Dennis/BSmythe/1

Barry Smythe,

40 Saint Margaret's Avenue,

North Cheam, Sutton,

Surrey. UK. SM3 9TT

e.mail: barrysmythe@hotmail.com

Mob: 07814780856

Word count: 5,182

Dennis

As Gerald opened the toilet door from his twenty-minute smoke, he heard the distant sound

of the TV room. Lots of shouting and laughing with canned applause. It was a 4:45 p.m.,

nearly time for their tea. He started walking towards the direction of the noise.

To him as a care home worker, and probably to the many relations that had dumped their

nearest and dearest at Rutland Manor For The Elderly, it had become a forgotten place.

Where the hallways always smelt of piss and boiled cabbage. Where relatives could ease their

conscience and say, “It’s for your own good,” when they finally and thankfully had off loaded

a problem that still walked, talked and farted.

Most of them here were all right, some perhaps dim-eyed and welded to their walking

stick, maybe a little loose in the bladder, but otherwise OK. Then there were the others, who

just sat in the TV room with their vacant gaze and slack jaw, dribbling from the chin, staring

up at Jerry Springer with the audience screaming.

Dennis/BSmythe/2

By 1997, heavy smoking and Scotch had made Gerald Smithers look older than his 47-

years. At six-foot-one with a slight stoop, his appearance was of an old-fashioned looking

Jack-the-lad spiv type, especially when out of his care home whites and wearing his light

tweed sports jacket with matching Burberry flat cap and cravat. Definitely, somebody you

wouldn’t take a cheque from - only cash, and then you’d hold the notes up to the light, look

for the water mark. A bit like examining Gerald’s scruples, you could read a newspaper

through them!

Sitting in his old MG sports with his thin-trained moustache, he cultivated a Leslie

Phillips look. Gerald epitomised the dodgy second hand car dealer. In fact, he wouldn’t have

looked out of place in Tooting - trying to sell a banger to some unsuspecting customer with

his arm around their shoulders.

The dining room was on his way. He stopped and peaked in. There were some jam

doughnuts set out. Gerald wrapped one up in a napkin and stuffed it in his pocket. Another

one he started eating while staunching the flow of jam down the side of his chin with a finger.

Tabatha, the resident cat had seen him. She was underneath the table lying on a chair.

Always her favourite place coming up to teatime. Tabatha knew the varicose veined legs to

brush up against for tasty hand-me-down tit-bits. However, now she knew by the smell of

tobacco, who this was. Tabatha wanted to get out the room. Get away from him. She’d had

run-ins with Gerald Smithers before.

Just as he pushed the last of the doughnut in his mouth, Tabatha made a bolt for the door.

Colliding with Gerald’s right shoe, she flipped and rolled over screeching a meow! Gerald

jumped out of his skin choking on the last bit of his teatime treat. Then, with a sudden

realisation, he lashed out kicking her like a football. ‘You bloody, cat!’ he kicked hard again.

‘Keep out my bloody way!’ Tabatha screeched with pain and quickly limped out of the room.

Dennis/BSmythe/3

Gerald went to the door and put his ear to the crack. It was quiet. Kitchen smells of

teatime and burnt cakes hovered thickly in the hallway. He composed himself, brushed the

sugar off his face. Then, licking his fingers, he made his way down the corridor to the sounds

of a game show.

At the TV room, Gerald stood by the half open door without being noticed. He watched

them with contempt and wondered what it must be like to be old and useless. He despised the

way they demanded attention, sometimes with no thanks. How they shuffled along the

corridors, arched over, clutching their walking frames. Their limp white hair carefully

combed over the bald patches by the resident care lady. Stained cardigans replaced by clean

ones for visitors. Bandaged legs with fur slippers, and always the smell of urine masked by

cheap perfume.

He’d watched them eating at lunch and supper. Food revolving around in their mouths

like clothes in a washing machine. Afterwards, helping the more infirm on and off their

commodes - heaving with the stench, having to deal with wiping them. Then the fake smile

when relations came to visit. Pretending he had a special bond with this one or that one. “My

favourite,” he’d tell a son or a daughter, with everybody going, “Ahh! That’s nice, we’re very

grateful.”

Bath nights were the worst, hearing their constant moaning while undressing. Wincing

from the nauseating soiled underwear. Trying to coax them to sit down. Listening to them

whimper. “It’s still too hot,” with frail emaciated faces and dull frightened eyes. Wishing they

would fall. Break a hip.

Dennis/BSmythe/4

The sport came next. Holding their head under for a while and watching thin frail arms

flail around. Letting them up suddenly, heaving and coughing, gasping for air. Meeting their

pleading eyes. Smiling at them as they blubbered away. “Please don’t hurt me. I’ll be good. I

won’t be any trouble.” Slowly pushing them back under. Pausing, just before the water

covered their nose. Giving them a little bit of hope. Laughing quietly at their one last

coughing fit.

Next, the hand on the head forcing down. Desperate scrawny fingers reaching out from

the water, clawing at the white sleeve of the care home uniform until, the grip slowly

releases. The eyes wide open now, staring up. Lips pulled back in a grinning rictus. Thin

white hair floating and waving in slow motion. Watching the last tiny bubbles of life drift out

of their mouths.

Then hitting the red emergency button. Running out into the corridor for help. Standing

back looking worried while others fussed, worked the defibrillator, gave the kiss of life,

pummelled the bony chest, thumbed the eyelids closed, dried the white useless flesh, folded

the arms across with respect. And finally, pulled the green sheet over the face.

It was so good to have that power…

At the end of each daily shift, Gerald had to cleanse himself from handling all those old

people. The thought of being in contact with them; washing them, drying them, dressing

them, feeding them, wiping them, lifting them. Sometimes it would make him vomit into the

wash hand basin.

Gerald switched on the shower. While waiting for it to warm up he took some clean

clothes from the wardrobe. When he slid the mirrored door shut, he paused at his reflection.

He’d done this many times. The severe burn scars on his upper arms, chest and shoulders

stood out like a map of the London underground.

Dennis/BSmythe/5

After many skin grafts, he still couldn’t strip off on a beach. On the few occasions he had

done so, people would shrink back and look away. Kids would whisper to their mums or

point.

His elderly grandmother had, unknowingly, lost the tip of her cigarette when she’d leant

over his cot while babysitting for the parents. Then she fell asleep, downstairs. By the time

the smoke and the crying had reached her, he had sixty per cent burns.

He often wished he could have confronted her about it, but she died when he was six

years old. The thought of being alone with her with his own cigarette, had over the years,

created scenarios in his mind.

#

Gerald was brought up in Rainham, Essex by his father Tom. Tom had always felt guilty

about the accident. He shouldn’t have let his old mother babysit while they’d gone to the

cinema. This guilt was compounded when his wife left. She could never stand the sight of the

burns; it was Tom who always had to bath and dress him.

One day, Tom came home from work and found the letter. She’d run off with his best

friend - some best friend? he thought.

As Gerald grew up, he and his dad did everything together. By 1960, Tom was in his

early forties and Gerald had reached the age of ten. They looked so alike with their slim

build, fair hair and sharp features. In addition, with Tom at only five-foot-seven, Gerald was

catching up with him in height - his mother having been tall. It was easy to spot they were

father and son.

They were also keen football fans. Tom used to take Gerald and his friend Dennis to all

the Arsenal home games. He didn’t have to pay for Dennis, he was smuggled in under

Gerald’s jumper.

Dennis/BSmythe/6

Tom’s sister, Maureen, used to help out - a bubbly slim woman with short dyed auburn

hair and an engaging laugh. She lived locally, so Gerald went there for tea after school. Tom

would collect him later on his way home from the factory. For a while, things couldn’t have

been better for Gerald. Then Tom met Doreen.

Doreen served in the shop floor canteen at Fords in Dagenham while Tom worked the

assembly line on the car upholstery. It was her discreet large portions for him at lunchtime as

he queued, and her big smile, that wet his juices.

Doreen was a 45-year old widow with no children; apparently, she hadn’t wanted any.

But, she was looking for security and willing to put up with a kid in tow. She was also a bit

over weight with a round face and kept her brown hair tied back in a fussy bun. At five-foot-

ten-inches tall, in her canteen off-white stained coat, she wasn’t exactly a stunner -

nevertheless, with Tom dead keen and, after a registry office wedding, with Gerald staying a

few days at aunty Maureen’s, they had a weekend away at Canvey Island.

Doreen’s previous husband had been in middle management. They’d lived comfortably.

Always seemed to be dining out. Lived for the day really - weren’t backwards in treating

themselves. However, when he died, things took a tumble for the worse. With no widow's

pension and only a small life insurance with a large mortgage still to pay, she had to sell up

and rent a room.

The problem was Doreen had tasted the sweets of middle management success. Even

with this newfound security, she wasn’t keen on just accepting her current station. She

wanted Tom to get on. Move up the ladder. Go for some of the white collar jobs advertised at

Dagenham. Perhaps do a bit of studying in the evenings, instead of messing around with that

kid.

Dennis/BSmythe/7

Tom loved his football. On weekends, he and Gerald could be seen kicking a ball about

in the park. Even at ten years old, Gerald had some skills. Tom was proud of him.

Doreen would stay home and do house work. Doreen wasn’t into football, she was into

housework. Very house proud our Doreen. On the rare occasions she did go with them, she’d

sit on the uncomfortable wooden bench with a sour face reading Country Life, her favourite

magazine, or an upmarket holiday brochure, way above their income range.

With Doreen now the lady of the house, Maureen began to take a back seat. She

understood of course. Tom and his sister kept in touch on the phone. He’d tell her how Gerald

was doing. Tell her, ‘Gerald hasn’t warmed to Doreen yet, but he’ll come round. Mind you,’

he’d joke, ‘if her cooking is anything to go by, we’ll probably be eating his friend Dennis

soon?’ Tom would break off, stop himself laughing and listen out, just in case.

But Doreen had heard it all, in the bedroom, on the extension, the one she’d persuaded

Tom to get, that she’d promised to pay for; said it saved her coming downstairs to answer if

she was cleaning up stairs.

Even though she worked in a canteen, Doreen was no Fanny Cradock. She hated

cooking. Her culinary expertise stretched to mostly beans on toast or tinned Macaroni cheese.

Tom started to have full blown three course meals at work to make up for it. He didn’t mind,

nor did Doreen; it was subsidised. In addition, he got to choose out of four main courses.

Gerald was just grateful for his school dinners.

Sometimes Doreen would see their glum faces at teatime. She’d tell them she was saving

on housekeeping; putting money away for new carpets and a three piece suite for the front

room. Tom never argued. Everything went over his head. He just handed over his wage

packet. She ran the house.

Dennis/BSmythe/8

It was the summer of 1961 when Tom started getting the stomach pains. They gradually

got worse. After visiting his Doctor on and off for two months he was referred to a hospital

consultant. With tests and treatment, they eventually diagnosed large bowel cancer. It was

terminal. When nothing more could be done, he was sent home.

However, the National Health could only do so much. Most evenings, the toilet smell in

the back bedroom was unbearable. Doreen never went in, she’d lost interest. She was just

counting the days.

For the next four months, Gerald watched his father melt away. He’d forego school

dinners and come home to sit with him. He’d watch the daytime nurse with her syringe. The

morphine brightening his dad’s face - dulling the pain. She’d change him, mornings and

lunchtimes. Near the end, it was easy, as if she were changing a baby. She’d roll him over,

pick him up - he only weighed six stone.

It was during one of these lunch times, his father pointed a trembling finger to the

wardrobe door. ‘Gerald, in my blue suit top pocket. There’s something for you.’

He went over as his dad instructed and reached for the fine linked chain. It was a

beautiful engraved silver Fob watch.

‘I want you to have it, son. It was given to me by my parents on my twenty-first

birthday.’

Gerald was overwhelmed; he looked at the watch and then his dad. ‘But - but, I can’t

take...’

‘It’s yours, son; something to remember me by.’

It was the first time Gerald had really accepted his father’s situation. He broke down

sitting on the edge of the bed and wept. His father with great effort put a very thin arm around

his shoulder.

Dennis/BSmythe/9

Gerald kept the watch in his school blazer top pocket. Just like his dad did. That was

until Doreen clocked it, as a manner of speaking.

Gerald was getting thinner, not eating properly, worried about his dad. Tom’s sister

Maureen had visited. She’d remarked to Doreen about Gerald’s welfare. That’s when they fell

out. She exploded telling Maureen to mind her own business.

Doreen wasn’t stupid. She’d got it all worked out. Tom had never thought of making a

Will. Truth was, until he’d been terminally diagnosed, nor had she. So with Tom on Morphine

and drugs, she wasted no time in getting him where to sign.

At the funeral, Doreen and Maureen ignored each other. They sat well apart. This also

sat well with Doreen and her plans. Gerald went over to speak to Maureen. She made a fuss

of him while they chatted, but when she saw Doreen looking daggers, she excused herself.

The next few months were hard. Tom’s pension on death didn’t transfer to a wife and his

small life insurance just covered the funeral costs. Doreen still worked at her canteen job and

drew a small widow’s benefit. However, it wasn’t near enough; there was still a mortgage to

pay.

Then one Monday morning, Gerald’s world shattered. He came running in just before

leaving for school. ‘Have you seen dad’s fob watch?’ He was panicking, breathing fast while

searching his pockets.

Doreen looked at him a little annoyed. She said with no emotion, ‘I’m sorry, Gerald, I

had to pawn it. Your father was sick. He didn’t know its true value.’

‘But – but, it was my dad’s. He gave it to me?’ Gerald’s face had gone white with shock.

‘He just lent it to you, Gerald. It was far too expensive for a young boy like you to have.’

She turned away ignoring his pleading stare. ‘Those sort of things are for you when you’re

grown up. Now get to school.’

Dennis/BSmythe/10

‘But it was mine, you shouldn’t have — ’

‘Shouldn’t have!’ Doreen turned on him. ‘Shouldn’t have! Just remember who puts food

on the table, Gerald! It’s better off in hock than in your blazer pocket. At least it’s paying its

way, which is a lot more than can be said for you.’

The arm of his blazer stemmed the tears. With a pang of remorse she added, ‘Don’t

worry; you’ll have it back by the end of the week. I’ve just loaned it to get some money.’

At the end of the first week, he did ask, then every week for a month after that. But there

was always an excuse. She told him to stop nagging. He never did see his dad’s watch again.

Not long after without telling Gerald, Doreen put the house in the hands of three estate

agents, looking for a quick sale. Trouble was, it was winter and greed had its clammy arm

around Doreen’s shoulder, and she wasn’t dropping in price. So to make ends meet she took a

charring job.

She’d answered a card placed in a local post office window: Cleaner required for

general housework (mornings). Twice a week i.e. polishing, dusting, vacuum cleaning. It

didn’t quote hours or wages but it would fit in nicely before her daytime job. She went for the

interview. For Doreen it was just a short walk through the park and then into a manicured

residential area.

Leaning on a brass handled walking stick and smelling of lavender water, a short elderly

lady with a hook nose, thinning white hair and very few teeth, asked her to wipe her feet

before she was let into a house that was big and old with lots of expensive knick-knacks.

With their comfortable trust funds and pensions, Doreen thought, this was the only

neighbourhood around Rainham that could employ regular cleaning staff.

Dennis/BSmythe/11

Mrs Crackston was roughly in her late seventies and, apart from Winnie, her yappy

cocker spaniel, lived alone. Her expensive inlaid French polished sideboard was festooned

with silver framed photos of a late husband and their children and grandchildren.

Doreen had checked out cleaning rates and, before Mrs Crackston could utter a word,

made it clear what she wanted; shilling an hour over the standard rate.

Mrs Crackston’s lips pursed and seemed to cave in on her toothless gums. Even Winnie

the dog yapped, then hid behind her rolled down stockings. She finally nodded in agreement,

but made it clear she expected a first class job.

Walking home, it occurred to her, if she had some extra help she could be done in twice

the time. So on her first morning, Doreen woke Gerald early before school telling him they’d

be finished well in time before register, and ignoring his protests marched him off with her.

Doreen kept him busy. He was assigned general dusting and helping with the washing

up, while she covered the wiping down, polishing and vacuum cleaning. Gerald never got any

pocket money for helping - just the occasional slap if the old lady whined out a complaint.

And she was pretty fond of that.

Mrs Crackston and her yappy cocker spaniel took an instant dislike to Gerald. She would

shuffle behind him as he dusted. Muttering, picking holes. Frequently she’d call Doreen away

from her duties, wiping her finger along an edge to show where Gerald had missed bits. For

that, another slap by Doreen, while Winnie yapped at him, then bolted behind the old lady’s

blue veined legs.

On one occasion, without the old toothless crone being present, he’d pulled out Dennis

from his cardigan and waved it at her dog. Winnie bared her teeth, then shot out of the room

in a yapping frenzy.

Dennis/BSmythe/12

It was during the summer, wearing his short-sleeved school shirt, she noticed the scars.

Mrs Crackston didn’t want him in her kitchen. She told Doreen. The old lady assumed he had

some contagious infection. Doreen didn’t argue, she needed the money and she still hadn’t

sold the house. But of course, without Gerald helping with the dishes, washing-up took twice

as long. As usual, in a mood, she slapped the back of his head and told him to clear off and

make himself busy with some other chores.

One of his jobs was dusting a beautiful highly polished yew corner table. In the middle

of it sat an engraved silver trinket box. Gerald did peak once and jumped as the ballet dancer

sprang into action to the chimes of the 'Sugar Plum Fairy'. Before he closed the lid, he did

notice a gold fob watch, dull with age, sitting in the deep blue satin amongst some tiepins and

cufflinks.

Then, a few days later early morning on their way to cleaning, they slowed at the

approaching sight of a police car in Mrs Crackston’s drive. Using the spare key, Doreen let

herself in as usual with Gerald. All of a sudden, a hand came from behind the door and

grabbed her wrist.

‘I’ll take that, Mrs Smithers.’ The key was snatched from Doreen’s fingers and returned

to Mrs Crackston; she was leaning on her stick with the arm of a sympathetic policewoman

supporting her.

‘Thank you, Constable,’ the old lady said, smiling briefly at the uniformed young man.

Doreen looked at them mystified. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘You know what it’s about,’ Mrs Crackston hissed. ‘Your son’s a thief.’

‘What do mean he’s a thief?’ Doreen whirled on Gerald then looked at the three of them.

‘What’s he supposed to have stolen?’

Dennis/BSmythe/13

The old lady, ignoring the constables gesture to let him handle the matter, continued, ‘He

stole my husband’s fob watch.’

‘Now let’s calm down, shall we?’ The constable turned to Mrs Crackston with another

cast-off wave to her remark while Winnie yapped out her little protest at the policeman’s feet.

‘We can’t just start accusing people, madam, until we have evidence.’ The constable turned

back to Doreen and Gerald. He spoke to them quietly. ‘Look, just to clear this up, eliminate

yourselves.’ He glanced cautiously at the old lady then back again. ‘Could you both empty

the contents of your pockets and your handbag, Mrs Smithers, on the table?’

Without hesitation, they did as they were told. Dennis stayed well concealed. No one

noticed the bulge.

‘Just because it’s not on him, doesn’t mean he hasn’t hidden it somewhere? I bet she’s in

with him, probably sold it herself?’ She waved her stick at them, followed in succession by

three yaps from Winnie.

The constable raised both hands to quieten her. ‘We can’t go accusing, Mrs Crackston,

unless we have evidence, I’ve told you.’ The policewoman patted the old lady’s shoulder to

pacify her.

Doreen answered back in a mocking smirk, ‘She’s probably mislaid it herself, the old

fool.’

With that, Mrs Crackston raised her stick again. ‘I want you out of my house, now. You

can collect your stuff and go.’ She looked at the constable. ‘I want you to wait here until

they’re gone.’

The constable raised the palm of his hands to quieten her again then offered a nervous

smile to Doreen and Gerald. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do as she says.’

Dennis/BSmythe/14

‘Okay, that suits me,’ Doreen said abruptly. ‘Gerald, get our things from the broom

cupboard and we’ll be off. I don’t like being accused a thief.’

The constable nodded as young Gerald flashed him a glance for permission to go to the

broom cupboard and collect Doreen’s mop, galvanised bucket and dusters. Fortunately, no

one followed him including her yappy cocker spaniel.

Gerald moved swiftly up the stairs, two at a time. At the top, he pulled out Dennis from

his grey school cardigan. He kissed him affectionately on the head and whispered, ‘Listen, I

want you to scare the shit out the old bag, do it for Gerald, there’s a good chap. Goodbye, old

friend.’ Then he threaded Dennis through the balustrades.

A minute later, with a clatter, Gerald emerged with a broom, bucket and mop. Dusters

stuffed in his pocket.

Mrs Crackston started up, ‘And make sure none of that’s mine? I know exactly what’s in

that broom cupboard.’

Doreen matched her with, ‘I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, you old cow. But I hope you

and your husband’s fob watch rot in hell.’ With that retort, Doreen slammed the door behind

them.

Outside, Gerald got two hard slaps on the back of his head. ‘You stole it, didn’t you?’

‘No I didn’t - honestly!’

‘Yes you did, you little brat, just to get back at me for your dad's watch?’

Gerald shouted at her, ‘No I didn’t!’ He rubbed the back of his head, the tears welling up.

‘Well, whatever? All you had to do was keep your nose clean. You knew the old bag

didn’t like you. Now I’m out of a job. And you―you.’ She faced him with an intense look of

dislike, ‘You can go to bed without tea tonight.’ With that, she turned and walked off.

Dennis/BSmythe/15

Poor Gerald, out of favour with Doreen once again, glumly followed her all the way

home.

Later, Mrs Crackston watched some television. Then, with great effort, she got out of her

chair, wincing as she steadied herself leaning on her stick. She moved slowly into the kitchen

to make some Horlicks. The cocker spaniel padded behind her. She poured some water for the

dog. Winnie all excited wagged her tail and slurped in her bowl, while Mrs Crackston dipped

her custard creams, sucking on them with her toothless gums as a small piece dropped into

her hot drink.

After they finished she switched off the kitchen light and made her way to the stair lift.

She carefully manoeuvred herself into the mobile chair. Mrs Crackston patted her lap for

Winnie to hop on. She pushed the control to ascend and they slowly began to move up the

stairs. Winnie had done this many times. She sat still, licking the old lady’s hand.

As they turned the right-angled bend, it was Winnie who became restless. A low

apprehensive whine at first, then a yap.

‘What’s up, Winnie?’

Another yap!

‘Calm down. What’s the matter with you?’ She patted the dog’s head but Winnie was up

on all fours standing on her lap. ‘Come on now, sit down.’

Her dog was looking up the stairs and began to growl. ‘Stop it, Winnie.’ She got a soft

slap on her rear. ‘Behave yourself.’ The cocker spaniel meant business. It began to bear its

teeth in a viscous growling snarl at something Mrs Crackston couldn’t see.

As the stair lift slowly climbed, she stiffly turned her head upwards. Winnie had started

barking aggressively, jumping in her lap with the full force of each bark. She had never seen

the dog in such a mood.

Dennis/BSmythe/16

‘Shut up, Winnie!’ She slapped the dog hard this time but Winnie had her lips pulled

back into a nasty curdling sneer. Then, yelping at another smack, she jumped off the old

lady’s lap and rolled down two stairs. Winnie steadied herself, then looked up and started

barking in a frenzied state.

‘Winnie, you naughty dog, I’m going to give you such a—’ Dennis had slid down the

balustrades and was peering over the top of the landing. Mrs Crackston let out a scream when

she saw the Black Mamba. She cowered half out of her seat. ‘Keep it away―Oh God! Help

me, Winnie, Kill it―’

The dog quickly moved up the remaining stairs snapping and barking. Mrs Crackston

panicked, she forgot the stop control; she was out of her chair standing up, leaning away from

it, screaming, as the long olive grey body and the black gaping mouth came nearer.

‘Kill it, Winnie, kill it for mummy―ARGHH!’

Mrs Crackston lost her balance; she lunged at the handrail to save herself but missed her

grip. She rolled over and over screaming down the stairs. Her face smashed into the wall at

the bend leaving a bloody smear then she somersaulted down the remaining flight. The brittle

snap of her neck as she hit the bottom echoed through the quiet hall. Her walking stick

followed, clunking and bonking down the treads until it came to rest across one arm.

Winnie had grabbed Dennis. She had the snake in her mouth as she ran back down the

stairs and dropped it by Mrs Crackston’s body, yapping at her face. Then, Winnie quietened.

She began to whine, wagging her tale; not understanding the staring eyes, the twisted head at

right angles. She licked the blood from the mouth and nose affectionately, hoping to waken

her owner.

Dennis/BSmythe/17

Winnie snarled and grabbed Dennis; the rubber snake bouncing up and down in her

mouth as she took it to her basket. She nuzzled the old blanket, and left it under there with

her favourite ball and chewed slipper.

Two months later Maureen heard a knock on her door. It was Gerald with his little

suitcase. Doreen had quietly sold the house and done a runner to Canada. She had lied to

Gerald. Told him, he was going to live for a short while with his aunt Maureen and then she

would send for him; of course, she wasn’t. Told him, it had all been arranged; of course, it

hadn’t. Told him, she was going to buy a smaller place for them both; of course, she didn’t.

Gerald saw Maureen’s look of astonishment as she let him in. He spluttered to say

something then, burst into tears.

His happy relationship with Aunty Maureen was short lived. Seven months later, she was

killed in a road accident on a pedestrian crossing. The car didn’t stop but the driver was found

and prosecuted. Maureen had never married, so her stepsister and family cleaned up from the

sale of her flat and a nice car insurance pay-out.

Gerald was shoved into care. Then came a spell with the wrong crowd and some

frequent stealing. Inevitably, he eventually found himself at a Borstal for juvenile offenders.

After that, bad luck seemed to follow Gerald around - as far as he was concerned, even good

luck was just bad luck with its hair combed.

#

Gerald’s thoughts returned to his shower. He fumbled inside a drawer for a fresh towel. The

fingers probed some handkerchiefs, then, they felt the cold smooth roundness. He pulled it

out.

Dennis/BSmythe/18

Gerald looked at the inscription; he had done so many times. E. F. Cole &Sons

(Accountants) Presented to George Crackston on his retirement. He rolled the gold fob watch

in his hand, the chain swung beneath it - then rubbed it against his cheek. The touch - the

sensation. It made him close his eyes in brief ecstasy.