by Ron Thomas
Albert threw his head back and swigged down half of a bottle of beer. He noticed his son had come in from his bed on the back verandah, and was standing outside the wire screen door.
‘What are you looking at, you little shit?’ he shouted, his voice slurred with the drink. Gilbert didn’t move and didn’t reply.
‘Leave the boy alone,’ Wilhelmina shouted from the hallway. ‘You come home pissed and think you own the world. You’ve been fighting down the pub, haven’t you? Looks like you lost and now you want to take it out on us.’
‘Come here and I’ll take it out on you, bitch.’
‘I’ll bet you’ve drank and gambled most of your pay packet. God you’re a piss weak bastard of a man Albert!’ Wilhelmina knew she was flirting with danger, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘It’s the same every Friday. You get pissed out of your brain, waste all our money, then want to fight.’
Albert took another swig from the bottle. ‘And, why wouldn’t I?’ he shouted.
Suddenly Wilhelmina appeared in the doorway. She had a bloody crease vertically down her forehead and her cheek, and the blood was running down her chin and dripping onto the front of her dress.
‘One of these days, you bastard,’ she spat at him. ‘You’re going to regret what you’ve done to this family.’
‘And I suppose you’re the perfect wife,’ he shouted back at her.
‘I’m better than you,’ she shouted. ‘At least I’m sober and I’m here for the boy.’
‘Here for the little carrot-topped bastard, you mean.’
‘Gilbert’s your son, Albert. He’s yours, and always has been, you hear that?’
‘He’s the bastard of some punter you picked up on the street. Some red-headed bastard.’
‘You’re a shit, saying that in front of the boy.’ Albert moved menacingly towards her and she knew what was coming. ‘A shit, eh,’ he sneered. He drew his arm back, intending to give her a back-hander across the face.
Wilhelmina stepped back. ‘You’re not going to get away with that again, you bastard,’ she shouted, and lunged for a wide bladed kitchen knife that lay among dirty dishes on the sink. Albert’s fist came down on her forearm just as she reached the knife, and it went clattering across the floor. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and threw her to the lino, then dragged her screaming across the kitchen floor.
Suddenly, the boy ran from the doorway and leapt on his father’s back. His punches had little effect, but when he gouged at Albert’s eyes, his father was forced to loosen his hold on Wilhelmina’s hair. Albert grabbed the boy’s wrists and twisted around, throwing Gilbert across the room. Out of his mind with rage, Albert picked up the kitchen knife from the floor. He swayed, seemingly barely able to stand, then took a step towards where Gilbert lay, momentarily stunned.
‘Run, Gilbert, run!’ his mother screamed. ‘Don’t come back!’
Gilbert Maggs, still stunned, shook his head and saw his father coming for him with the knife in his hand. He scrambled his way into a crouch and, as his father towered over him, he crawled between Albert Maggs’ splayed legs, sprang to his feet and ran. Albert seemed to have trouble comprehending, and the boy was gone before the drunken man could turn around. Albert threw the knife down and tried to grab the boy’s clothing, then turned to follow his speeding son, who slammed the screen door in his face.
‘Don’t come back you little bastard. If you do, I’ll knock your friggin’ block off!’ Albert yelled at the top of his voice, as he staggered to the tattered fly screen door then turned back to face the kitchen.
Wilhelmina Maggs cowered and backed into a corner of the kitchen. Now she’d be for it.
***
Gilbert ran into the tiny, rubbish-strewn backyard. Terror drove him and tears left salty rivulets down his cheeks. He daren’t hesitate or look behind, lest his father was on his heels. With gymnastic ability born of fear he leapt at the rusty tin fence, his toes scrabbled for a foothold on the railing and with a heave, he managed to balance himself precariously on the corrugated top of the fence. His father was at the door, but had his back to it and was yelling obscenities at his mother. Gilbert rolled off the fence and fell into the alley behind, tearing his shirt as it caught on the uneven tin and lay gasping in the alley, heaving great sobs of pain, rage, fear and frustration.
When Gilbert heard the door slam, he knew he was safe for the moment. His mother’s scream echoed around the neighbourhood and Gilbert could only put his hands over his ears and sob. He wanted to go back and save his mother, but courage deserted him. It wasn’t the first time his drunken father had thrown him out. A number of times in the past, Gilbert had hidden in the tool shed until Albert had sobered up. Afterwards, Albert would act as if nothing untoward had occurred. Now, Gilbert Maggs vowed that it would be the last time his father bullied him. This time, there would be no coming back. He would find somewhere else to live.
Persistent drizzle was wetting now, and the cold was beginning to seep through his wet clothes. The pain of a whole catalogue of bruises and scrapes was evident the moment he tried to move, but he got slowly to his feet.
‘One day, I’ll come back and beat the shit out of you, you bastard,’ Gilbert shouted at the rusty fence. He pulled his collar up and slouched off down the lane. He walked aimlessly. Gilbert knew the area well, but though he ached all over, he knew that if he stopped, he would bawl like a baby, and he didn’t want that. His resolve grew as he walked. Yes! This was going to be a turning point in his life. As he reached the corner of Cathedral Street, he heard a seductive voice from the shadows.
‘Want a warm bed and a good time, mister?’
He hadn’t seen the two whores standing well back in the doorway, keeping out of the rain. When he looked up at them, he could see that one was tall with a short skirt and blond, mousey hair that needed a comb, and the other, the one who had spoken, was short, dark-haired and dumpy.
‘For Christ’s sake, Alice, he’s just a kid,’ Blondie said, her voice disgusted, when she caught a glimpse of his face. Dumpy persisted.
‘Just five bob for a short time,’ she said hopefully.
‘Ain’t got money,’ Gilbert mumbled, ‘And if I did, I wouldn’t be spending it on youse slags,’ he said, pulling his collar higher. He walked on without pausing.
‘Then piss off you little shit,’ the dumpy one yelled to his retreating back.
***
Gilbert realised he’d have to settle somewhere. The Salvation Army men’s shelter would be open, but he knew the do-gooders there would only want to take him home. His aimless meanderings led him to Cathedral Street and finally, in the early hours, he found a dry spot under exterior stairs that led up to an establishment with a red light in the window and a grimy sign that read ‘Doll House’. His bed was a torn-up beer carton, his blankets discarded newspapers. He was cold, miserable and there, under the stairs, Gilbert Maggs, of no fixed abode ignored the various noises issuing from the Doll House, and finally cried himself to sleep.
Chapter 5
The Urchin King
In the pre-dawn chill, Gilbert Maggs woke to the sound of his own teeth chattering. The night was still dark, and the mist hung heavy and low over the lane beside the Doll House. The newspapers Gilbert had pulled over himself were damp and soggy. As he wakened and became aware of the sounds around him, he heard the clip-clop of a horse’s hooves on the pavement of Cathedral Street. It created a hollow echo in the confines of the lane, then it stopped abruptly. In the distance, the wailing of a siren faded. He lay shivering, contemplating a future that both terrified him and in a perverse way, excited him. He had no idea what he might do next, and his mind wandered back to the house in Palmer Street and the angry confrontation between his parents.
His first thought was for his mother. He knew that after his escape, she would be hard pressed to escape a thrashing. Thinking of the blade his father had seemed ready to use, perhaps his mother would be in for even worse than that, unless she could hold out until Albert
had run his race. In the past, Albert had suddenly tired, and within minutes would be snoring, while Gilbert and his mother could relax until the next time Albert had enough money in his pocket to go feral again.
As the events of the night paraded through his mind, his thoughts turned to the words his father had shouted. He’d heard them before, always on Friday nights when his father was mad with the drink. During the week, Albert Maggs was a strict, heavy-handed parent and the threat of violent retaliation kept Gilbert in line but, except for Friday nights, he usually managed to avoid serious harm.
For a while, he lay wondering whether Albert Maggs was really his father. Gilbert didn’t look at all like his father. His red hair and freckles must’ve come from somewhere. Wilhelmina Maggs’ skin was very pale, and her hair the colour of straw. Perhaps he was a bastard, in which case perhaps he should do as both parents had told him and not come back.
Last time Gilbert had run away from a bashing, he’d stayed away for a full week before hunger and misery had driven him home. His father had merely grunted when he saw him, and Gilbert, to this day, wasn’t aware whether Albert had even noticed he’d been missing. The next Friday night however, he’d got a decent thrashing for missing a week at school. Perhaps this time, if he went to school, he would avoid revenge when he went home. For a while he fantasised about going home and wreaking vengeance on his father, but it was nothing more than that. Gilbert had never enjoyed the love and care of a functional family, but he loved his mother in a perverse sort of way. He wondered whether she stayed with Albert because she loved him, despite the fact he was not the least bit lovable, or whether she was just afraid to leave. As the fog lifted and the morning brightened, Gilbert Maggs resolved again that he would make his own way in the world and that nothing on earth would take him back to the sad tenement house on Palmer Street.
The pangs of hunger gnawed. Gilbert threw off his blanket of newspapers, stretched, wandered to the entrance of the laneway and confirmed that the intermittent horse he’d heard was the milkman’s. He watched as the horse moved on unbidden, and stopped as the athletic milkman, clad only in shorts and grey singlet, ran to a house and returned with a billy-can that he filled from the silver tap on the back of the cart, then ran back to the house with a full can, and on to the next house as the horse clip-clopped along, keeping pace.
He waited until the milkman’s cart was out of sight, then walked briskly along Cathedral Street in its wake.
The billy-can was sitting in full view from the street, right beside the front frosty-glassed door, just a few short steps away. Gilbert quickly opened the gate and strode to it. As soon as he let go of the gate, it closed of its own accord.
The billy-can lid was tight, but he quickly removed it and drank, straight from the can. The creamy milk at the top of the can was delicious and dribbles ran from the corners of his mouth, down his neck and inside the collar of his shirt. Suddenly the front door opened.
‘You little bastard,’ a woman’s voice screamed. ‘Fred! There’s a kid pinching the milk!’ In his fright, Gilbert dropped the can, which cartwheeled to the tiles of the veranda as he fled. He fumbled with the lock of the gate, as a grey-haired man came charging at him, ridiculous in striped pyjamas and tattered slippers. In a panic now, he pulled hard and ripped the gate open. After that, the race was no contest. Gilbert hared off down the street, and his pursuer could only shout abuse at his fast-disappearing back.
‘I’ll get you, you little shit! I’ll find you at school!’ the grey-haired man shouted, before Gilbert was out of earshot.
At the corner of Dowling Street, Gilbert stopped and, with his hands on his knees, tried to catch his breath. In the distance, he could see the woman in her pink gown and the pyjama clad old man beside her, shaking his fist. He was sorry he’d spilt their milk. He’d intended only to drink his fill and leave them the rest, but he soon decided that it was their fault for causing such a fuss. He put his thumb to the tip of his nose and wiggled his fingers at his irate victims in a show of derision and bravado.
As he wandered down Dowling Street in the direction of the harbour, Gilbert was buoyed by the fact that he’d passed his first test, and had contrived to get himself a breakfast of sorts. And he’d reached another decision. If the grey-haired man was going to look for him at school, he would make damn sure he wasn’t there.
A long line of dishevelled men, lined up outside the iron gates, hoping for work on the ships. Even Gilbert knew that few of them would find even a few hours’ employment to keep the wolf from the door. That’s why they called it the Hungry Mile. The union members like his father always got as much work as they wanted, while the casuals went hungry. Gilbert walked on by and, near Lady Macquarie’s chair, he sat in solitude by the harbour a while, then wandered aimlessly, grateful that the morning sun was beginning to warm him up.
The two arms of the new bridge were slowly creeping towards each other high above the waters of the harbour and he watched the workmen, looking like so many ants as they crawled among the girders. For more than an hour he watched, before hunger, gnawing at his guts, sent him walking aimlessly away from the foreshore in search of food.
***
Serious hunger pangs were setting in by the time Gilbert came across the three ragged boys playing cricket among the rubbish of a dead-end lane off Riley Street. Their bat had seen much better days. It was barely held together by generous layers of string and the ball was a mangy old tennis ball. Gilbert sat in the sun watching them from some distance and waited till the ball bounced near him. He leapt to his feet, took two quick steps, fielded it neatly, and threw it back hard to the bucktoothed boy standing behind the garbage tin that served as a wicket. The ’keeper caught it neatly.
‘Can I play?’ Gilbert shouted. The boys conferred hastily. Gilbert was pretty certain they would agree, considering that they were desperately short of fielders, but the process of permission took longer than he’d imagined it might. One of the boys, a tall, lanky one, who seemed to own the bat, argued against admitting him.
‘You can play, but you’ll have to field,’ the bucktoothed boy shouted finally. ‘Over there.’
‘What’s your name?’ one of the smaller boys called.
‘Gilbert,’ he shouted back.
Gilbert stood where he’d been told. Wise in the ways of boys everywhere, he knew that, given enough time, curiosity would lead the boys to giving him a turn with either the bat or ball. Anyway, even if he was doomed just to field, it was better than just wandering around, thinking of food. There was also a chance that these boys might know a better place to sleep than under the steps of the Doll House. Finally, the batsman skied a ball and Gilbert caught it easily. Bucktooth, being the biggest boy, spoke up.
‘I’ll have a bat, Herbie,’ he said to the batsman. You can keep wicket. Let’s give carroty a bowl. Jack, your turn to field.’
Jack, a smaller boy, didn’t seem at all happy to be fielder. ‘You said he was going to field, Ernie,’ he grumbled. ‘He’s the new one.’
‘He ain’t even a member,’ Ernie replied. ‘Now get out there and field like I said,’ he added threateningly.
Gilbert, wishing to please, was about to offer to continue fielding, but thought better of it and, finally, unhappy Jack threw him the ball. He quickly found out why Jack was unhappy, because bucktooth proceeded to hit that old tennis ball in all directions and Jack was forced to retrieve. Ernie hadn’t been batting long when two other, larger, threatening boys arrived.
‘Who’s this?’ The larger, heavier-set of the two challenged, his demeanour unfriendly. ‘Who said he was in?’ He had a sand-filled sock swinging from his hand and he twirled it around his head threateningly.
‘He just wanted to have a game, and we needed a fielder, Harry,’ Bucktooth Ernie replied, his voice giving his unease away. ‘He’s Ginger Meggs, can’t you tell,’ he added, as though he hoped that might make a difference.
‘Well he can’t play unless I say so, see?’ Harry shouted.
He turned to where Gilbert stood tossing the ball idly in the air.
‘What gang are you with?’ he demanded.
‘I ain’t got any gang,’ Gilbert replied. ‘I’m my own gang. The Palmer Street Gang.’
‘Ha! Well I’m Harry Moon, we’re the Forty Thieves and Riley Street is our patch. Nobody plays unless they are in the gang, so you can just piss off, back to where you came from.’ Harry bellowed, sneering. He turned back to Bucktooth Ernie. ‘My turn to bat,’ he said, holding out his hand. Ernie’s frown darkened, and for a moment, it appeared that he was going to challenge the stronger boy, then he thought better of it and handed over the bat. Harry strolled arrogantly to the garbage tin wicket, put his loaded sock on the lid, then turned and saw Gilbert, still standing his ground.
‘I thought I told you to piss off. Now go, before you get a kicking.’ As he spoke, Harry casually lifted the bat over his shoulder in a threatening gesture. ‘See, this is Frog Hollow, and I’m king here. What I say goes.’ Gilbert, still standing his ground, was getting very nervous.
‘Piss off or I’ll set The Thieves on you,’ Harry yelled. Gilbert knew it was time to leave. It was obvious that Harry Moon had his gang intimidated, and Gilbert wasn’t going to take them all on, but he wasn’t going to go without a show of bravado. He backed away, and when he judged he was out of the immediate danger zone, he turned to where Harry was taking strike.
‘There ain’t forty of you little turds, anyway. If I bring a couple of my mates down here, we’ll give you a kicking,’ he shouted. ‘It would only take a couple.’
