Street Kid (23 page)

Life for me became all about survival: the constant and exhausting search for scraps of food and small change, or for public washrooms to keep myself and my clothes clean. It took every ounce of energy and resourcefulness I could muster to keep going. I had to be constantly on the alert, and there was hardly a moment when adrenalin wasn’t coursing through my body.

Only when I lay on the floor of the shed at night, when loneliness clung to my back like a giant black bat in the darkness, did I ever think of anything other than how to survive the next moment, the next hour, the next day. I remembered, back in England, how I used to look at the stars and dream that they were my family, guarding me protectively from afar. But in the shed, my eyes couldn’t penetrate the blackness and I felt very alone.

If my mind ever wandered to my mother and sisters, I’d quickly think of something else. I didn’t dare to hope or dream. If I had, it would only have been followed by a gut-wrenching ache of disappointment, which I didn’t feel I could bear. I needed to be strong and focused to survive. Yearning for a family, or dreaming of a better life, made me weaker, which I couldn’t afford to be.

As for getting through the school day in one piece and keeping up with my studies, it was nothing short of a miracle that none of the teachers seemed to notice what was going on. But in South Africa in the 1950s, people would never have believed that a white kid could
be living rough. Such a thing was unheard of. Impossible.

I quickly solved the problem of washing my school uniform. I’d realized that the tap in the yard wasn’t going to be any good to me as I was so terrified of leaving splash-marks on the earth; nor was there anywhere clean and flat to lay out my dress. I knew it wouldn’t look passable for more than a couple of days at most, so I decided to head down to Yeoville’s open-air swimming pool to use the showers there. It worked a treat. Although there wasn’t any soap, I did nearly as good a job on my dress as I’d managed in our room at the Allendene. My only problem was the lack of an iron.

I took my wet clothes outside and sat down beside the pool. There were lots of kids milling around who’d spread their towels on the ground so no one noticed my dress and knickers, stretched out flat in the sun to dry. I knew that without an iron, my dress would look more crumpled than before, but I hoped I’d get through the school drill in one piece. I folded it carefully, pressing down hard on the material, trying to make it looked like it had been pressed; but the sleeves looked a mess and I knew it probably wouldn’t pass.

As the days went by, I got increasingly bold and resourceful. Once I’d given up on my dad coming back, I ventured further into town. If I was going to have to use public toilets, then I decided I’d treat myself to the best as often as I could. And the Coliseum Bioscope’s ladies’ restroom was pure paradise. It was palatial, with a carpeted floor and sweetly scented little bars of soap on the basins (which quickly disappeared into my bag, along with a toilet roll). There were little bottles of perfume, which I used to dab on my wrists; and, whenever I had a spare penny,
I’d buy a pad from the sanitary towel dispenser. No one used the room while the film was showing, so I had a bit of privacy to wash.

Of course, you couldn’t just step off the street and use the toilets at the Coliseum, and getting in there took a bit of nerve. The first time I gave it a go, in my second week of living rough, I was feeling particularly tired and fed up. I was walking along the street listlessly, knowing I had hours to kill before bedtime, when I passed a very grand-looking cinema. Outside it was a poster advertising a Norman Wisdom film,
One Good Turn.
I stood there for a few minutes, looking at the poster and wondering what the film would be about, before deciding I just had to find a way of getting in.

Half way through the first showing of the afternoon I approached the doorman and looked innocently up at him.

‘I’m really sorry but I came out at the interval and I’ve left my ticket inside.’

The man looked back at me sternly. ‘You know you can’t get back in without a pass-out.’

I didn’t budge and continued looking up at him, sensing he would cave in eventually, after he’d got bored of doing his ‘big official’ act.

‘Please, my big brother’s inside and he’ll be worried about me.’

The doorman gave in at that, moving his body aside to let me past. ‘Just this once, then. But I don’t want to catch you doing it again.’

Before going in to see the film, I went and checked out the ladies’ room. Later, freshly scrubbed and smelling of roses and sitting back in my plush velvet seat under the twinkling stars of the imitation sky ceiling, I cried my eyes out. Norman Wisdom was playing a loveless child, like me,
raised in an orphanage and then staying on as an adult to help the kids out of all sorts of scrapes. I couldn’t get enough of the film and watched it over again, in tears the whole time.

Once the school term ended, I was relieved that I could pack away my uniform and not to have to pretend any more that everything was normal. But, as the long days became weeks, I felt loneliness settle on me like a lead weight. I had never spoken much, finding silence safer; but now, if anyone asked me anything, I felt barely able to find my voice and the words, when they came, sounded strange to my ears.

I passed some of my time in the library or at the record shop, which was just down the street from the bottle store. It was particularly handy to dive in there when it was raining, and it was a good place to go first thing in the morning. It was a small shop with a counter opposite the door, in front of which were boxes of 78 rpm records, which I’d leaf through before going to sit on one of the chairs against the wall, waiting my turn for the headphones. We were allowed to listen to three songs.

Sitting on a stool in the booth at the record shop with my eyes closed, listening to a soothing classical symphony or one of Pat Boone’s songs, was one of the few times I found I could relax at all. But the feeling was always very short-lived and, as soon as I’d had my turn, one of the restless teenagers waiting in line would move in to take my place, clutching the latest Elvis Presley record.

That summer of 1957, everyone was mad about Elvis the Pelvis, but I preferred the clean-cut, boy-next-door type. Pat Boone was my favourite singer and, when I managed to catch one of his films at the Bioscope, I always
found myself wondering whether those carefree high-school days, summer beach holidays and families with big white smiles really existed in real life. I’d certainly never seen people being so nice to each other.
Maybe people in America are actually like that,
I thought to myself.

As it was the school holidays, I used to see a few of the girls from my school in the record shop. They’d always come in with a friend and make an awful lot of noise, giggling and flouncing about in their circular skirts and petticoats. The booth had two sets of headphones so that they could listen to a song at the same time, and they’d sit there, jiggling their legs on their stools, mouthing the words at each other.

I was always ashamed to be seen handing back my three records and never actually buying one. It felt embarrassing, week after week, to have to say the same thing when the shop assistant asked, ‘Do you want it?’. Each time I would reply, ‘No, no thanks, it’s not what I wanted. I’ll come back later and listen to another one.’

All through that long hot summer, without my school snack to sustain me, hunger became a ravening wild dog, always at my heels, nipping and growling. What was especially difficult for me was that food was everywhere in Hillbrow and there was no way I could put it out of my mind. In restaurants and street-side cafés; in the mouths of people chewing; or advertised on billboards – everywhere it beckoned to me. Once, while I was walking under some scaffolding where builders were working on a shop refurbishment, I thought I smelled freshly baked bread. In my head I knew it couldn’t be and that it must be some sort of varnish the builders were using, but I found I couldn’t walk on and had to stand there, rooted to the spot.

Soon I was up to the tricks I’d learned as a toddler combing the bins in Patricroft. I tried looking through the rubbish behind Woolworths and OK Bazaars, but didn’t find anything to eat, only boxes and packaging. I discovered the best source of pickings was behind the greengrocer’s, where I usually found a few pieces of rotten fruit, carrot tops and the outside leaves of cabbage greens. They were very tough to chew, but I’d gone beyond caring.

Eventually, I got so hungry that I had to pluck up the courage to steal food from a restaurant, although it was a couple more weeks before I dared to take the tip as well. Before I actually made my move, I’d been hanging around, watching and planning, for days. I’d worked out that the open-fronted restaurants along the main streets of Hillbrow would be the safest to grab food from. My best bet, I reckoned, was to wait until a large family were just getting up to go: if there were plenty of kids in the party, then there was sure to be leftovers.

That first Sunday, I hung around nervously outside the Bella Napoli for an hour or so, watching carefully and planning my move. There was a large and noisy family group seated at a table near the pavement. I waited until the moment when the women were starting to feel under their chairs for handbags and the men were getting up from the table to fetch their coats. Then I pounced.

I knew I had to make my move before the waiter came to clear the table – no more than a couple of minutes. During that time, I swiftly tipped bread rolls from their basket and scooped any leftovers from the plates into my carrier bag and darted out of the restaurant before you could count to five. None of the diners took any notice of me. I’m sure they thought that I was one of the Italian kids, helping out in the restaurant.

That first time, I was too nervous to steal the tip, but I soon got bolder. I became lightning-quick at reading a scene – the faces of the customers; when they were about to get up or turn round; when it was safe to swoop in; and the moment I must slip away. But I never let myself become complacent. All it would take, I knew, was one sloppy move and I’d be in big trouble. I was always aware that there might be a policeman about; and, however tempting, I was careful never to steal from the same restaurant twice in the same week.

That first afternoon, I didn’t stop to eat immediately but walked down the hill to Joubert Park, where I sat down on my favourite bench. Sometimes, I would sit for hours and watch the weaver birds busily building their huge nests, but today I wasn’t aware of anything but the food in my bag. I made myself a
boerewors
sausage and salad roll, which I ate ravenously, not even pausing to pick the bits of tomato and lettuce off my clothes. I longed for a second roll but knew I had to save the rest for the next couple of days, when pickings might be scarce.

Chapter Twenty

I
spent many hours in Joubert Park that summer. Without school, I found myself with interminably long days to fill. It wasn’t safe to stay in the yard, and I knew I’d get booted out of the record shop or library if I hung around too long. Often I’d take a book out in the morning and spend the whole of the afternoon reading it in the park, returning it before closing time.

My favourite spot was a bench near a giant chess board where the old men of Hillbrow used to gather to watch a game. The players would have to move enormous, child-sized pieces across the board, and I loved to watch their wrinkled, old faces as they paused to ponder their next move.

On the mornings I visited the park, I’d always see the same old woman in a frayed tartan coat and wellingtons walk over to the players and watch their game. She had an equally old-looking dog walking along creakily beside her.

Then, one day, she sat down on the bench beside me and started to talk. It had been weeks since anybody had spoken to me and she startled me at first. I’d begun to think I was invisible, and it was a strange feeling to be noticed.

‘You like watching the game too, don’t you lovey?’ she asked me. I nodded. ‘I don’t understand the rules, but it’s good to see the old boys playing.’

The old lady didn’t seem to mind that I wasn’t saying anything. Little by little, however, I relaxed enough to ask her a question.

‘What’s your dog called?’

‘My husband Soli gave her the name Bitsy, because he said, “She’s just bitsa this and bitsa that”.’ She let out a wheezy gale of laughter, which made her pause to catch her breath.

‘You know the name of my dog now, so I’d better tell you mine. It’s Mrs Ezra,’ she said. I noticed that her voice had quite a strong accent and that it sounded a bit like Mr Wolfe’s. ‘What’s your name, dearie?’

I told her and she said that it was a pretty name. Then she heaved herself off the bench with a sigh. ‘Well, I’d better be on my way or Soli will wonder what’s become of me. He’s poorly at the moment and I don’t like to leave him on his own for too long.’

The next morning in the park, I hoped that Mrs Ezra would come over and sit beside me again and was delighted when she did. This time, she told me all about her family in Durban.

‘I hoped you’d be here again today,’ she said with a twinkle. ‘So I brought you some photographs of my grandchildren to show you.’

She fished an envelope out of her bag. ‘Shuffle over, then, dearie.’ I moved my bottom along the bench until I was tucked in beside her. I wondered how she could possibly wear a wool coat in the summer; it felt hot even sitting up against it.

As if she’d read my mind, Mrs Ezra smiled and said,
‘Old bones. They get cold easily. Do you know, even in the summertime, Soli and I have our fire on most evenings.’

As Mrs Ezra showed me the photographs and told me the story of her family, I had that same feeling of comfort I’d experienced the previous day. It was as if her kindness was being wrapped about me like the softest blanket.

Afterwards, as she pulled herself up from the bench, she asked me if I might help her carry her bag of shopping up the hill to her apartment. I jumped up at once, feeling pleased that she’d asked me.