palmer Street. My dad’s a wharfie. He got drunk and was bashing my mum. That’s what the fight was about. He said I was a bastard.’
‘A bastard, eh? Do you know what a bastard is, Meggsie?’
‘Not exactly. I know it’s bad.’
‘And you sailed in like Galahad to save her, I suppose.’
Gilbert thought for a while. ‘I never heard of anyone called Galahad. I punched him and got a huge belting. He tried to stab me with a kitchen knife. That was about eight weeks ago.’
‘And you made a run for it, eh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Two months on the lam! And where have you been sleeping since?’
‘I got places.’
‘You got places, I got choices, Meggsie. I got two of them. I can call the cops. Benny and I will both swear that you tried to steal the cash drawer. They’ll take you away and you’ll probably get about five years in Long Bay. I don’t always see eye-to-eye with the cops, so I’ve got another idea. You work for me. You live in the fruit shop, at the back, and run errands for me and Benny, do some deliveries, that sort of thing. Once you learn the ropes, I’ve got some other things in mind. You can be a cockatoo.’
The boy looked confused. ‘A lookout. You can keep an eye out, when I need an eye kept out,’ Guido explained, tapping his temple. He stooped until his eyes were on the same level as Gilbert’s.
‘Well, Ginger Meggs? What’ll it be? Cops or Guido Caletti?’
‘I’ll work for you, Mr Caletti,’ the boy said hurriedly.
Caletti held out his hand and the boy took it, his hand disappearing into Guido’s huge fist. They shook solemnly. ‘Now, you are an official member of the Darlo Push, you’ll have to do as you’re told. No funny business, Meggsie. If I take the razor out again, I’ll use it.’ The boy could only swallow.
‘You say you’re thirteen?’
‘Yes, sir. Almost fourteen.’
‘What school do you go to?’
‘I don’t. Not since I ran away, anyway. Before that I went to Plunkett Street.’
‘Well, we can’t have you wagging school. I don’t want no dummy for a right-hand man. I’ll have to sort something out about that. Meanwhile, you can start by helping Benito. Now get your arse out there and pick up the rest of those mangoes, Meggsie. Then, for Christ’s sake, have a wash. You’re on the nose.’
***
Meggsie, sandwiched as he was between jute bags, was warm, and more comfortable than he’d been for months. However, life on the street had him reacting to every sound like some sort of prey animal, and the moment he heard the key turn in the lock, he was instantly awake.
‘Wakey, wakey Meggs. Time to start work,’ Benito said, too cheerfully.
Meggsie climbed out of his pile of bags as Benito disappeared back out into the cobblestoned yard. By the time he reached the dark yard, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Benito was opening the back gate, his breath leaving little clouds of condensation to mark his passage.
‘Righto, Meggs,’ Benito said. ‘You’re on the crank handle. Be careful it doesn’t kick back on you. Keep your shins out of the way. Wait till I give her some choke’ He climbed into the cabin of the Thornycroft truck.
‘Right-o,’ Benito called. Meggsie, who had no prior experience of such matters, tried to swing the crank-handle and it immediately kicked back viciously. Benito climbed back down again. Meggsie expected a clip over the ear. That would certainly have been the case if it had been his father, but Benito simply grinned. ‘You need to use-a your legs,’ he said. He showed Meggsie how to start with the crank-handle at the lowest point and to pull up, using leg strength. Meggsie heaved upward and the Thornycroft engine coughed, farted and sprang into life on the fourth pull.
‘Well done, ragazzo,’ Benito said. ‘It usually takes six pulls. Now you can do it, you are my crank-handle specialist. You can do it all the time. Save my back! Jump in.’
‘Where are we going?’ Meggsie asked as, with the wet streets still in complete darkness, Benito swung the Thornycroft out of Hopewell Lane and into Glenmore Road. Benito glanced across at his passenger.
‘Where we go every morning. Haymarket. Where do you think our fruit and veg come from? We have to go and buy it.’
‘Oh,’ was all Meggsie could say. Beyond a vague idea that it originated in ‘farms’, he had no idea how the pr
oduce got to the shop. It wasn’t something he’d ever thought about. Of course, he’d heard of the name, Haymarket, but he’d never been there. The streets were damp from the overnight rain. There were very few other vehicles on the road; just a few milkmen, a smelly lavatory truck or two, and an occasional paddy wagon, trawling for drunks.
The produce market was a large, open, red-brick building, and Benito drove straight in through one of the many arched portals. Inside, was chaos. The market stalls were loosely arranged and were really just open spaces piled high with boxes bags and heaps of fruit and vegetables of every description. It seemed that every buyer knew every seller and the sellers vied in friendly, raucous competition for every buyer’s attention. Benito Battaglia was in his element, shouting greetings right and left.
‘Hey Lou, those tomatoes you sold me were just shit. I won’t be buying any more until you get your act together,’ he shouted to a corpulent man smoking a large cigar, who just grinned and made a rude gesture.
‘Who’s the new bloke?’ another man shouted.
‘He’s-a the new boss, Fred!’ Benito yelled back. ‘He says I’ve been paying too much. He won’t-a be buying anything from you unless you get-a the price down. Sharpen your pencil, Fred!’
With Meggsie in tow, Benito wandered among the market stalls, choosing the best produce. All he needed to do was point to a box, and it was magically loaded onto his truck by a man with a wheeled trolley and muscular arms. Benito would then sign a chitty and wander on to the next stall, all the time giving a running commentary and flinging loud but friendly insults at the sellers. It didn’t take long before the truck was loaded.
‘Come on Meggsie let’s get out of here,’ Benito said. ‘It gets busy later.’ Meggsie couldn’t imagine what it might be like if what he’d seen wasn’t busy.
It was hard work back at the shop unloading all the boxes and placing them in front of the display shelves. Benito showed Meggsie how to pack the shelves so that the produce was shown off to best advantage. Meggsie found that he enjoyed the work, and he learned by doing. Benito repacked some of his shelves, explaining that there was a method for each item that would somehow induce a buying frenzy. The rest of his day was spent packing, cleaning, sweeping, and carrying groceries for customers, while Benito worked the cash till and chatted with every new customer. He seemed to know everybody, and everybody seemed to know and love Benito. Most of them called him Benny.