Street Kid

by Ned Williams

  After a late breakfast, we lounged about talking inconsequentially about nothing in particular. Mickey noticeably warmed towards Sheba and even managed the occasional contribution to the gossiping. By lunchtime she had to leave and ‘return to the smog’ so I crept downstairs to try and ascertain whether Lorna was around so Sheba could slip out unnoticed. There was no sign of her so Sheba could make her exit in a vaguely dignified way. There were lots of hugs and kisses – even between Mickey and her – and vows that Mickey and I would talk over the previous evening’s offer and let her know.

  “We’ll be in touch.” I said as she gave us her sister’s address – again.

  “If not, I certainly will.”

  After she’d departed, in another whirlwind of significance, Mickey and I flopped down onto the sofa to recover a little from the maelstrom Sheba had discharged.

  After about ten minutes I thought that something must be said. “Well, Mickey, my lad, what shall we do?”

  “Simple. We go.” He then moved over to put on a record. As far as he was concerned, the subject was completely done and dusted.

  “Is it really as simple as all that?”

  “When she first said, I was septical.”

  “Sceptical,” I corrected.

  “That’s it – septical,” he persisted, “but then I thought it was a good idea. What’s there to stop us?” He went on and on and it became clear that he was ragingly enthusiastic over the prospect of moving to the British centre of the Arts. “I’d be happy to pack up and go now – like what Sheba said.”

  “I’m not so sure. You don’t know Sheba like I do. The whole idea might have been a spur of the moment kind of thing and there may be no substance to her offer.”

  “It sounded real to me,” he said earnestly.

  “Yes. That’s the sort of vocal trick she’s very good at performing. Believe me, it could all well be a lot of smoke without a trace of fire.”

  As the opening of Janáček’s ‘Taras Bulba’ sounded, I ruminated over my future. What Sheba was proposing, with the assistance of an ardently forceful Mickey, was going to be a huge jump into the unknown – the biggest blindfolded leap that I had ever made in the whole of my eighteen years. Leaving home for my various flat lives would be as nothing up to this almighty plunge. Did I have the courage? With Mickey beside me I decided that it would, indeed, be possible.

  “I’m still worried that London is too big. I’d feel lost.”

  Mickey became serious. “You won’t. I’ve been there. Lots. It’s easy to get to know.”

  “When did you ever go down there?”

  “All the time. I got a working knowhow of the place. Even the Underground is easy. Don’t you worry, I’ll look after you.” He went on to explain that he used to go down there to attend concerts and exhibitions – also, I suspect, it was to have some anonymous and uncomplicated sex. When he’d finished with these revelations he seemed to dismiss the whole subject from his mind and returned his attention to the music.

  This was neither the first nor last time in our relationship that Mickey managed to astonish me, thus causing me, each time, to look at him in a totally different light.

  In my usual sceptical way, once the stylus had lifted from the L.P., I proceeded to put a dampener on the whole thing by hinting that once Sheba was back in London, she’d soon forget all about it and we would be left in limbo.

  “She won’t, will she?”

  “As I said, you don’t know her like I do. She is adorable but she sometimes has a butterfly for a brain.”

  Mickey didn’t so much look disappointed as utterly destroyed by my comments.

  Bright Lights – Big City

  Pretty soon I was proved totally wrong when, on the Saturday following her departure, a letter arrived from Sheba telling us that everything was firmed up with Sally and, “You can both shift your arses and get up here A. S. A. P.” It was all right for her but how the hell were we going to do that? To me, my cautious nature bellowed at me that it was a nigh on impossible task. Not so for Mickey who still couldn’t understand why we didn’t simply pack up and leave there and then.

  “But there would be so much to arrange and plan and in far too short a time.” If only we had a time machine which could be programmed to whisk both us and our goods off to London in one easy flash. This fictional machine would also come in handy if we then changed our minds and could be utilised into transporting us back to our home town.

  It was difficult trying to talk things over with Mickey as he put down all my fears and objections with an indulgent smile and shrug.

  “I wish you’d talk to me.”

  “I don’t know why yer worried. It’d all work out fine.”

  All that week we touched constantly on the subject. Mickey’s unshakable confidence was beginning to feed into my little brain and I began to be seduced into the prospect of making the great leap.

  “But what if...” I started for the umpteenth time.

  “We’ll manage,” was his constant reassurance.

  “But...”

  “Carl, I tell you – there’s no problem. It’s all in your head. Let just get our acts together and just fucking well do it!” At this, I burst out laughing. Mickey rarely swore.

  On the Saturday of the weekend following the momentous arrival of Sheba’s fateful written summons I faced another of my pesky Rubicons when, finally beaten down by Mickey’s simple but powerfully effective logic, I began to accept the fact that there was a distinct possibility that we could be deserting the environs that had nurtured me and we would be emigrating to the capital.

  That night I slept poorly and our discussions, strobe–like, went on throughout the whole time we were in bed. He didn’t object that I kept waking him as yet another jitter burst upon my mind that I wanted quelling. I think that both Mickey and I knew that the iron was now so hot that it was up to us to make that decision as to whether we would strike it or let the thing go cold.

  The Sunday began with the subject of the move being avoided like the proverbial plague. We played music, ate and lounged. Throughout the day, like a giant vulture, the subject of the move hovered threateningly over our thoughts. That evening, it was Mickey who decided that we needed to talk and face our problem head on and sort it out, finally and decisively as to what the fuck we were going to do. Our expressed thoughts went back and forth for hours and we still had not managed to arrive at a mutually satisfactory conclusion. Mickey was still optimistic whereas I still managed to find faults in everything.

  Just after Midnight, the hammer blow of fate intervened and fell, struck and instantly demolished all certainty that nothing would change. After a pause, I turned to Mickey, “Okay, let’s do it!”

  “What? Go to London?” He was staring at me with an intensity which I could almost touch.

  “No, idiot, scratch each other’s arses and whistle ‘Dixie’.” The shout of joy he emitted was so loud I half expected Lorna and Larry to bash on their ceilings with a couple of brooms. With great determination, Mickey instantly deserted me and swept out of the lounge and into the bedroom.

  “Where are you going?” I yelled.

  “To pack!” he bawled out for all the World to hear.

  Dragging him back into the lounge, I managed to get Mickey’s mind on the practicalities of the next step in our impending exodus.

  The iron was no longer hot but plainly melting in the heat of our mutual furnace. Within the next nine hours we could both be handing in our respective notices and be prepared to suffer the consequences of our action. I was about to disconnect myself from the job I had endured since leaving school. I knew, backwards, all the procedures and routines of the department in which I worked ever since I had been forced into the career I didn’t seek. ‘Hang on a sec’, I thought to myself. ‘What am I thinking? ‘Endured’ was the right label for it! I hadn’t wanted the fucking job in the first place so what the hell was I complaining about?’ It was my mother’s gloomy shadow that still shaded
my life. This was a sobering thought. Did I have any loyalty to my employers? Did they deserve it?

  Strangely, for the few hours of sleep which were left to us before we awoke to begin our five days of toil, I embraced Morpheus who responded with balmy visions of a golden future full of music, art and contentment.

  On that fateful Monday morning, Mickey said he was going to hand in his notice and put me on my sacred honour to do likewise “– or else!” He winked. I think that he still had nagging doubts that I might not go through with our deal. Talk about blackmail.

  I made the short bus journey deep in thought. Shall I? Shan’t I? With a slight variation, I felt like the little train in Disney’s ‘Dumbo’ who puffed, “I think I can, I thought I could...” etcetera, etcetera, etcetera (to quote ‘The King and I’). Musicals? Naturally, being Gay, I loved the Classics!

  During the short walk from the bus stop to my place of purgatory, I glanced up at the sky. Heavy grey clouds shrouded both the city and my life. What to do? A light rain began to fall. Was this some sort of malevolent omen? Did it signify that I would be crying in utter despair before the chain of events had been completed?

  Sitting at my desk, it was impossible to start my daily tasks immediately. Without focussing on anything, I stared vacantly for about an hour making a great show of flapping bits of paper around in an effort to look furiously busy.

  One thought persisted in dominating my speculations – was Mickey altogether serious? Was he going to wait and see if I went through with our agreement before handing in his own resignation for real?

  About eleven, my boss’s phone rang – it was for me. I ignored yet another fixed glare from him.

  It was Mickey. “I’ve all done and finished with work. It’s all final. I hope you ‘ave as well!”

  “Yes,” I lied. “Why, did you think I wouldn’t?”

  “Yes!” came the short reply. “That’s why I’m phoning.”

  As soon as I put down the receiver, I sat at my desk for a moment, with the ‘Shall I. Shan’t I’ voice returning and making an even more insistent brouhaha in my reeling brain. I pulverized my still hot iron with my hammer of fate and turned my lie to Mickey into my own truth. I stood, went over to my boss and verbally gave a week’s notice, “…because I’m going to leave here and I’ll be moving to London.” Although I was shaking inside I even managed to raise a grin. So, the deed was done. There was very little chance of return. Rubicon, you have been well and truly crossed and I won’t need to look back any more onto the other bank.

  After his initial shock, my boss was sympathetic. “Well, we certainly can’t compete with that, can we?”

  I couldn’t resist it – “And I won’t be needing to use the phone anymore, either” I actually received from him a warm smile in an acknowledgement of my little joke.

  From that moment on, I began to work off my week’s notice. News of my resignation went around the office in a flash and I had to answer many questions as to my reasons. As soon as I mentioned Sheba’s name and it was with her that I would be staying, I received many knowing smirks.

  That evening, with Mickey’s enthusiastic blessing, I dashed off a quick note to Sheba to update her on our progress by saying everything was in place and we should be arriving in ten days – subject to arranging help in transporting both us and our possessions to London. We then spent a glorious evening making speculative plans and thinking of all the things we could see and do. I think Mickey wanted to stay on the subject for as long as possible so that I would finally convince myself that we really were doing the right thing and I had no cause to be worried.

  The following evening I went on the delicate mission to say farewell to my mother. Knocking to summon her to the door of my first home, I wondered how long it would be before I would stand there again. As soon as I walked through the door, she knew that there was something important going on and that I needed to talk about it. She accepted my news with resignation. For one of the first times, in my experience, she barely had an opinion on something. Even though it was offered, she still didn’t want to know my future address or anything about my plans. Indeed, she didn’t even seem to care about when I was actually planning to leave. In her own way, I think she was upset I was going but it was beneath her dignity to show it. She didn’t want to make herself vulnerable by revealing that she was human. “You go and do whatever you want. You always have,” was all she said on the matter. She wouldn’t even allow herself to either hug or kiss me – let alone wish me well. Did I honestly expect more? Not really. Once she found out I was going to be with Sheba and Mickey, she emitted a disparaging and highly audible grunt. As far as she was concerned, I was choosing to go with two of the worst people in the whole world and we were all being catapulted headlong on a bumpy ride into a moral inferno.

  The next evening Mickey had arranged to go around to his parents’ place to deliver the news of our expedition so I took the opportunity to sneak away and seek out my rent friends and tell them my news and bid them farewell. Although they didn’t know Mickey, they knew that I was seeing someone on a more than casual basis. Instead of jumping for joy and being thrilled on our behalf that we were changing the course of our lives, they merely sniffed in a sort of indifferent and bored unison. They were singularly unimpressed with our plans.

  “Yeh, yeh, yeh, we know. We’ve heard it all before.”

  “Lots of us go down there. It never works out for no one.”

  “Far too much competition, my dear.”

  “It ain’t paved with fucking gold, you know?”

  “You’ll soon get fed up and come wiggling back.”

  After some searching I finally managed to track down Andy. The moment he heard what I was up to, he frowned. “Carl, I honestly think you are about to make a huge mistake.” Great – so much for his vote of confidence and a happy (or sad – either would have been nice) send off.

  Zenda was even more difficult to find. It wasn’t until I went to ‘The Steps’ that I found him lurking at the bottom and I was able to corner him. He greeted me with a huge smile, hug and a, “So, you’re moving to London.”

  “How the fuck did you know that?”

  “You always did underestimate the grapevine.”

  “I suppose you’re also going to tell me that I’m chasing a pipe dream.”

  “Not at all. I wish I had the courage to do what you’re doing. I’d leave these bitches like a shot but Pavel wants this place as a base and there’s no arguing with me ‘usband, is there?”

  “All the rest say...”

  “Carl, do yerself a favour. Forget all those unfeeling sluts! You get off and do your own thing and leave the rest to stew and screw themselves stupid.”

  “Thank you,” I was so delighted with the reception I was receiving, I gave him a huge and lingering hug.

  “’ere, watch it. People will think we’re an affair.”

  The whole gang at art school were far more effervescent. They clapped me on the back and wished me, “Good luck.” My teacher took me to one side and warned, “If you give up your work, I’ll seek you out and make your life a living hell!” He then gave me such a robust embrace that it would have made a grizzly bear envious. As a going away gift he selected from his well stocked and stacked bookshelf a worthy book on the History of Art and presented it to me with great pomp and ceremony. The class applauded – I felt a fool and beetled off as quickly as I could before I could become too choked up and begin shedding tears for these dear friends.

  Saying goodbye to all my work colleagues was less difficult. They had organised a little farewell treat of a mini drink up at the local pub. They collected together and bought me the complete recording of Wagner’s ‘Tristan und Isolde’ under Wilhelm Furtwängler. I still have it – although, it has recently been replaced with a copy on CD. I still think of them every time I put it on. I still wonder how they knew what to buy me. It was the consummate parting gift. When they asked to see the records, they blinked and hastily chang
ed the subject. “I’m sure it’s very good and that you must like it but I can’t even understand the title, let alone what it’s all about.”

  “It’s fantastic. Perfect.” This seemed to satisfy them and they left me to gawp at the box set of records.

  As my mother’s total lack of interest as to the imminent fate of her son had been so complete I gave her very little thought. That she hadn’t even asked me to make her house my last place of call made me slightly resentful – but only very slightly. It was plain that she considered that she’d said her goodbyes and that nothing more would be required.

  The day before Mickey and I were due to leave, I made a last, solitary journey around my old haunts. Even though I was eager to leave my Dirty, Old Town, I moved sadly from place to place with both a heavy heart and tread. I tried to view each place as if I had never seen it before and was wandering through a dream – or, in some cases, a nightmare. Strange feelings assailed me as I attempted to call to mind my first time of seeing each of these places and all that had happened there since those early days.

  In The Green Goddess, I mentioned my move to Renata but I don’t think she fully understood that I wouldn’t be back. She kept insisting that, “I’ll see you witha your ritorno.”

  She shouted something to her cup wielding husband which, I presume was to tell him of the news. He looked at me and gave a merest hint of a nod, “Grazie,” was his only comment but that one word, spoken gently, communicated volumes.

  ‘Hell’ had not exactly frozen over but it was beginning to be built upon. Renovations had begun on the houses which flanked the open space and there were diggers and goodness knows what parked around the place. I couldn’t help but notice that the cottage, Jacko’s favourite place, had been closed prior to what looked like a demolition job.

  On the way back to the main road, I entered that ruined church where Andy had first instructed me on being a Rent Boy. It was still there and in all its ruinous state. The grounds were even more overgrown but I managed to locate the chunk of fallen masonry which had been my early school room. The memory of Andy with his bright red jeans came back and, for a moment, tears came to my eyes. I then pulled myself together and made a dignified exit.