dribbled. Annie dribbling she could cope with. A grown man dribbling was something else. It made her feel a bit queasy.
Marcie rolled her eyes in exasperation. She wasn’t going to get away with it. Might as well stop long enough to put him off. She brought the pushchair to a standstill.
‘What’s that I shouldn’t be doing?’ she asked, eyeingthe scruffy young man as though she might clip him around the ear.
Well used to admonishments, Garth turned sheepish.
‘You was talking to yerself,’ he said in that same slow tone. ‘Shouldn’t do that, you shouldn’t. Ma don’t like it. My Ma says people think you’re mad if you talk to yerself.’
Marcie was irritated. ‘Do I look mad, Garth? Do I look scruffy and speak in a stupid slow voice and follow people around?’
Her voice petered out. A strange glazed look came to Garth’s eyes. It was as though he had heard all this before and was now retreating to some secret place deep inside. The fingers of one hand intertwined with the other in nervous anticipation. People treated Garth cruelly just because he had the mind of a child.
In Marcie’s opinion Garth was a person to be pitied and that was how she felt, plus some guilt on behalf of herself. The tall gangly lad had watery blue eyes and a nose that seemed continuously to be running. He was supposedly the product of a wartime liaison with a Polish aviator, who had taken off when he’d found out about Edith Davies’s pregnancy. On top of that misfortune, poor Edith had gone through a difficult birth – or at least so ran the tale.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be thought mad, Garth. I’ll bear that in mind in future.’
When Garth smiled his teeth flashed like a row of lopsided tombstones. He began giggling inanely and only stopped when he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Once the snot was wiped away, he recommenced giggling.
Marcie began heading for home. Just as she’d feared, he began to follow her.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his head held to one side, almost as though he were trying to rub his ear against his shoulder.
‘Are you following me, Garth?’
Again he asked her where she was going.
‘Home.’
‘To your mother and your father?’
She shook her head. ‘To my grandmother. You know her, don’t you? Her name’s Auntie Rosa. She comes to your mother for a cup of tea now and again.’
His giggling stopped abruptly. ‘Auntie Rosa and the man.’
‘Auntie Rosa.’ She presumed the man was either a figment of his imagination or his mother’s latest man friend. Edith Davies took in lodgers now and again – difficult seeing as she only had one bedroom and a box room. Garth slept in the box room. His mother took up one half of the double bed in the other.
Garth rambled on, so Marcie didn’t pay too much attention as he went on to describe the man and what he had done or said.
‘My mother’s got a red dress, one like your mother’s.’
‘I don’t think so, Garth,’ she muttered, her mouth set in a straight line. Why had he mentioned her mother? He couldn’t possibly remember her and certainly not a red dress.
‘I saw her in it.’
‘No, Garth! You did not!’
She instantly regretted being snappish, but Garth had unnerved her. For the second time in a few days someone had mentioned her mother. For ages there’d been no mention and now there’d been two. Coincidence or something more? Coincidence, she decided. What else could it be?
People avoided Garth. He was one of life’s cast-offs, rejected from the moment he was born. His mother paid too much attention to her lodgers and not enough to her son. Poor Garth. There were moth holes in his pullover and the cuffs of his shirtsleeves flapped around his hands. His trousers were grey and shapeless and there was a line of grease around his shirt collar. He ponged a bit. Poor Garth had been named after a strong man in a comic strip, but didn’t – in fact, couldn’t – live up to his namesake.
Jabbering and
Marcie rolled her eyes in exasperation. She wasn’t going to get away with it. Might as well stop long enough to put him off. She brought the pushchair to a standstill.
‘What’s that I shouldn’t be doing?’ she asked, eyeingthe scruffy young man as though she might clip him around the ear.
Well used to admonishments, Garth turned sheepish.
‘You was talking to yerself,’ he said in that same slow tone. ‘Shouldn’t do that, you shouldn’t. Ma don’t like it. My Ma says people think you’re mad if you talk to yerself.’
Marcie was irritated. ‘Do I look mad, Garth? Do I look scruffy and speak in a stupid slow voice and follow people around?’
Her voice petered out. A strange glazed look came to Garth’s eyes. It was as though he had heard all this before and was now retreating to some secret place deep inside. The fingers of one hand intertwined with the other in nervous anticipation. People treated Garth cruelly just because he had the mind of a child.
In Marcie’s opinion Garth was a person to be pitied and that was how she felt, plus some guilt on behalf of herself. The tall gangly lad had watery blue eyes and a nose that seemed continuously to be running. He was supposedly the product of a wartime liaison with a Polish aviator, who had taken off when he’d found out about Edith Davies’s pregnancy. On top of that misfortune, poor Edith had gone through a difficult birth – or at least so ran the tale.
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to be thought mad, Garth. I’ll bear that in mind in future.’
When Garth smiled his teeth flashed like a row of lopsided tombstones. He began giggling inanely and only stopped when he wiped his nose on his sleeve. Once the snot was wiped away, he recommenced giggling.
Marcie began heading for home. Just as she’d feared, he began to follow her.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked, his head held to one side, almost as though he were trying to rub his ear against his shoulder.
‘Are you following me, Garth?’
Again he asked her where she was going.
‘Home.’
‘To your mother and your father?’
She shook her head. ‘To my grandmother. You know her, don’t you? Her name’s Auntie Rosa. She comes to your mother for a cup of tea now and again.’
His giggling stopped abruptly. ‘Auntie Rosa and the man.’
‘Auntie Rosa.’ She presumed the man was either a figment of his imagination or his mother’s latest man friend. Edith Davies took in lodgers now and again – difficult seeing as she only had one bedroom and a box room. Garth slept in the box room. His mother took up one half of the double bed in the other.
Garth rambled on, so Marcie didn’t pay too much attention as he went on to describe the man and what he had done or said.
‘My mother’s got a red dress, one like your mother’s.’
‘I don’t think so, Garth,’ she muttered, her mouth set in a straight line. Why had he mentioned her mother? He couldn’t possibly remember her and certainly not a red dress.
‘I saw her in it.’
‘No, Garth! You did not!’
She instantly regretted being snappish, but Garth had unnerved her. For the second time in a few days someone had mentioned her mother. For ages there’d been no mention and now there’d been two. Coincidence or something more? Coincidence, she decided. What else could it be?
People avoided Garth. He was one of life’s cast-offs, rejected from the moment he was born. His mother paid too much attention to her lodgers and not enough to her son. Poor Garth. There were moth holes in his pullover and the cuffs of his shirtsleeves flapped around his hands. His trousers were grey and shapeless and there was a line of grease around his shirt collar. He ponged a bit. Poor Garth had been named after a strong man in a comic strip, but didn’t – in fact, couldn’t – live up to his namesake.
Jabbering and
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