The Doughnut Man

by Paul Kelly

  “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.

  Chapter Four

  “I can’t . . . thank you very much . . It is very kind . . but no, I can’t. I’ve got to get home now.”

  Joe refused to accept the old man’s offer to buy him tea and cakes at the nearby Cafe, in appreciation for the help he had given him, but Joe had been warned time and time again at the Orphanage . . never to accept anything from a stranger . . .

  Together, he and the old man had stacked what they had salvaged of the doughnut stall below the old tarpaulin under the archway opposite the grandstand entrance.

  “Please let me repay you in some way. I couldn’t have done all that work on my own . . scurrying about in the rain like that . . now, could I?” said the old man, but Joe didn’t want to say that all he had in his possession at that moment was the football ticket which in his involvement with the doughnut man, he had forgotten to take back to the turnstile for a refund. He had no money. He didn’t want to say that to the old man . . . and the Matron’s voice repeated her warning in his ears. . . . ‘Strangers . . Strangers . . never talk to strangers . .’

  He should have been afraid . . even apprehensive . . but strangely enough, he wasn’t. Something about that old man made him dispel the warnings from the Orphanage . . and even that feeling bothered him. . . the feeling that he was safe and would come to no harm. Wasn’t he told too, that strangers could make you feel that sense of security; that they could find all sorts of ways to be friendly and make you feel that everything was alright. Didn’t he feel that everything was alright now . . with this old man . . despite all the warnings?

  “Please have some tea with me. I’m cold and I’m sure you are too. . . please . .” the old man pleaded kindly and Joe hung his head.

  “I can’t . . I have no money,” he said solemnly as he watched the old man’s chin touch the tip of his nose and his Adam’s apple stood out large as he swallowed and a tear appeared at the corner of his eye.

  “Please . .?” he asked again and his eyes were sadly hopeful.

  The two figures trudged wearily towards the Cafe.

  ***

  “Why do you sell doughnuts when there are so many other things you could do? A job inside . . .somewhere would suit you better, surely?”

  ***

  The old man looked pitifully at the boy as he asked his questions and there was the look of the wisdom of his many years in the depth of his piercing blue eyes.

  “What we want and what we have to do, young man, are two different things as you will learn soon enough when you get older. How old are you now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  Joe hesitated before he answered and then he lied . . innocently.

  “Nearly twelve,” he said, throwing back his shoulders for a moment and then he changed his mind as he bit his lower lip. “Well . . No . . .I’m just ten actually . . ten and three days really . . .” He hated telling lies but he did so want to grow up . . and quickly. He wanted so much to be a man.

  “You sound older than that. Your parents must be very proud of you. Can I ask your name?”

  Joe reflected again on the warning from the Orphanage, but he still answered the old man’s question . . it was almost as if he couldn’t help himself and there was an inner voice talking in him . . and for him. He shook his head in bewilderment.

  “It’s Joe . . What’s yours?”

  The old man smiled benevolently and his eyes twinkled.

  “I’m Bertie . . Here Look! Do you like cream cakes? I do.”

  Joe’s mouth began to water as Bertie scooped two large cream buns onto his plate.

  “Yes thank you . . I haven’t had one for a long time . . well, not since last Christmas, I think.”

  Bertie squeezed up his face, raising his eyebrows in his inimitable style and Joe spoke with his mouth full of cream.

  “I’m Joe . . but my real name is Joseph. Is Bertie your real name . . Bertie?”

  “Well, I was called Bertrand when I was born, but only my dear mother called me that. You can call me Bertie.”

  Bertie’s chin moved like a fiddler’s elbow as he munched his cream bun.

  “Have you been selling doughnuts all your life . . Bertie?”

  The old man laughed, showing his pink shiny gums.

  “Ho Ho, that’s funny . . that’s really funny Joe. I might have been a happier and better man if I had.”

  Joe looked sadly at his ancient companion as he continued eating

  “Haven’t you been happy then, Bertie?” he asked, but the old man shrugged his shoulders and did not reply . . instead, he turned the same question back on Joe.

  “And you? Have you been happy all your life, Joe?”

  Joe pushed his tea cup across the table and looked eagerly at a second cream bun. It lay on a platter on the counter, near the sandwiches. . . . all on its own and Bertie followed his glance.

  “Go on . . have it. It won’t make you f
at . . not just that little old bun now . . will it?” said Bertie and as Joe reached across to retrieve the delicacy, his chair creaked.

  “I suppose I have really . . . been happy enough, I mean . . but there’s lots of things I would have liked, if I had been able to choose, that is,” he added as he wiped some cream from his chin with his thumb and Bertie studied his young companion with renewed interest as he crossed his legs and sucked his gums with apparent contentment. He raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth slightly before he spoke again.

  “What does your dad do, Joe?”

  The boy stopped eating when he was asked that question and stared at the wall . . his mouth still full of cream.

  “I don’t have a dad,” he answered briskly as if to change the subject quickly as Bertie looked away and pretended to pour himself a second cup of tea.

  “Oh! The pot’s empty . . . I’ll get another one . . Waitress,” he called and watched Joe out of the corner of his eye.

  “I live at the Orphanage at the top of Oliver Road . . Know it?” Joe went on and Bertie nodded without speaking as the waitress brought another pot of tea to the table.

  “That work makes you thirsty, doesn’t it Joe?” he said and Joe licked his lips and wiped his fingers on a paper serviette.

  “I have no father and no mother, so there . . now you know,” he said, with an expression of couldn’t-care-less on his face, but Bertie just raised his eyebrows again and grinned . . . a toothless sort of an effort.

  “You seem to be quite proud of that fact,” he said, peering into Joe’s eyes as he poured him another cup of tea.

  “Watch out Bertie . . you’re spilling it. Look!”

  Bertie put the teapot down on the table and laughed.

  “Never was any good at being ‘Mother’ “ He joked and then apologized.

  “Sorry Joe . . . No offence there, O.K? Just a slip of the tongue.”

  Joe smiled and drew in his breath.

  “That’s O.K. Bertie . . Do you have parents?” he asked and Bertie choked on his tea, coughing frantically when asked that question and Joe thumped him across the shoulders.

  “At my age lad, I could be your grandfather, said Bertie as he looked to the ceiling . . “No . . . my parents have been gone a long , long time.”

  “Do you remember them, Bertie? Were they nice? I suppose they must have been.”

  Bertie blew his nose again loudly and twisted the handkerchief around his large nostrils.

  “No supposing they were at all Joe . . They were, but they could have been quite the opposite,” Bertie compromised, casting a wary eye as his young companion looked a little lost and sad. “We never choose our parents . . don’t forget . . well, no more than they can choose us. Not like friends, eh?”

  Joe closed his eyes to reflect on the philosophy he had just heard, but he was a little confused.

  “I never thought of it like that Bertie . . but I suppose you’re right . . . if you . . if you knew your parents.”

  “My parents were . . what you would say ‘O.Ks’ Joe. They were very good to me and they gave me everything a young boy could wish for from any parents . . and even when I became a young man . . “ Bertie threw out his chest and was about to expound on the virtues of his adolescence, but he hesitated and stopped talking suddenly as he put his hand up to his mouth, as if he had already said too much.

  “Go on Bertie . . what happened when you became a man? Please tell me about that?”

  Bertie blew his nose again and threw his shoulders back.

  “Well . . sometimes parents don’t understand . . . you know . . how a young man feels and they can be confused as to the best way to help him. . .Yes . . that’s it. It’s like that very often when you have parents. But you don’t want to hear about all that stuff Joe . . Tell me, do you remember your own parents? I mean, you weren’t always in that old Orphanage now . . were you?”

  Bertie’s lips quivered a little and he dabbed his eyes with his handkerchief, as he waited for an answer.

  “Well yes Bertie . . for as long as I can remember anyway. I can’t think what it’s like to have parents. I like to try to imagine them, but each time I try, the picture is different somehow ...know what I mean?”

  Bertie understood only too well as he sipped his tea from his saucer and nodded slowly.

  “Have another cake . . Go on . . Look, there’s another plate with five or six of them just waiting to be eaten . . . Go on. Don’t you think that lovely fat jam doughnut’s just asking to be eaten?”

  Bertie was kind as he prompted his generous offer and Joe eagerly obliged, with wide eyes, a face full of smiles and a mouth full of fresh dairy cream, whilst the old man played with his gateau fork on his own plate, studying his movements intently as if he was performing a great work of art.

  “If you could have chosen . . Joe. I mean, I know we can’t choose our parents . . I’ve already said that, haven’t I? . . . . but if there was a way in which you could have chosen anything else on this earth . . anything else . . . what would it be?”

  Joe smiled . . enthusiastically this time before he belched and said “S’cuse me. . . Bertie

  do you mean . . anything . . I mean, anything . .?

  “Anything . . anything at all,” Bertie repeated showing a toothless grin as he closed his eyes, which was his way of thinking clearly when matters were of a very serious and important nature . . . between one man and another.

  “I’d like to be . . . .”

  Bertie swallowed hard as he watched his young companion. His eyes were happy.

  “Yes . . yes, go on . . what would it be?”

  “I’d like to be . . . a MAN.”

  The old man’s face fell and his nose twitched.

  “Is that all? a man? . . just a man? Why you’re nearly a man already Joe. That’s not much to ask. .”

  Joe looked at his friend in desperation.

  “But Bertie . . it’s so long in coming . . and I feel I just can’t wait.”

  Bertie pushed his plate away from him and the gateau fork fell to the floor. Joe bent down and picked it up.

  “Thank you Joe . . “ Bertie murmured as he wiped the fork on his trousers before putting it back on the plate. “But there must be something more, surely . . something BIG . . and exciting . . yes?”

  Joe chuckled as Bertie cocked his head to one side, looking into his face in anticipation of his answer, with the enthusiasm of youth. “There IS . . . isn’t there?” the old man prompted further.

  “You’d laugh if I told you. .”

  Bertie leaned forward across the table, pushing his chair away from him as he moved and making a grinding sound as it slid slowly from under him.

  “No I wouldn’t . . honest . .”

  Joe sighed and licked his lips as he cleared his throat. “I’d love to be . . . well, not all the time, you know . . but some of the time. . .”

  “Yes, yes . . go on . . tell me . . “ gasped Bertie and his eyes went wide

  “I’d love to be invisible,” Joe said quickly, almost as if he didn’t want Bertie to hear him, but Bertie just slapped the table with the palm of his hand and the crockery jumped.

  “I knew it . . I knew it . .” he called out gleefully, “Everybody has something. Something they want that is not just ordinary.”

  They finished their tea and Bertie proceeded to search through his voluminous pockets for the money to pay the waitress as she waited nearby, tapping her pencil against her wrist impatiently.

  He stretched out various articles on the table whilst Joe looked on in amazement. There was an old woolly balaclava, screwed up into a ball . . a pair of gloves, without fingers . . a rusty pair . of what looked like scissors, a spy glass, two sea shells, an old watch with the glass face cracked and a piece of dirty string.

 
“Where did you get all that from Bertie,” asked Joe but the waitress interrupted.

  “Never mind all that . . . you owe me three shillings and tuppence . . if you don’t mind . SIR . . . .” she snapped but Bertie ignored her as he continued to unload his pockets to Joe’s further surprise . . and delight . . He was beginning to enjoy this game of waiting . . . as Bertie fingered a pair of tiny binoculars and put them down carefully on the table . . followed by a rabbit’s paw .

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at Mister, but I’ll say it again, just one more time . . Three shillings and tuppence . . . .” the waitress snapped angrily and stuck her pencil behind her right ear.

  “Oh! I collect them as I go . . Joe . . you never know when you might need them now . . do you,” he answered, looking at Joe and ignoring the waitress . . to produce further an old worn leather wallet . . that looked like a diary of some kind, a blue coloured pencil stump that needed sharpening, two old buttons of different sizes . . “Ah! Here it is,” he said with a broad, beaming smile on his face and produced a soiled linen pouch, tied at the top with a piece of leather cord. He opened it carefully and put two half sovereigns on the table, before he reloaded his pockets with his collection of his own objet trouve . . The waitress stared at the coins on the table and drew herself up to her full height of five foot three inches, twisting her tongue around her mouth and closing her eyes in disbelief.

  “And what do you call this?” she asked, without opening her eyes.

  Bertie looked again at the money he had paid, before his nose twitched twice and he began to smile.

  “Three shillings and tuppence,” he said and the waitress opened her eyes. Sure enough, that was exactly what was on the table. She closed her eyes again tightly and held them that way for a few seconds before opening them again.