The Pram

A peek into a pram gets me thinking about a very different way of life.

The Pram

 

Isn’t Oxford a rich place! Here we are, queuing at the Boots pharmacy counter and she looks as if she comes from another planet. She is guiding her pram through the melee like a farmer of yore steering his plough. Her clothing is all soft and round-edged, shades of grey, no lively colours. She is wearing multiple layers but the main impression is of a worn and faded track suit. Her eyes are down, shoulders curved, and this blob of grey among the upright, well dressed Oxford citizens, brimming with energy just held in check, is like a reverse chiaroscuro. It draws the eye.

 

“Scuse me, scuse me, scuse me!” she is calling out to no-one in particular, eyes still down, like a ship’s horn in fog.  Without a good look at her eyes it is hard to age her; but middle aged at a guess and I imagine the baby to be her grandchild. I wonder if she is homeless.

 

She cruises past my place in the queue. I look back and down for a peek at the baby. It is all swaddled up in cloth except for its face. It is a pink face, but it’s plastic with eyelids that swing open and closed with the movement of the pram. Only then does the chasm between her life and mine reveal its true depth.

 

Is this a beggar’s ruse or something she needs to love?

 

***

 

I could do with fewer eyes on me right now. I need to come away with something. Any of those self-satisfied ogglers would snitch on me if they saw something being tucked under the covers. What I’d really like now is a f*g. Maybe later in the day I will be lucky. No food going here, just some health-fad type stuff. A packet or two of those and perhaps a lipstick for fun. Don’t be too greedy, try not to get caught; though it wouldn’t be the first time.

 

I had to come in. My bones were so cold. After the usual shouting match with Josh there was no going back to his place last night. The only place there are pickings is down town and I was betting on at least one of the street sleepers letting me hunker down next to them.

 

***

 

 

“Eh, Maddy. How’s things?”

“Pretty crap.”

It’s Tom, laid out on his sleeping bag, his head on the hand of his crooked elbow; up against the wall of the New Theatre.

“Heading somewhere?”

“Dunno”. Truly I don’t. I don’t feel like company but wherever I park myself I would probably attract it and the light is already fading. I could certainly do worse. I don’t like it when he leans right into me and then talks forever, saying the same thing over and over.

“It looks like I’ll be out for the night, tonight. Thinking about where.”

Tom grins. His lower teeth more stained than the others. I wonder why.

“There’s space here,” he says, bringing his left arm across his front to point to the pavement beyond his head.

That’s an invitation, I guess. Can I trust him? I’ve never had a serious problem with him in the past. Why not?

“Yeah.” But I swing the pram around to point back behind his feet.

He is younger than me, I reckon. Early, mid-thirties? Got grey in his hair, though. Almost always in his distinctive, camel-coloured trench coat. Even in summer it rarely comes off, except at night when he lays it over his sleeping bag.

Strange as it may seem, we first met when we were both working for the council as cleaners, trekking around the public toilets twice a day.  Good while it lasted, but achingly dull.

“Suit yourself.”

Then quiet. A moment of pique. Too bad.

The pavement is momentarily congested with pedestrians going in both directions, moving briskly with eyes straight ahead. Nothing dropped into Tom’s upturned tweed cap. It does not seem to bother him. 

I need to sort myself out here.  It would be too unfriendly to put the pram between Tom and me; so it goes out to the right. I pull out the tartan zip-up plastic bag from the shelf between the pram wheels. Height of luxury, I have a rolled up sleeping mat as well as my own sleeping bag.  Out they go. Then I dig under the mattress in the pram for the biscuit tin, complete with loose coins in it, and one of the cardboard signs. I choose: “2 mouths to feed  Thank you!”  No lie there with Tom here, which sets something to rest inside of me. Before I settle down, I fuss with the swaddling around Daisy’s head. She needs to be able to breathe but she can’t be too obvious. The pram hood is up all the time, of course.

I sit down, yoga-style, in the middle of my bedding. I have the biscuit tin and the sign out front, to my left, between me and Daisy.

“There we go.” I pat the top of my thighs. “A bit late in the day for anything much, but there is always tomorrow.”

“No luck at the Job Centre, then?” Tom has come out of his sulk.

“Not been there in months.”

“Yeah?” Half prompt, half understanding.

“Last time was for Hardship Allowance, but it’s really not worth it in the end. They want it back before long and you end up feeling worse off than you were to begin with. Anyway they got really tough with me the third time. Sod them!”

“Is this it, then?”

“No.” Is this it? “At least I hope not!” �" paced out slowly. “You remember Josh?”

Tom grimaces. Is it a smile or anguish? The gap in his teeth - front right as you look at him - shows.

“The pot-bellied barman?”

“Yeah.” I slow down. There is no denying it, but why said with such contempt?  I take a breath.

“He’s not that bad.” I thrum my fingers on my thighs. “We go together. Most of the time.  He has a place and I do cleaning at the pub where he works and another place.”

“So a lady with a fixed abode!” He does really smile this time. “Are you all in together, like a couple, share the groceries, the electric, the rent?”

“Well.” Why does he have to poke at me like this? “Josh does earn more than me. He’s a man, though. Why shouldn’t he look after me? “

“Of course he should. Of course he should.” Meaning, of course, nothing of the sort.

“And you? Is this it for you?”

“It’s the booze, Maddy, the booze. You know that. I try but it sneaks up on me and I can’t hold anything down.”

There is no bottle in sight, just a can of Tesco’s cola. Perhaps he has one tucked away somewhere. A bottle in view would stop the money flow dead. That’s for sure.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Tom. I’d hoped you’d stop. Remember when I emptied half a bottle of gin down the toilet! You were mad at me then. You scared me.”

“I’m still mad.”

“Are you?”

He snorts and looks away.

“Well.”

“So is it as bad as it was then?”, I pick up after a dab of silence.

“Not right now. I am trying to get off it; stick to beer if I am desperate.” He coughed. “I am even going to AA, would you believe. It is part of the deal for getting benefit.”

“You’re getting benefits? How come?”

“You know. You have to have a story that you’re trying to get back into work. And that’s it. I’m going to AA, trying to get off the booze, doing a bit of work, getting my act together to do a proper job.”

“Yeah! And the ‘doing a bit of work’ bit: how do you tell that story?”

“You can’t just make this stuff up, Maddy. They check up on you. Old Big Brother, there.”

“Doing toilets for the council, then?”

“Naw. I did go back to them after we left; but they gave up on me eventually. Said there were only so many chances they could give me. No, it’s a foodbank down Cowley Road. Two or three time a week I do it. Three hours, usually making up food boxes. And they are very understanding.”

“Benefits and paid work! What the f**k are you doing here then?”

“I quite like it in a funny way. Feels like home. But, you know, it saves money and it makes money. I really want to save some money. Get some new clothes, a job I can hold, a room somewhere. Somewhere warm.”

He stops and drops his head.

“Yeah, laugh away. Ha ha ha.” Another rasp of the throat. “Anyway, I am going to give it a try. I want to give it a try. What else is there?”

“Tom,” I say “Tom. I’m not laughing. Why would I laugh? Good on you, mate.” I sniff. “One thing’s for sure. You’re way more organised than I am.”

He smiles and raises the cola can to toast the occasion. The can comes down again but with his head up he catches the eye of a woman coming from my left. She checks her step. Her grey page boy hair is matted down at the top, like it needs a wash. A tan raincoat hides her clothes; slightly tired but stylish ankle boots, a darker tan than the coat.

“Oh yes”, she mutters and tugs at the zip on her coat pocket. She brings out a purse, opens it, and pokes about in it. A £5 note is in her fingers. Are we in luck? She looks a little flustered, moves the note to the hand holding the purse and continues rummaging. Her face turns to relief and she pulls out a £2 coin. She leans over and drops it in my biscuit tin.

“Bless you!” And she moves on, re-zipping her pocket while on the move.

We watch her briefly. Then I move the coin over to Tom’s cap.

“Your winnings I think, Tom.”

“Who knows? Let’s go 50:50.”

He takes a £1 coin from his cap and lobs it into my tin. I reach over and touch his leg in thanks.

“So your pub work is a regular job, then?”, he continues.

“I guess so.”

He looks at me like he was expecting more. His hand goes to the cola can and moves it. Something to do but not wanting to drain the precious stuff too soon, perhaps.

“Regular was not so good for you at the council, was it?”

Regular not good for me? Regular money, regular work, even, suited me fine. There were those days, though, when it was too much. Days when Daisy, her apple-shaped face, her milk-smelling skin, woke up from that cold, shaming posture. Her mouth pouting like a flower bud, her eyes roving over my face. I had to stay with my baby. I could not let her slip away to the other side again, bleach out her life as I bleached out the pee and the muck in the toilets. Nothing else mattered. If it was a fine day, I would take her out in the pram to the park. It was like Heaven. We’d be talking almost non-stop. When I stopped to sit on a bench, then I would shut my gob and let her sleep. People passing looked at me funny if I was talking alone sat on the bench. On a wet day, we’d stay in and I’d put her beside me on the sofa. We’d talk less then �" it seems to be walking that really releases all the things I want to talk to her about. Yes, on wet days I’d end up watching TV mostly, which was not good.

“Maddy?” He pauses. “Did I say something wrong?”

My legs are beginning to ache. I ease my back nearer to the wall so I can stretch my legs out.

“It’s OK.”

“You got this job sorted, then?”

“I guess so.” Again.

Tom gestures towards the pram. He’s seen it before. One time when we were doing council work and I hadn’t showed he took a long lunch hour and came looking for me. Long winding story but he found me in the park with Daisy. He was clearly surprised and the whole thing confused him. I wasn’t very nice to him. He loped off and we didn’t talk about it again, though sometimes our conversation would recognise Daisy in some way.

“So this is just for the bleeding-heart story now, eh?” I didn’t think he would be so forward, so nosy.

“Mind your own f*****g business!”

“OK. OK. OK.”

 

The evening light is almost gone. The shops are closing up, footfall fading out. But there will be another wave coming to the theatre within the hour. I have half a mind to gather my things up and move away from argument for the second time today. But I lack the energy, the fire; and Tom has gone quiet, backed away from any kind of fight, as he usually does.  It should be OK and this is a good spot for pickings.

 

How quickly one can go from fury to acceptance! Well, up to a point. If I went back to Josh now, I know it would all flare up again in no time.

 

It’s money, really. Evil stuff. As soon as I start talking about it with Josh, we seem to be on a slippery slope to a big bust up.

 

This afternoon, once it got going, it seemed so very familiar, even as it played itself out.

 

“Heh, Josh, have you got a tenner for some f**s?”

He does not register at first. He is on the couch watching football on TV.

“You got a tenner for some f**s?”

“Eh?”

“A tenner for some f**s?”

He leans forward and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. He opens it up and fingers open the sections to look for notes. A roar surges from the TV.

“F**k! Looking what you’ve done! I’ve missed the f*****g goal now. Probably be the only one.”

He is watching the football again, his left hand holding the wallet resting on the couch beside him.  Here I am standing, waiting, looking right at him, while for him I am off at an angle, left his world entirely, as his eyes and ears are fixed to the screen, tied to it by invisible threads.

“Well, do you have one?”

“What?”

“You got a tenner? I need some f**s.”

It comes back to him. He starts again to look inside his wallet in that “I’m half here and half not” way that people have when they are trying to watch the box at the same time.

He finally finds a note folded over on itself multiple times and unfolds it. It is a £20 one. He holds it up.

“You got change?”

“If I had change, I’d have £10, wouldn’t I?”

Now he shifts his body around to face me. It didn’t help any making him look dumb.

“Alright, smart arse. You’ve probably got £10 anyway somewhere abouts.”

“No.”

“No? Not even in that tin you carry around all the time?”

“No.”

“I bet you have.”

I am saying “No” again as he stands up and starts to walk towards the door. I shift to the left, into his path, and put my arms out in front of me.

“It’ll be in that pram won’t it.” I already knew he was going for that. It was just outside, in the hall. He’d be rough handling everything in it, throwing stuff on the floor. Daisy, too.

“No, Josh, no. Please don’t. Don’t go after her like that. It’s OK. Forget it. Forget it.”

 

Why did I do this? Why in God’s name did I do this? F*****g craving for f**s. I should have hung on through it, let it go, let it go.

 

Now Josh was all steamed up.

“Her? Go after her? Not that again! It’s just a f*****g doll.  Drivel, un-bloody-mitigated drivel.”

He paused; and then, as if trying to be sympathetic, “You've told yourself this story and you tell it again and again. God knows how often you tell it.  Like a broken record. You’ve told it and heard it so often that you actually believe it. It is not doing you any good. Dragging that pram around, skipping work just to be with a doll. Pointless!”

There was a roar from the football match. He flicked his head around briefly to glance at the TV; but the noise died down and he clearly had words to say.

“It is leading you astray. Dropping out of work all the time to mosey around with that f*****g pram. You’re lucky anyone ever employs you for anything. So you never pay your own way. And you never will pay your own way until you put that doll in the bin and forget all about it.”

“Chuck Daisy on the bin! How can you say that! Daisy?”

 

Agh! Here we are again. I hate it when he does this, goes after Daisy like that. How can he get over her so easily? It’s like he has forgotten it ever happened.

 

“You don’t understand. You never understand. I am always going to feel it is my fault. I lost her. I can’t get her back. And you know I can’t have another child. My darling baby. I need to feel her here. I need to talk to her, have her close. If she went forever, there would be nothing left of me. Who would I be?  Maybe you don’t understand that feeling, will never understand it; but please, please accept that I feel this way. What is the harm? Let her be. Let me be.”

“Same old, same old, same old.” There is a hard edge in his tone. Like someone just hit him. Maybe he hurts, too, but hates showing it. In any case, it looks like he is coming at me all the harder. Why can I never say the right words?

“Maddy, you've got to change. You’ve got to put all that behind you. It is wrecking your life. It is wrecking my life. Like I said, you’re never going to pay your way as long as you keep that idiot doll and pram. The only way you can keep it up is because I keep doling out tenners every time you ask.”

“Not every time I ask.”

“Believe it or not, Maddy, I need money too. And it is my money. I don’t exist just to feed this ridiculous game that you play.”

“So what am I to do then? Rubbish, murder the only thing that really makes me feel me. Just forget it all and stay here as your robot w***e?”

“Stay here as my robot w***e?” That took him by surprise.

“Huh! W***e? I can tell you this.  One thing about an actual w***e: she wouldn’t be hanging around the house all day. And she’d probably have the money for f**s herself.”

 

It was like he was spitting on me. That was it. I’d kill him if he said any more. Daisy and I were off. I backed out of the living room and shut the door in his face. He was moving towards it. There was another wave of noise from the football and the door never opened. Thank heavens for football.

 

So now I am here. It is cooling down fast. Tom seems to be sleeping but miraculously wakes up just before folk start leaving the theatre.  I have been here before. It’s not so good as you might think. A wall of people going by in front of us. We might just as well be graffiti on the wall behind us; ignorable, not real people. You want them more spaced out so that there is no denying that they have seen you, and seen you looking at them; no escaping that in the face of your gaze they have to make a decision. No chance now of even catching any eye contact with the passers-by, let alone talking to them.

 

Instead, between us, like Buddhist monks, we maintain a mantra of prayers to the night: “A pound for some food!”, “Thank you for being generous.”, “Thanks and God bless!”, “Safe journey, sweet dreams.”, “A pound for some food!”.

 

From time to time I try variations on “Food for the little one!” with my body turned towards the pram. It does work. I could see some looking down our way instead of straight ahead; and some of those would reach into a pocket or purse and drop some change into the biscuit tin.

 

It doesn’t last long and soon theatre staff come out to close the shutters. A young, pimply lad with greasy hair is doing the one nearest us. When he’s done, he looks over at us sharing out the pickings.

“Done alright, then?” he asks. He’s smiling. He means no harm. I know some folk who take all the trouble to walk right up and stand over you, say something similar �" probably several times in succession, just for the heck of it �" and then launch into a sermon of abuse. You just wish you could disappear under the paving stones like a worm.

 

All the same, I don’t want a conversation.

 

“Not bad, thanks,” I say, eyes still down on the money, coins counted to the left, uncounted to the right.

“Good for you.” That was unexpected. He arches to one side as he digs his hand deep into one of a number of pockets sewn onto the outside of his trousers. Then he comes over and holds out a £2 coin for me to take from his hand. He isn’t having any of that drop the coin in the tin distancing. I have no choice but to hold my hand out and look him in the face. He presses the coin into my palm and briefly holds my hand in both of his. He is still smiling.

“Keep warm. Keep safe.”

It’s so unlikely. I just melt. A slight trembling around my lips and I have to blink a couple of times.

“Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome.”

He goes back inside the theatre only to pop out again with a motorcycle helmet in his hand and the manager right behind him.

“’Night, Fred”, the boy says.

“’Night, Jake”.

The boy turns to us once more and waves. With a short skip, he starts down the pavement with a brisk, bobbing walk.

Of course, that means that the manager had seen us, too. But he turns back quickly to the door he needs to lock up. My guess is that he is supposed to clear us away but he’d rather pretend that he has not seen us than engage either way. Soon he is done locking up and he walks off in the same direction as the boy, but with none of the same hope or joy in life.

 

That’ll be it for the night then. Might as well sleep.

“I’m turning in, Tom. Mind your snoring. I need my beauty sleep.”

“Speak for yourself. If you hadn’t turned up and I had this place to myself, I would have slept like a baby. Now you’re here, I’ll be lucky to get 20 minutes the whole night.”

“You always were a charmer, Tom. Now belt up!”

Tom, who is already lying down and barely visible under a mound of covers gives out a curious, snorting laugh.

“Up yours!” was the last I hear of him.

I put the tin under the covers in the pram and wriggle into my sleeping bag. The argie-bargie with Josh comes back to mid. But I am just tired, tired of the tension, tired of the worry, the feeling that I should be able to make a better life but at the same time even this life could be broken, shattered. Those well-worn phrases come to mind: stone in the shoe, knot in the heart. Tired, especially, of the long day that dragged me all the way into town to here. Tired enough, luckily, to fall off to sleep quite soon.

 

But the night is restless. It’s so damn cold, pecking down my sides like some icy raven. Eventually, I get up and steal the covers off Daisy to pile over my sleeping bag. There’s no hiding her plastic limbs now. I will need to be up early to cover her up again.

 

No worries about that. Even with the extra covers it was a constant shifting about to try and stop the cold from creeping in. Tom slept like a log. Must be some fancy sleeping bag that he’s got.

 

In the early light, I hear the first footfalls tapping down the street. I should have sat up, settled Daisy back into her covers, looked the part. But I am still cold to the core. Besides its not a good time of day for donations. Everyone has a clock in their face, judging the time they clock in. I just lie there, not caring a damn.

 

Tom stirs. I don’t feel like engaging with him this morning, discussing the day ahead., weaving a common plan. I clamber up, stuff my things back into the pram, and head up Cornmarket.  I am hungry as well as cold. Should I spend the money I got last night or  … what? The usual alternatives. It’s such a pain f**s being so expensive. And they’re behind those shutters now. So no way to get them without coughing up. Before you can count the money, it has gone again.

 

I am opposite the automatic doors of Boots. An open invitation. I have to go in. My bones need warming.

 

***

 

Skip the lipstick this time. I don’t want to chance my luck. I’ve skimmed a granola bar and an Oasis bottle. That will be handy for water refills at least.  Out through the other exit and turn left for Cornmarket. Then turn right to be out of sight of anyone watching from the exit. I pop open the Oasis bottle. Three long sweet gulps and then a big bite of the granola bar. I can feel the tension in my shoulders ease up.

 

I can lift my head and �" heh! �" the sun’s out. Another bite from the bar and I feel lucky today. I head

for Magdalen street Sainsbury’s.  In my mind’s eye, I can see the donations dropping down already; probably get the occasional fruit and biscuit, too. Today will be a good day. I’ll fill up. Make enough to buy f**s. If the sun holds up, I’ll take Daisy for a stroll in South Park.

 

Then slowly home. “Home”? I guess that’s what it is. Josh is OK. All sound and fury, as they say. I’ll put my hand where he likes it and we know how that story ends. Weird how I miss the smell of his skin, acrid as it is.