Listen to Mother

The rain was consistent, a steady and forceful pitter-patting on the windows of the alley dwellings. Doubtless it did the buildings no harm: many of the windows were caked with mud and the general grime of the little industrial town. With each sluggish drop clean streaks emerged, and from house to house young children could be seen peering out, eyes wide and staring at the wet world before them. One child from this street, however, had not come in when her Mam had called her.

Marion huddled inside her thin waterproof as the wind attacked her. Her straggly fair hair was swirled this way and that in the aggressive breeze, and it seemed almost as if her tiny feet would be swept right from the ground. She didn't want to go in for tea. She'd only wanted Mam to look at the drawing she'd done of herself with just Mam and Dad. Marion had been pleased with her picture because it showed them all holding hands and smiling. Mam had ranted and raved and told her what a selfish child she was being, wasting time like that, and couldn't she see that her baby brothers needed their Mam more than she did, because she was a big girl now, and was more than capable of caring for herself?

It had been special, but Marion had ripped it up and thrown it in the kitchen bin. Her Mam wasn't her Mam anymore, not really. She didn't care about the drawing. Marion wished she could be a baby, because then Mam would get excited about everything she did. She realised that she made a horrible mistake in wanting baby brothers, because they were noisy and smelly and they were the reason for Mam not wanting to see her drawing. Dad was always working, and Billy and Brian took up all of Mam's time.

She hoped the man was here tonight of all nights. She'd decided that they'd be friends forever. The old man was very interesting when she viewed him through her young eyes, and she liked nothing better than to observe him as he munched hungrily on whatever edible delicacies she had generously stashed away for him on any one day.

"Old man, are you there? I've brought you some more biscuits."

She couldn't see him yet.

One foot in front of the other, the other foot in front, back to the first foot - she needed new shoes, as the water kept sloshing from toe to heel as she moved, but Mam would row her and tell her that she should be damned lucky for what she did have, and new shoes would be an unnecessary extravagance - heel toe, heel toe, one foot in front of the other.

"Over here." Rustling slightly to her left. There he was, black cap tilted over his eyes to protect his face from the driving rain. He was slumped against a wall, his long, bushy grey beard even more grotesquely matted then it had been on her previous visit. Marion was fascinated by the old man's beard, and she was sure she'd never seen anything quite like it before.

She bent down to further observe the spectacular beard as she replied, "I'm here! It's your friend back, old man."

"Sam. Caw me Sam, will ye?" he snapped impatiently.

"Sam. I'm sorry, Sam. I like that name. My uncle's called Sam too!" she smiled at him, handing over her crumbly offering.

A grunt and accompanying nod: her old man devoured the biscuits, showering the pavement with the fragments he dropped in his haste. Marion continued to converse in her usual bubbly manner, but the man was too preoccupied with his feast. She watched him carefully, intrigued by the way he moved his gnarled, weathered hand from the bag of biscuits to his mouth - crumbs systematically sprayed everywhere - and then repeated the procedure.

Having relished the last morsel, he spat on the ground just next to where Marion was kneeling. A small fountain of saliva. Marion wondered if she could spit like that, and silently vowed to practise. The man brushed a strand of silvery hair away from his eyes and gazed at her in an almost wistful way, sighing.

"Daes yer mammie ken yer oot, bairn?"

Marion mumbled, feeling suddenly uneasy, Mam's warnings ringing in her ears. Never go out without telling an adult. Never talk to strangers. But the old man was older than her Mam and he wasn't a stranger any longer: he was her old man, and he was her best friend. "No. She's busy."

"Aye? Is that sae?"

"Mm."

He shuffled to his feet, staring at Marion with the eagle-sharp eyes that hid under the broad strips of fuzzy grey that served him as eyebrows, bent in a permanent frown. "A haed a lass o ma awn ance. She haed yer een."

His young friend smiled, "Ma een?"

"Ye find me funny, dae ye?"

"Aye. A bit."

He laughed. The laughter developed into a coughing fit, and then sinister wheezing noises. He hobbled towards the girl, his wheezing growing more severe and always louder. The crackling of the old man's lungs almost reminded her of the sparklers she'd had on Guy Fawkes Night; they'd whistled and fizzled and the fire had got so close to her neatly gloved hands until she was scared she'd get burnt if she didn't drop them. It was such a horrible noise, and took several uncomfortable minutes to subside.

Clearing his throat, he whistled, "Yer mammie gae ye thae biscuits?"

"I got them from the tin. She never catches me." Fierce childish pride surged through Marion, but then she felt compelled to scowl. Mam had been too busy with her wee brothers to notice. Mam was always too busy with her wee brothers.

Her old man swore loudly. Marion's eyes gleamed; Mam wouldn't like the words he'd used, but she, Marion, dared to like them a lot. The old man's face was still tinged a little red from all his coughing, and he cleared his throat again before declaring, "'Ye daft lassie!"

More coughing. The noise had begun to make Marion feel uneasy. She smiled despite of this, and attempted to imitate the old man's cough. He was bent over double and clutched his chest. Likewise, Marion bent over and clutched her chest, pretending she couldn't stop coughing either.

More swearing and intense coughing on the old man's part. "Eneuch!" He lunged for Marion, still coughing. "Eneuch! Eneuch! Eneuch! Stap that nou!"

She was scared of the way his eyes were glinting, and squirmed so she could avoid his rough touch on her shoulder. She started to run.

Mam had warned her. Mam had told her what an ignorant, foolish girl she was many a time before. She could never do anything right, was a liability of the worst sort, and that was why Mam didn't want to see her drawings and reward her for such bad, bad behaviour. She was an ungrateful and rebellious tyke who couldn't appreciate the protection and guidance of her parents, her Dad had said. Even if the old man wasn't chasing her she knew that she should keep running, indeed, that she would. A stupid and defiant youngster, that was what she was. Never talk to strangers.

Never talk to strangers.

The rain and her own tears began came to blind her, but she stumbled clumsily forwards, desperate to escape. The old man must be after her. He was going to catch up with her soon because her legs felt wobbly and weak, and she wanted to rest and lean against a wall as the old man did when she'd gone to visit him, but she knew she'd never escape then. She continued to run.

It was only when she stubbed her toe on a badly-positioned drain that she slowed down at all. Her feet were swimming in uncomfortable pillows of the slish-sloshing rainwater, her shoes soaked. Her head had started to hurt badly because she'd been crying ample rivers.

A hand, apparently launching itself from nowhere, reached out and tugged at her hair. Her screams were all too ineffective - the hand soon held her own in a tight (and painful) grasp.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Marion didn't know quite who she thought she wanted to apologise to, but it felt right, somehow. To her Mam, perhaps. She should have listened to Mam. If she'd listened to Mam the old man wouldn't be dragging her away. If she'd been a good girl and offered to help Mam change her brothers' nappies and cook the dinner then she wouldn't be here, splashing her way through hostile dirty puddles and tripping over every crack in the pavement.

The pressure on her hand increased, squeezing, twisting, squeezing.

Thump, thump, thump, THUMP; down a set of concrete steps she went. She pretended she was going to be a famous athlete if she managed to jump high enough over the last few puddles. The night was yawning around her, the darkness reaching out to embrace her.

"Mam, please open the door! Let me in! Please let me in!" Marion wailed, her childish fists pounding on their door until her knuckles ached.

The door swung open with a reassuring creak. Normally Marion didn't find the creak reassuring at all, but that day it was. That day the creak told her that Mam must've forgiven her and wanted her to come back in. Marion decided that Mam would be so relieved to have her daughter back safe and sound that she might not be punished. She might even be allowed to sit in front of the fire with a cup of hot chocolate and watch the flames as they danced merrily and brightened the room.

"Mam, I don't think I'll ever be warm again. I can't feel my toes," Marion stated regretfully, looking down at her feet. "Mam?" she paused, "Mam, I'm sorry, but I think I've brought the old man back with me. My hand hurts."

She squealed as she felt the other hand tighten around her own once more. All of a sudden it was gone, but it was soon transferred to her wrist.

"Get off me!" she shrieked, twisting her own wrist in an attempt to free herself from the control of her assailant.

She blinked, shocked into submission by a sudden spank.

A well-built woman of about forty-something years old. Marion rushed forward and hugged her, apparently oblivious to the muck and filth she had consequently managed to spread on the apron Mam was wearing. Dark puddles formed on the light green carpet, and these puddles became small and unsightly lochs as Marion squelched around the room in her worn-out shoes.

"Marion, do you see what you're doing to my floor?"

The girl visibly cowered, surveying the living room carpet as Mam had requested she do. She kept her eyes lowered and her head down. "I'm sorry, Mam. I really am sorry."

"You're not going out in the evenings again unless I come with you, young lady."

Marion nodded meekly.

"And then I saw you with old Sam! You can't go mixing with tramps. You're an intention-seeking little brat! Just because I've been busy with Billy and Brian you saw fit to steal - yes, steal! - from your own Mam, and to run away and talk to tramps while my nice tea got burnt. Do you understand what you've done, Marion?"

Marion bit her lip, "Yes, Mam."

"And you screamed when I came to get you. Don't get me wrong now, girl - I feel as sorry for that old man as anyone. Goodness, his own daughter turning on him like that...him having worked hard all his life down the pit to support her after his wife - good woman, Mary was - died, but it won't do. It won't do, do you hear me? Do you HEAR ME?"

Marion whispered in return, "Aye."

"Aye, so you get cleaning. Right this minute, mind!"

Thump! A broom was rudely thrust into Marion's arms. Her Mam stomped out of the room to check on her wee brothers, leaving her daughter to contemplate her latest horrendous sins alone.

The girl wandered over to the window absent-mindedly. She traced the slow progress of one raindrop outside with her finger, and hopefully gazed out, searching for a glimpse of her old man. She knew her old man was out there in the wet and wind, and she wanted to apologise to him. He was a nice old man, and she was a bad, bad girl. She wanted to tell him that she couldn't see him anymore, but she couldn't see him again to tell him she couldn't see him anymore.