The Lost Child

by Caryl Phillips

  I have a really clear picture in my head of the day a red double-decker bus got stuck under the bridge near the park, and how everyone came out and stood in the street and gloated. I don’t think anybody was hurt, but you’d have thought that the circus had come to town, for people were standing on the pavement and just gawping. I also have a good picture in my head of the rag-and-bone man trundling by our London flat with his horse and cart. Any old iron? I’d rush to the window and hop from foot to foot and beg Mam to take me downstairs and let me see the horse, and the few times that she did I could see that the horse looked even sadder and more clapped out than the rag-and-bone man. The man would slowly take his cart up the end of the street by the wall that held back the water and then do a clumsy U-turn and come rattling back with the same sad clip-clop sound. Any old iron? We never had anything to give him—nobody had—which makes me wonder why he bothered. At night Mam sometimes gave me an extra-big hug as she tucked me and Tommy into bed, and I liked that. I remember the train set, and the park and the slack water, and the rag-and-bone man, and the names of the footballers, and our Tommy in his pram, and the occasional extra-big hug. I also remember Dad. However, when we moved to Leeds, it was just me and Mam and Tommy and the telly, and George Formby behaving like a clot, and me and Mam used to laugh together on a Sunday afternoon while Tommy slept, and George Formby seemed to make her happy.

  “My Boy Lollipop”—Millie Small

  We soon got used to the fact that we didn’t have a dad, but it’s not like we saw that much of him when we lived in London. Me and Tommy used to go outside and kick our football on the grass that was beneath the balcony, before the council gravelled it over to make a play zone. When we finished, we’d go over to the side of the lifts where a rusty tap poked out of the wall, and we’d take it in turns to cup our hands and drink water until we couldn’t swallow anymore. One night we were asleep in our bedroom, and the next thing I knew I could feel Tommy shoving me, and when I opened my eyes, I could hear Mam crying, but I didn’t know what to do. I was the eldest, but I didn’t have any answers for this situation. Eventually I whispered to Tommy, let’s just go back to sleep. I was nearly seven and trying to be responsible. She’ll be alright, I said. Try not to fret. Things will be better in the morning. Tommy rolled over in his bed and closed his eyes, but I got my tiny transistor out from under the pillow and turned it on. I remember the song that was playing was “My Boy Lollipop,” but it’s a happy song and Mam wasn’t happy, so I quickly shut it off. I lay in bed with my eyes open, and I didn’t sleep that night as I was really worried about Mam.

  “The Time Has Come”—Adam Faith

  Every Sunday afternoon, me and Tommy used to sit cross-legged on the bright orange wall-to-wall carpet and watch the three o’clock film on the telly. Actually, first we’d watch the programme that showed the highlights of the best of Saturday’s football matches, and then we’d watch the three o’clock film. Mam would be lying on the settee resting. I’m tired, so you two please behave yourselves. After the film we’d go out and play football, as we had no interest in Songs of Praise, or any religious programmes. Because it was just the two of us, we’d play shots-in with jumpers for goalposts, and if the ball went anywhere near a jumper, we’d always claim it was a goal, arguing that if it had been a real goalpost, it would have gone “in-off.”

  The film I remember the most was called What a Whopper, and it starred somebody I’d never heard of called Adam Faith. Mam slept through it, but me and Tommy both liked it, and I loved one of the songs even more than I liked the film. I was about nine, and I decided that I wanted the record, but this was going to be tricky as me and Tommy didn’t get pocket money or anything like that, and so nicking it was most likely going to be the only option. On Saturday mornings I played football for an Under-10 side that met up in the city centre. I’d become accustomed to getting off the bus a stop early and then making a detour through the open market. Not the covered market, for that was always just setting up, and it was like Aladdin’s cave in there with a game row, a fish row, a butcher’s row, and even a pets row, which was actually my favourite. If, for some reason, I wanted to explore the covered market, I’d do that on the way home, but the open market was always set up before the covered one, and so I fell into the habit of pottering around there, and soon made myself familiar with nearly every stall, particularly the record shop that sold 45s with the centre bits missing. Thinking back, I reckon they must have been rejects from a jukebox or something, but they seemed okay to me, and I learned to idly flick through a few racks, and then, when the bloke wasn’t looking, I’d slip one or two 45s inside my jacket and trap them against my side by tucking in my elbow, but not so that it looked like I’d broken my arm or anything. I’d carry on looking for a while, and then casually lean down and pick up my kit bag and saunter off out of the market and in the direction of the team bus. I must have been quite good at this thieving because I never got caught. One morning I was looking through the records, and in amongst all the stuff by Blue Mink and Herman’s Hermits and The Small Faces, I saw “The Time Has Come” by Adam Faith, and I remembered it from the film.

  That afternoon our Tommy was late back from his own Saturday game even though it was only around the corner, but by the time he walked into the flat and slung his bag down on the floor, I’d played the record a thousand times. Here, Tommy, you’ll never guess what I’ve got. The zip on his jacket was broken, and he tended to hold it together with one hand as he walked. He let go of his jacket and slumped himself down on the settee and gave me that slack-jawed, come on, impress me look, so I played it again. His face didn’t change a bit. Well, I said, don’t you know what it is? He stood and picked up his bag. It’s from that film, isn’t it? The truth is, our Tommy must have been only seven, but he was pretty much obsessed with football. Pop music meant nothing to him. What a Whopper. I told him the title of the film, but he shrugged and said he was starving and asked what we were having for tea. It seemed like he was always starving, which didn’t make any sense as Mam always wrapped us both some dinner money in pieces of paper and left it for us on the kitchen table. I’d asked him a few times if he was being bullied, but he just shook his head and clammed up, so I didn’t push it. Well, what’s for tea? He knew full well that we were having either beans on toast or spaghetti hoops on toast, depending on what was in the cupboard. I let the song finish and then went into the kitchen and started to make our tea, which was my job when Mam had to work Saturdays at the library.

  When Mam eventually came back, I put the song on again. And then a second time. By now Tommy was downstairs and kicking a ball up against the garages, so it was only me and Mam in the flat. I started to play the record a third time, and she shouted from her bedroom. Wasn’t there anything on the telly? I took the 45 off the turntable before it finished, and then I turned on the telly. The science teacher at school, Mr. Thompson, had just got a colour set, and he was always going on about how great it was to watch football in colour. I knew we wouldn’t be getting a colour telly anytime soon, so there was no point in dreaming. About anything.

  “Those Were the Days”—Mary Hopkin

  Mam started to get into the habit of coming back from her job at the library and then going straight into her bedroom and taking off her work clothes. When she came out again, we’d still be sitting in front of the telly, watching whatever was on, and she always made the same joke about us getting square eyes. Sometimes she’d be done up if she was going out for a drink with that smug prat Derek Evans, but if she was stopping in, she’d just pour herself a drink and work on her stories at the kitchen table, and when she finished, she’d join us in front of the goggle box. We all liked Hughie Green and Opportunity Knocks. I remember Mary Hopkin with her long blond hair and that squeaky voice that she had. Me and Tommy were taken with her, probably because she seemed to win every week, but eventually we were desperate for somebody else to win. Anybody.

  Our Tommy didn’t have homework, but I was swott
ing for my Eleven plus and hoping to pass it and then be accepted at the grammar school in town, so I always had plenty to be getting on with. Tommy, on the other hand, wasn’t the slightest bit interested in school as everyone knew that by the time they got to his year they were going to scrap the Eleven plus, so he wasn’t even going to have to bother trying. He’d be going to John Wardle’s Secondary Modern, which was the nearest school to our estate, and the hellhole I was dead keen to avoid. At John Wardle’s there was no such thing as a fair fight, and if you turned your back on the wrong kid, you were likely to get bricked. Apparently there was a small chance that if I got in, Tommy might join me at the grammar school in town because if you had a brother that was already going there, then they could put you on a waiting list. But our Tommy didn’t seem too fussed about where he might end up. I was a bit torn. A part of me liked the idea of us both going to the grammar school in town, but another part of me was ready for a bit of separation.

  At night, after Mam had told us that it was time to go to bed, we’d lay in the dark and talk for a while before falling asleep. Usually about things like whether we’d be able to go to the feast when it came to the moor this year, or I’d tell him what it was like at the new Olympic-size baths where our school had started to take us older boys for swimming, or I’d ask him if he thought we’d ever live in a bought house—either a bungalow or a semi—without us having to win the pools or something. I’d nearly always finish by asking Tommy if he could imagine what it might be like to freewheel down a steep slope on a bike, but I’d never give him a chance to answer. I bet it’s champion, I’d say. Owning a bike was my new obsession, but Tommy always wanted to talk about the same thing. How come our dad never came to see us? Didn’t he care for us anymore? Sometimes I’d get angry and ask him how the chuff was I supposed to know? It’s not like I can read minds, you know. Tommy would go quiet and say that he needed new football boots with screw-in studs, not the moulded plastic Gola boots that he’d been playing in for ages now. They were too small, and they pinched his feet, and people laughed at him for not having screw-ins as he was the best player in the school and if anybody should have them, he should. Last Christmas he wrote a letter to Dad and he gave it to Mam, who said she’d post it to him. In the letter he asked for a pair of new boots, but he never heard back from Dad, and Mam didn’t say anything. I’d given up believing in him ages ago, but his disappearance really seemed to get to our Tommy. There was a boy in my house at school who liked to tell everyone that his dad had left them and gone to Australia. I was a bit jealous as he seemed to me to be really lucky, for unlike us, there was a definite end to the story of his dad. According to Steve Pamphlet, his dad had gone down under to Australia, where there was sunshine all the time and everyone had loads of money and big houses. He said that his dad had told him that Australians didn’t allow Jimmy Jamaicas into the country to steal your jobs, and Aussies didn’t take cheek from anybody, including the bosses, and in Australia things were so good that there was no need to even think about buying anything on the never-never. Steve Pamphlet always started off talking about himself by confidently bringing up Australia and his dad, and it occurred to me that maybe I should try something like this. I could tell people that my dad’s in America, or even in jail. That would be different.

  Once, after Steve Pamphlet had been bragging again about his dad and Australia, I came home and waited until Mam got back from the library, and then I came straight out with it and asked her if she knew where Dad had gone off to. She just looked at me and then went into her bedroom and shut the door. When she came back out, she told me to turn off the telly as she wanted to say something to me. You’re nearly eleven now, and so I can talk straight to you. Your dad’s gone off back to where he came from. Maybe he’ll turn up one day, but if he does, he’s not coming in this flat. She made me promise that if on the off chance he ever showed up when she wasn’t around, then I’d not let him in the flat. I nodded. I’ll not let him in. Ben, she said, this is important. She pushed my shoulder back. I know, I whispered. I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes. I promise. But what was I supposed to do, leave him on the doorstep? Anyhow, nobody ever knocked at our door, except gypsies selling clothes pegs and bits of lavender, or fat blokes in tight suits trying to sell you junk to clean your kitchen with, or creepy-looking Avon ladies. Your father’s left me to cope with the both of you by myself, and we’re doing alright. We don’t need him, do we? I shook my head, but realized that Mam probably wasn’t telling me the whole truth. Ben, she said, we don’t need him, do we? We’re better off without your father. I nodded. That’s right, and have you looked into that paper round yet? This time I shook my head. Well, see if you can’t get it, love. We need all the help we can, and you’re the man of the house now. She paused. Where’s your brother?

  “Hey Jude”—The Beatles

  While Mam was around, badgering us to unpack our suitcases and get settled in our new bedroom with its nice comfy twin beds and flannelette matching sheets and pillowcases, the woman was really nice. She even brought us a tray with three cups of tea on it, and a big plate of custard creams and digestives. Mam smiled and thanked the woman, and then Mrs. Swinson backed out of the bedroom and said she’d give us some time to ourselves and told us that there was no rush. She said this twice, about there being no rush. Tommy and I began to cram the biscuits into our mouths, but Mam got mad and said we had to behave properly. She insisted that Mrs. Swinson was a kind lady, so we had to be careful not to do anything to annoy her. Mam looked around the room. She has a beautiful home, she said. Me and Tommy nodded and promised that we would behave, but neither of us took our eyes off the biscuits.

  Eventually we stood up and followed Mam down the stairs and into the hallway, where we watched the two women talking for a minute or so until Mrs. Swinson opened the front door. Mam looked back at us both, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Mrs. Swinson closed in the door quickly and didn’t even give us time to listen to Mam’s footsteps finally fade away before she started up on us about our clothes and about Mam. Upstairs, she said, and get yourselves in the bathroom. Once you’ve had a good wash you can come down, and then we’ll have to go out and try and get you kitted out with something respectable to wear. And dry yourself properly in your small areas or you’ll get chapped. She didn’t smile, but then again we’d already noticed that she never smiled. Later, after tea, we had to do the washing-up, and she shouted at us to be careful with the dishes as they were antique. We were to take it in turns. One day I’d wash and Tommy would wipe, then the following day we’d change around, did we understand? We nodded but tried not to look at Mrs. Swinson, for she’d now plonked herself on a chair and was slowly rolling a stocking down the full length of her veined leg.

  That first night we lay in our beds and wondered what our new school would be like. Tommy was ten now, two years younger than me, and Mam had told us that in this town we’d both be going to the same school, as juniors and seniors weren’t split up. Mrs. Swinson had already taken us out and bought us our new school uniforms, but everything was too big on us. I didn’t say anything to Tommy, but it occurred to me that we might have to fight at this new school, and I worried that it might well be the type of school where there was no point in reporting anything to the prefects as they might be the ones doing most of the beating up. That’s how it was at my grammar school, and I reckoned that it was no doubt even rougher at John Wardle’s. On our estate it was always me who had to scrap and stick up for our Tommy, as kids obviously saw something that made them want to pick on him, but Tommy couldn’t fight to save his life. However, with me it was different, and although I was never going to be cock of the school or the estate, I also wasn’t ever going to back down. I knew I was clever, as I was already top of the class at the grammar school, and I did like to show off a bit, so hardly a day went by when I didn’t hear the words “Do you wanna make something of it?” coming out of my mouth. However, on Monday morning, I soon discovered that
things at this new school seemed to be a bit easier.

  After we’d got through the first couple of days, I started to keep an eye on Tommy, and we began to hang out together. We seemed to always get chosen on the same side for football, but these kids didn’t have a proper ball, only a dirty grey tennis ball. Everyone quickly worked out that our Tommy was the best player by a mile, but being a new boy, he inevitably took a bit of a kicking, and so even when we were supposed to be having fun, I still had to stand up for him and occasionally belt a few people. Back at Mrs. Swinson’s, we soon discovered that we were a disappointment to her and she was only interested in her three husky dogs and not much else. The drill was we were to come home, get changed, then come down for our tea and afterwards wash and wipe the dishes and pile them up neatly next to the draining board. Mrs. Swinson soon gave up asking us about our school or if we had any homework to do, and she just made it clear that after we’d finished our chores, we were allowed to go down to the basement and watch telly for one hour, and one hour only, and then we had to go to bed. She never came down there with us; she’d just sit upstairs and play with her dogs, particularly the young one, Simla, who she talked to more than the other two.