The Lav

It was around tea time in autumn and the nights were already drawing in, at the bottom of garden belonging to the terrace property, like all the others in this urban neighbourhood, was an outside privy that dated from after the Great War. You went down a short path with mud on each side and in front was the WC or loo. It was like a little garden shed you find in allotments with identical red clay roof tiles as the house on top, some used it as thus, putting forks and spades in it. She had given him his toast and sardines which he didn’t really care for, and he knew from plenty of experience not to ever complain. “Davy, poppet I have given you some milk in a bottle, a cheese sandwich, an apple. Keep quiet.” She kissed him. She was changed it seemed ready for bedtime. He could smell the perfume. It was quite overwhelming. “Well come on then, off with you.” She put on a dressing gown and took him to the privy. “Be a good boy and you’ll get that train you always wanted.” She kissed him again and he entered the other world with which he was all too familiar. A wooden cistern. Rusty chain with porcelain handle. Cobwebs. Smell of dankness. As he heard the backdoor closing he began making his preparations for the night. He hoped it would not be too long. It was 1938 and he was seven years old. He drew the small curtain and lit the candles. His mother had taught him how to take care with matches and candles. This had been going on since he was five years old. Some of his mother’s gentlemen callers left presents for her, including comics for her boy who was “at her sister’s place”. He had a stack of comics in the privy dating back to the very first edition that year. He would go over and over the same comic and try to imagine what it would be like if he were a Lord Snooty or another character. There were also some old newspapers and film magazines covered with webs that he flicked through. Not once did he question what was going on, it was a routine for him. There was however an occasion when one of Mum’s gentlemen friends came outside, worse for wear and wanted to use the lav in a hurry. He managed to open the door with drunken brute force, nearly taking the door off the hinge and destroying the lock in the process, and of course frightened poor Davy out of his wits. The man was halfway taking out his thingy when he saw Davy and got a fright too. “Here what’s this lark then?” sprawled out his mouth.  His mother rushed out in her kimono and dragged the errant gentleman caller back into the house. “You didn’t tell me the boy was here – it’s not right. It’s not right on him.” Needless to say that particular gentleman friend did not call around again. Sometimes he would fall asleep, it was inevitable, but never with the candle still aflame. He always had presence of mind to blow it out. There was a gap in his memory. When he slept he dreamt of the man who was called Da Da. His mother told him that Da Da was not particularly nice. The man Da Da was quite large and hirsute.  He remembered something about the two having a terrible row, and a leather belt was taken off. They had a fight. It happened many times. He learnt many bad words which he taught other children. “Bitch”  “Fuck” and many others he heard. They were the dirty words which he traded at the playground in the exchange of daily punches and pinches. It was a tough school. Tougher when the other children called him the son of a whore or prossy. They would tease him in the alley as he went home. It was the older boys who made lewd gestures with their circled finger and thumb. How was he to know? All of this was scrambled in his dreams. There was a knock on the door. “Davy, Davy come on.” He wiped his eyes like a hamster waking from hibernation and opened the door. His mother smelt of drink, cigarettes and something else. “Come on now poppet you have to sleep. School tomorrow. Look here some more comics for you.” He smiled as he went to wash, taking the comics with him as got ready to sleep again. Before he drifted into deep sleep, she knelt over him and kissed him. There were occasions when he felt her form enveloped around him. She made him feel safe. Whatever you might say about his mother, he loved her. One morning she told him that they were going on a trip. They were going to the sea. It was the best day of his life so far. Prior to this his world had been very tiny. It included the immediate neighbourhood, the factory, a green grocer’s, a haberdashery, a baker’s, a butcher’s, a café, and the school. They did not go to church, but he sang hymns every day. His mother did not bother with prayers. Indeed he had got through his entire seven years and nine months without praying. At school there had been sermons. Hell he was told was not a very pleasant place. “Look at this Davy, we are going here. It’s called Eastbourne.” He looked at the proffered brochure. They were to go by train. Imagine that a real train! She got him some new shorts and a white shirt. “Let me look at you. Come here Davy.” She gave him a lovely hug and kissed his face all over. His mother was twenty six, five foot four, with a dimple on one cheek. “Strange how angels only kissed me on one side” said his mother. That’s what his gran told her. He had never met them: his gran and grandad. They were both deceased. Her eyes were green and she had burnt blonde hair that was of medium length and curly, as was the style. Her nose was slightly retroussé. Her mouth was wide. Her teeth were stained with nicotine. She smoked far too much. There were coughing bouts. Her skin was however, despite the fags and booze was miraculously still fresh, and her breasts supple. In a word, she was pretty, still. Davy had many of the same features. His eyes however were hazel, he had blondish hair that went curly, the same nose, and a mouth that was not so wide. His teeth were whiter. He looked off colour. As he would leading the life he did. They enquired about the boy, “looks under the weather”, “No just needs sunshine”. “Needs vitamins that’s what he does.” Despite the rain they had earlier in the month, Eastbourne was as sunny as the Mediterranean. The brilliance blinded Davy and his mother pulled down her hat. She was doing her best to look good. Maybe she had pretensions like all the factory girls did of being a film star or model. While Eastbourne was no Hollywood or San Tropez, it had its romance. There were so many people. There was the sea. For someone who had never seen the sea. It was gobsmacking. He could see the pier and his heart missed a beat. Donkeys! Band music. Ships off the coast. There were expensive cars parked outside ever so posh hotels. He couldn’t keep his head still. People on the beach were paddling and swimming. It was incredible. His mother held his hand tight. She was getting attention, from unacceptable quarters mind you. Not your toffs more like the toughs. Toffs and toughs was her popular dichotomy. They were asked if they wanted their photograph taken. Of course she did. “You look gorgeous” the photographer called Sid said. The photograph took pride of place on the mantelpiece. They even had fish and chips in newspapers which was again so memorable. He never asked how this dream came about. But apparently according to Kate one of the factory girls it was a well to do gentleman friend. It might have been the chocolate factory owner’s son. It wasn’t true. She had saved up. Before they left, he got a ride on a donkey! He was smiling all the way back on the train which issued plumes of thick smoky steam. He would have a lot to say in the playground.  It was something he would talk about much later well into his eighties. Of course with hindsight he knew what his mother had been doing. “Making do.” That’s what she would have said. While everyone seemed happy at Eastbourne, it was clear that something was happening in the wider world. Everywhere posters were appearing with warnings. There were odd constructions. They were preparing for something. They were digging holes. “There is going to be war.” The factories were being altered for other purposes, mainly munitions. By September the phony war was over and it was real war. Davy once again found himself on a train. His mother kissed him with a flood of tears in her eyes. She never cried, but she did then. Alongside her was a gentleman friend already in uniform. “You be a brave chappie for your Mum, eh laddie.”  It was the last time he was to see his mother. The factory in which she worked received a direct hit. She had blood streaming down from her face, her scarf was soaked,  shards of glass had peppered her body, around her were fires, bodies, and she could not hear anything, dazed she felt her way through the smoke and smouldering wreckage, above was the sky. There were firemen coming now. She was thinking only of Davy. Her Davy. What had she done? Was it revenge against Da Da? Was it pleasure? Poor Davy. Poor Davy. He even had his father’s name in the middle name.  She remembered how it was when he was born after a heavy labour, she bit her tongue throughout afraid to curse. Her man, Davy’s Da Da was an older man. Married. He would drop by. But there was nothing he would do for the bairn. He had his own. She screamed at him. She had not known he was married. Such a silly goose. She side stepped the remains of one of the girls. “Over here ducky.” She couldn’t hear him. Her ears. He motioned to her. It was a fireman. There were stretchers with bodies some barely alive. In a daze she started to look for Davy. “Davy!” “Davy!” Then another three bombs whistled down. It is funny how the war affects people. Some get over it. But for many it created habits and routines. He was adopted by the farming family. He was lucky. But a strange boy. At night he would creep away and go to a shed and stay there. Many a night they found him. They couldn’t understand what was going on. Because Davy had a large bedroom to himself. A policeman had told them about his mother’s death. His reaction was strange. He talked to himself. He talked of Eastbourne. Of the Pier. They called the doctor and he told the Jones that it was shock. The shock did not however go away. He eventually took over the farm. You would see him with his collie. There goes Davy. Married with two daughters. It was a happy life, yet there were those times, and his wife knew them, when he went into a sulk of sorts. Others call it depression. He would lock himself in a room. At first when he did this, Marjorie didn’t understand. But as years went by, his past unravelled like opening of a present. By the time they were in their fifties, the truth had come out. This sharing helped. Of course it was his habit. But loving and remembering a mother was more than a habit.