Dirty Old Man (A True Story) (4 page)

     “This is my smoking room,” he smiled, as he rolled a cigarette in his tin, “so what’s wrong with you? Don’t you like the place? It’s just I’ve paid money so you’d have somewhere to stay. You’ve barely said a word and to be honest, I’m starting to think you’re being a little ungrateful, do you have any idea how much I’ve put on the line to bring you here?”

I didn’t say a word; I just froze on the spot. It was the first time Bernie had ever raised his voice to me, and it was because I’d upset him. I didn’t mean to, I suppose in an odd way; I missed my family and home regardless of how they treated me.

He went into the porch and slammed the door, it was pitch black in there and all I could make out was the amber glow of his roll up, and the whites of his eyes. At that moment I felt as though I was being stalked by a wild animal.

I don’t care to go into detail other than to say that, by force; he took something irreplaceable from me that night, in that dirty, disgusting place I’d call home for the next two and a half years of my life.

     The children howled with laughter and pointed, as I stood in the corridor in a puddle of my own urine. It really wasn’t my fault either, at five years old I didn’t have great control over my bladder.

My dull, off-white knee high socks that had been handed down
from my older sister Beryl, and bleach boiled by my mother; were saturated. So were my new shoes with the little black flower. I was more concerned about those than the children laughing, it wasn’t often I’d get something new that wasn’t handed down and I knew they were ruined now.

Mrs Floyd, my year one teacher; swept out of the classroom to where I stood and looked at me in disgust.

     “You dirty Arab,” she shouted, and the children sniggered from behind their cartons of break time milk.

I had asked to use the toilet which was just at the end of the corridor, but was refused access from Mrs Floyd, who insisted I could wait until I’d finished my milk. That’s when the little accident happened.

I dropped my carton on the floor as the teacher dragged me back into the classroom by my arm, and as punishment, I was made to sit on a plastic carrier bag - on a chair; in the corner, whilst she sent one of my classmates to find the caretaker.

I think I hated Mrs Floyd after that; I was certainly a little afraid of her. That playtime was spent rumm
aging through the lost property looking for something clean to wear, whilst I listened to the children playing outside. I could potentially reinvent myself in lost property as there were all kinds of thing in there; but I settled for a simple T-shirt and shorts.

I hoped the clean clothes would provide me with a second chance in the classroom, but it soon became apparent that nobody wanted to be my friend, or play with the girl that wet herself.

     Most of the children knew each other
since playschool and were already friends, I was the only one in my family who hadn’t been to playschool; luckily I was well used to playing by myself.

Out in the corridor was
a wendy house I’d seen earlier and I decided that it was quiet enough out there for me to play alone without being bothered. There was a pink plastic hairdryer on the side and I pretended to dry my long brown hair.

There was a sudden thud at the door and the house shook a little, I thought nothing of it and resumed play. Then another thud, which knocked the cereal cartons off the shelf.

I leaned out of the window to see where the banging was coming from, and saw some of the children piling large plastic blocks against the door; they were under the instruction of a little girl with blonde pigtails. They sat on the blocks laughing as I tried to push the door open against them.

     “You have to stay in there because you smell like wee,” said the little blonde girl.

I shouted for Mrs Floyd and the children quickly moved away from the door which meant I could escape and tell the teacher.

     “They locked me in the wendy house,” I sobbed at my teachers’ desk side.

     “Don’t be so silly, there are no locks on the door. It was probably just stuck.”

     “But they did lock me in there.”

Mrs Floyd looked over her glasses a me.

     “Nobody likes a tattle tale, why don’t you go and play somewhere else on your own if you can’t play with the others.”

I stomped out of the classroom feeling angry and frustrated, and dragged my feet back over to the wendy house to resume play. The blonde haired girl was now playing with the hair dryer and she didn’t look as though she intended to share.

     “You can’t come in here, you stink.” She said.

I was surprised by her audacity, and thought the teacher would have at least come out to check on us; but she didn’t.

I ignored her and reached for the hairdryer, but she snatched it back and pushed me towards the door.

     “Get out!” she shouted.

I hoped the teacher would come running out and catch her in the act but it never happened.

She pushed me again and I fell out the door onto the blocks where the children were playing; they laughed at me again. Then something snapped inside me.

I got to my feet and pushed the door open before the girl could
protest. I hoisted her out of the chair by her pigtails and slammed the plastic wendy house door repeatedly on her head.

Mrs Floyd came screaming out and tore me off the girl who was hysterical.

She comforted her and I was banned from playing with anything else for the rest of the day.

This was my first memory of school.

     Time soon slipped past and the summer holidays were over, I’d be in year two this time around. I’d managed to survive a full year in Mrs Floyd’s classroom. I’d even managed to make a couple of friends.

That morning, I skipped to school swinging my blue Puddle Lane lunchbox, stopping momentarily to watch the blackbirds suck worms from the ground. It was a cool crisp morning and the path was dusted with a gentle frost.

     “Hurry up or you’ll be late for school,” said my mother sternly, “you’re an impossible child, you’ll make us all late.”

My older sis
ter Beryl had told me about Mrs Biggins who would be my new teacher. Apparently she was a witch who locked children in her broom cupboard, (where I suppose she kept her broomstick).

My stomach near fluttered away as the bell rang, and I lined up
in the bustling playground. Mrs Biggins stood in front of us, she didn’t look like a stereotypical witch to me, she was a petite lady in her early fifties perhaps, she dressed conservatively, had short curly grey hair and large bifocal glasses.

     It was half way through the first lesson of the day that I decided she absolutely wasn’t a witch, and that I rather liked her. Her face lit up when she smiled and she paid an equal amount of attention to each of us.

It was the best week of school I remember to this day, Mrs Biggins even taught me how to tell the time. She read stories to us and helped me when I struggled with reading. She made learning fun.

At the end of the week, my mum was called into school; I tried frantically to recall anything I might have done wrong. Normally when I came to enjoy myself, things took a turn for the worst and it seemed this occasion was no different. I spent the whole of the day on edge, unable to enjoy anything as the little waves of adrenaline unnerved my stomach.

     When my mum arrived at the end of the day, Mrs Biggins took her to one side and expressed concern with my eyesight.

     “She’s struggling to read from t
he chalkboard,” I heard her say. “I think she needs glasses before she starts to miss out on things.”

It was true, but the subject had never been raised before; my eyesight had been terrible for as long as I could remember.

     “Is that all?” asked my mum, “what about her behaviour?”

     “Well no actually,” said my teacher, “her behaviour has been fine, but she
isn’t wearing any knickers today. Did you send her school without them?”

     “Of course not,” said my mum, raising her voice.

I tugged on Mrs Biggins jumper until she bent down to let me whisper in her ear.

     “Oh I see,” she giggled, “wait here, I’ll be back in a minute.
”

My mum looked at me and rolled her eyes.

     “You’re impossible.” she said.

I ignored her and watched Mrs Biggins, as she walked back past the window carrying my knickers
at the end of a wooden ruler. I’d lost them getting changed for swimming that morning.

     “Don’t worry,” she smiled reassuringly, “this happens more often than you think.”

She took a plastic bag from her coat, put them inside and handed them to my mum who made me carry them home.

     It was around a week later when I got my first pair of glasses; the optician said he didn’t know how I’d coped without them as my prescription was terrible. I was able to choose my own glasses too; they were pink with little flowers on. He showed me a case which snapped shut and had a pale pink lining. I really wanted it but wouldn’t push the matter in case my mum couldn’t afford it. I didn’t want to put her in an awkward situation because I knew I’d suffer for it later when she told my dad. To my delight, the case was included with the glasses and I was very happy with them.

I absolutely loved being able to see properly and not bump into things, though I felt a little anxious wearing them for the first time in the classroom in case people laughed. Mrs Biggins made a point of telling everyone how pretty I looked with my new glasses, and my nerves were soon eased. She helped to clean them when they got ‘fingerprinty’. She was much like the grandma I wished for and nothing like my own.

     It was dinner time, and I queued with my Puddle Lane sandwich box waiting to be seated. I remember the smell of the freshly polished wood flooring, and the P.E apparatus that folded flat against the wall. The kitchen clattered with pots and pans
which echoed about the place as the dinner ladies laughed. A space became available for me to eat, though most of the children were in the years above me. I opened my sandwich box and was astounded to discover its contents. It was a par frozen pizza, evident from the little dusting of ice that sat on the cheese. I closed it quickly and sat silently waiting for the older children to finish their hot meals. The chairs which soon became vacant were quickly filled with new faces, as the staff pressed to get though dinner time as quickly as they could. I daren’t open my sandwich box knowing people would laugh.

My dithering had attracted the attention of a dinner lady who moved me outside the hall (where the disruptive children were seated), because they needed to put the table
s and chairs away. She asked me why I wasn’t eating my lunch and I showed her the frozen pizza.

     “I think it needs a bit longer to defrost,” I told her as I poked at it. She told me to sit still for a moment whilst she went back into the kitchen.

One of the dinner ladies called Mrs Patton, who I liked for her smiling dimples; came through the door. Her brown crescent shaped eyes were red and puffy and it looked like she’d been crying.

     “Are you okay Mrs Patton?” I asked.

     “Yes dear,” she tried to smile at me as she placed a tray of hot food on the table in front of me. “Eat up, I know it isn’t much but dinner time is almost over and it’s all that was left.”

She tossed the pizza into a rubbish bag and took away my sandwich box whilst I ate one of the best meals I’d had for a long time. My blue puddle lane box came back shiny as the day it was bought and Mrs Patton had cleaned all the mould that was growing inside it. She ruffled my hair and cleaned the fingerprints from my new glasses as the bell rang. She told me to go back to the classroom before I made myself late.

As she walked back into the kitchen, I overheard her talking to the others, she said something about reporting it to the head-teacher and it scared me. I wondered if my parents would get the bill for the meal. I imagined how they’d rant at me for not appreciating what I’d been given.

I heard nothing from the head-teacher that afternoon but it loomed over my head like a black cloud. I was in a permanent state of heightened anxiety, and each time somebody walked through the classroom door; I’d feel that familiar wave of nausea that made me uncomfortable in my own skin.

     I walked home dragging my feet as my sister Beryl teased me about my glasses, she called me ‘four eyes’, ‘Biggles’, and anything else her tiny mind could muster up.

The tarmac glistened as it warmed in the heat, and I ran up the driveway noting my father’s friend Derrick had parked his car on the drive. I was relieved, as my dad rarely shouted at me if people were there. I never did like Derrick though; there was something about him that made my skin crawl.

     I played in the back room with my sisters little mermaid, she never appreciated her toys and the broken ones often got passed on to me when they were worn and no longer loved. I’d built up quite a good collection of things unwanted.