Down and (almost) out...

The mist stirred as a light breeze blew up the alleyway moving the moist air in its path. At the far end of the darkened alley a lump of humanity was huddled against the cold, discernible now and again by the quiet noises she (for it was indeed female), made. The shivering of the being had nothing to do with the cold and was more a reaction against the intake of considerable amounts of alcohol and drugs. But the mist did not care and it swirled regardless.

Charlie Wallace had walked this path for a few years now because it was the most direct route home. He worked as a Janitor in a newspaper boiler-house. He tended the machines until the night crew came in to print the early editions and the hours suited.
Darkened streets held no fear for him. He was a figure of the night, for Charlie the night and the dark had become part of life. At night he could walk free from taunts and jeers from other people and go his way without the need to cover his face.
In years past Charlie had been a hard worker. He had stood on the slippery decks of oil-rigs and wrestled with cables and chains as the wicked seas battered the puny object in this most un-natural of places. He stood fast against all weathers whilst his masters had begged for more and Charlie made sure that they got their oil and they had paid him well for his efforts.
When the rig had needed repairs they gave him time off to visit his wife back in London and he had journeyed from the hellish waters of the North Sea to his home.
Perhaps he should have called first. Perhaps he should have knocked. Perhaps he should have given his wife the benefit of the doubt. Charlie did none of these things, he had wanted only to get home and climb into bed and into the arms of his loved one. What he most certainly did not want was to find her in the arms of another; in his own bed.
The lighted oil-lamp he had picked up spilled the volatile liquid over his hand and ran down his arms as he held it aloft above his head. It dripped onto his hair and ran down his face blurring his vision as it mixed with the tears in his eyes.
Doctors thought he would not survive. Experts had reasoned that such disfigurement would need years to recover. The burns to his face had attracted Professionals but most others had shied away and continued to do so. Now Charlie kept to the dark places where none could see him.

The figure that lay huddled and whimpering in the alley stirred with the restlessness that alcohol can bring and it attracted the attention of another that was abroad during those late hours. Rats scurried away from their foraging as he approached. The tramp was dirty and smelled bad through lack of the usual hygiene that civil people hold dear.
In a City there are those that prey upon others, they beg and steal and take what comes where they can because they are safe in the knowledge that the City does not care. The City will blaze with light on the outside whilst underneath and behind the facade it holds its own to its breast and allows them to grasp at the dregs that pass through.
The tramp stumbled and shuffled through the pile of split sacks, cardboard boxes and debris until he unearthed the figure of the drunk. A leering smile crossed his lips as he discerned the full figure of a woman. In the gloom his hands quickly frisked the body and he looked about as best he could for any handbag or coat that might be nearby and perhaps would contain money. Nothing forthcoming he turned his attention back to the body and he began to touch. His loins stirred as his fingers probed and he uttered a guttural, primeval grunt as his desires gave in to the lust in his heart.

Charlie froze and cocked an ear. Someone was near, though the darkness kept its secret from him. He listened. He reached into his pocket to find the torch that he kept about him. He liked to have a torch; shining it into the eyes of those that demanded information from him gave him an edge in a dog eat dog world. He slowly drew his hand from his pocket and tried to locate the exact spot where the sound came from before aiming it and switching it on.
The flood of light illuminated the tableau. The tramp had raised the skirt of the girl and with one hand his fingers, thick and dirty, groped and probed as he let his lust take hold.
The now half-conscious girl stirred and writhed beneath him and though she tried in vain to wriggle free he had her trapped by his weight on her legs.
He had seen enough and his reaction was instant. He lashed out and caught the tramp across the temple with a blow that would have felled an ox. The wretched man passed out instantly and fell sideways while the girl, now almost fully roused pulled herself free. In her brainless state the girl staggered and stumbled as Charlie helped her to up. She giggled a little when he put an arm around her and she tried to put an arm around his neck then she cried some before vomiting.

It would do no good to leave her here so he took her home. It was small flat but he kept it clean and tidy and it suited his simple life. The girl was light and he had no trouble carrying her up the three flights. He dropped her onto his bed and left a bowl on the floor. She slept uneasily but eventually the whimpering stopped along with the shivering and Charlie made himself as comfortable as he could on a well-worn sofa.

The need to pee woke her as the dawn broke. Looking about her confused her addled brain but, ever game for something new, she stood up and went in search of a bathroom. It was the next door and she gratefully sat. The mirror above the cracked sink gave her a shock as she stared at the wreck that stared back. Her face was dirty and scratched and the few clothes she wore had been torn and bore the remains of the vomiting she had done the night before. She stripped, then washed herself and her dress and panties. A big dressing-gown hung on the door and she pulled it around her before opening the door and heading out to find out more about this place.

Before falling asleep Charlie had prayed. Something he did every night. He had read a few verses from his Bible and then pulled the blanket over him and fallen asleep. He slept well but had been awakened by the movements of the girl and as she entered the room he became fearful that his disfigurement might scare her. He mouthed his concern and the girl had agreed not to turn on the light though not without a hint of curiosity. She sat in an old armchair and they talked.


Charlie gave his story and then listened to hers. He learned that she was not homeless, she was just hell-bent on having a good time. The state he had found her in was nothing new, it had happened before and on occasion it had turned out worse. She had money and she had a flat but she had not been there for a while. An orphan from the age of seven she had been searching for someone to love. She liked to meet people and she liked men to like her and many of them did, but it was strange that not many of them came back. Another party, another day. More people to meet, more people to make use of her. And she knew what she was and she knew no way out.

And that is when Charlie gave her something. He gave her a way out. Nothing tangible that she could keep and hold and look at. He gave her a thought to nurture. Something to dwell on and return to when times looked bleak. Charlie became the Good Samaritan.
From that moment the Light glimmered and she saw his face and she saw how much love it held and she in turn gave a cry of anguish that he should be so kind to a worthless stranger. Charlie did not see it that way, he was just doing what anyone would have done to help a poor soul. He was also grateful that she had not screamed when she saw the extent of his hideous facial wounds.

He had prepared a simple breakfast of toast and butter and lots of tea to follow and they ate and talked while she sewed the torn dress as best she could, until noon.

He would not accept thanks. He wanted only for the Message to stay with her. It had comforted him in times of trouble and he was sure it would comfort her, if she let it.

All he was doing, he said, was switching on a light.

...

I will never forget Charlie.

Physics in action

I maintain that ‘keeping out the way’ is good in Life. I used this philosophy throughout school-life and beyond. In the main, it (mostly) has kept me out of trouble. For some people trouble is way of life.

In life there are always exceptional circumstances where ‘rules’ simply disappear and the (seemingly) impossible happens. So it was when *** erupted in flame…

~

His given name was *** but he was known simply as ***. It went with him, he lived up to it and had the name no matter what he did. What he did best of course was to bully; everyone. Probably his parents too, leastways he never appeared in school ‘nicely’ dressed, nor yet did he flaunt any good manners in daily life. He was what he was: A hard nut. He was very hard too, I had watched once when three boys had jumped him, the mess was unbielvable, but *** was unfazed by it, despite at one stage have been kicked with some force in the face. He had spat out the tooth and carried on, though the bite on the protagonists leg was different in shape to the previous one that had inspired the kick in the first place. It was good to be on the right side of ***.

Summer holidays, when a child, seem to last forever. It was one of those long hot summers we used to get where the sun hung in the air all day and languidity poured over the earth in torrents.

We had been across town to see what was happening. Rumour had had it that Percy had a new bike for his birthday and with that being a big issue we had felt the need to see for ourselves. As we passed the end of the subway *** appeared. Our hearts sank a little and we tried to carry on but he called to us and that was as good as an order. He wanted to go with us of course and he tagged along. The only way to make conversation with *** was by repetition. Say something; say it again: Repeat the above, until words invoke response – move on to next phrase…

On the way back, (turned out to be a bit of a damp squid. Percy had NOT been given a new bike. The old one had been repaired and hand-painted by his Dad.) I felt a hand grab me by the neck and another hand started patting around my body. This was ***’s way of letting you know he wanted something, in this case it turned out that a cigarette was his desired object. I was discarded and he reached for another victim. As I lay there cursing him (under my breath), I suddenly remembered that I knew where I could get hold of some cigarettes. I explained carefully to him that I needed to go and fetch some for him and would meet him by the rope-swing. Repeated three times and…

I dashed back to the house. And retrieved the stash I had hidden in the shed. The packet was grabbed along with a box of matches. I pushed the box back into place and fled toward the aforementioned rendezvous site.

Distractions are a good way of passing time. Ours was the Rope-Swing.

In another era men had dug out the cutting and laid industrial-railway lines. They went on to build the factory and the compressors they had made there had been shipped out along this very track. The banks were steep and chalky when it rained they became like ice and much more of a challenge to climb. In the dry they crumbled and the only way to climb effectively was to seek out the giant Flintstone that lay embedded as foot or handholds.

During the cutting of the track a big old Beech tree had been left near the top teetering on the slopes. As the work had progressed it had settled and though at a jaunty angle continued its growth into the shape of its changed surroundings, It stood in clearing it lowermost branches having suffered it stood tall and proud, outstripping the younger growth beneath and it stood now in a clearing. The lowest branches pointing upward at a seemingly impossible angle.

It did not take the intrepid local boys and girls very long to work out that if someone was to put a rope as far out as could possibly be managed then a high old time could be had swinging to and fro from the sloping ground. And the Rope-Swing was born. The kids from all over gatherd at weekends and long queues formed sometimes as they waited eagerly for a turn. Us locals had precedence of course, it was Our swing and we called the shots as to who and when… - it never worked that way in real life because fights broke out and it always ended for some in tears and pain. Nevertheless we did have some credence in the neighbourhood and this was reinforced when in the company of ***.

Fearless. He did not posess the brain to do fear, so he just got on with things in a fashion that beggered belief at times. He had strolled across the path of an oncoming Express train that missed him by the thickness of a hair on a gnats wotsit, just to show that it could be done if the timig was right. When asked if he could show us what happened if he got the timing wrong earned the infidel a thick ear.

*** was on the swing as I arrived, he called out as he swooshed overhed. He did a couple of passes as I made my way up the bank before landing and greeting me by stretching out a large hand, waiting eagerly for his cigarette.

He sat around the base of the tree while he smoked and watched us as we each tried to outdo the other in height. He laughed long and loud at our puny attempts. He stood and pushed the fags into into his pocket which was already bulging with …stuff. The box of matches he pushed into the back-pocket of his grubby, faded jeans.

“Bryant and May became a limited company in 1884 and Swan Vesta have been known in the UK for many years. There have been many company amalgamations and today, they are part of the Swedish Match Company. To many they will always be known as the ‘smokers match’.”

The trick to gaining height was to lessen the angle, hold the rope as high as possible then to run as close to the trunk as possible and slide down to the end of the rope. This did have consequences of course, the return journey was aimed squarely at the trunk. To avoid nasty accidents – and there have been many – extend the feet upward and wait for the ground to come up and meet you then run sideways. The trunk has face, body and foot prints embedded into the bark from those who failed to follow these simple rules.

The contest comtinued for a short while until after ***’s fiftieth attempt he declared himself the winner. The rest of the afternoon was spent with *** barking orders interspersed with him smoking the rest of the packet. It was nearing dusk when we began making ‘going home’ noises and he relented much to our surprise. I suspect hunger was beginning to claw his belly in the same way. Anyway we watched wearily as he trudged upward pulling the rope up with him. He started off well, the rope as he ran slipped through his hands and as he neared the point of no return then he grasped at the rope and launched himself of the ground. Momentum carried him across the clearing he swooped over us at an angle and he started to let the rope slip through his fingers. We could all see that the rope was too fast. We waited. We watched. We held our breath.

I have no idea what he was thinking. I doubt he did. The rope simply shot through his hands and that burning in itself must have been hell, but not content with that, when he reached the big knot in the end it simply burst open his hands and he was set free.

He flew. Us hardened locals had seen this happen before. There was only one place he was going to land. We ran across the glade toward the patch of stinging nettles. Meanwhile as *** continued his flight he was beginning to yell. We all knew that could only mean that our hunch was correct and the stingers awaited him. The graceful arc he described came to an abrupt end as he sank through the foliage screaming as the nettles closed around him, and he landed square on his butt.

There was a momentary silence, then a mighty whooshing sound. The matches in his pocket had been crushed by his weight and friction had done to the matches …

To any nine year old the sight of a thirteen year old leaping out of nettles with his *rse on fire creates an image that is hard to escape from.

Sun up...

Sunrise.
The treetops get it first then the rest of the world...
In the case of this picture - more a case of sundown.
The house, such as it is, is now gone. It was a, (the correct word to use here would be 'quintesential' australian homestead. But let's not fret over words.) It is and always was; A House for its place.
And what a place! An abundance of trees and shrubs and a creek and, and...
Now the land is sold. The new owners will of course have different ideas.
No more will I be able to sit beside the creek and watch the dragonflies dart across the narrow flowing water with the scent of lemon tea-tree oil in the air. The fairy wrens will I hope find a another tree to flit about from twig to twig, family in procession.
Waxing lyrical will change nothing. Because change has changed things.
People move on.
There is no tale here. I looked at the photo and something stirred. A memory flitted through the tendrils in the labyrinth of the brain and what you see is what you get.
This IS, after all, a weblog.