With no word whatsoever from Jennifer after a month, had to take realistic action regarding Mark. The uncertainty in his life beginning to show. Never mentioned his mother, never asked after her, used to her long absences. Taking him from one child minder to another getting on both our nerves, always a problem with these people. He had been very good, too good about the situation until the occasion I received a phone call from his latest minder to go there at once, finding the boy in despair in a complete breakdown, begged to be taken away from the Harlot of a woman and her thuggish children. There had never been any real time to assess exactly the home I sent the boy to, perhaps three or four nights a week, simply having to work, managing to take him with me, working Heathrow Airport weekends, when he would take more money than myself, generous punters impressed with his long blond ringlets hanging down to his shoulders. "Is it a boy or a girl driver?" they would say .... Some thinking I was his Grandfather, never took too kindly to that!
"Most difficult" as the Actress said to the Bishop ... as the strange man with the drooping moustache ... my Birthday in Bucharest ... was to remark when asked to explain his fantasy for Thai ladies ... another lifetime ahead.
No, there had to be a more realistic solution to Mark and the long, unsocial hours I worked.
There was this very tall, somewhat elegant lady, a daughter same age, same school round the corner as Mark. Would watch her on occasions, even wait to look as she came striding along the street, swinging her body, long coat, down to her ankles, ignoring the rest of us ... so many peasants.... liked a challenge, but looking rough. The upheaval, the uncertainty, had taken toll of me. No possible way of attracting her attention ... that she would deign to glance in my direction ... however, Mark and her daughter, Rebecca, both in the same class, certain some sort of opening could be found from that direction.
Morning at the school gates ... she smiled, said "Hello" to Mark, rowed myself in straight away, having attempted to put myself together, discard the wellies, the woolly hat, baggy trousers. Oh yes, a saddle tramp, a gypsy ... then I had come from Irish Gypsies somewhere down the line, my mother's side. No pretensions, formalities. Took to horse in Australia as if had been riding all my life, only previous experience of them being to help out the milkman on his clippoty-clop round the houses ... about ten years old. Instinctive in me, the so called "Low Life" .. being an outcast. Again, when in Bucharest, half a century later, home of the gypsy ... knew where I belonged. Fascinated by their vitality, their willingness to ignore Society, to dance in the street at the least provocation, even in minus five degrees of frost, the thought there may be a few bob in it. Cynthia had been disparaging about them, surprised at her hard attitude, more depth to her feeling than that of Hackney, the attitude here towards the blacks faded until part of the same scene, that I would not live anywhere else, regardless of all my sojourns in so many parts of this planet. Cynthia kept asking why I did not move to Bucharest? start a business ... the same interminable question. Always give the same answer. Probably finish up in prison anywhere else.
Hackney equals total anonymity, no one cares whether you live or die. A mutual position. Have lived in this flat for thirty years. Probably the visitors, other than invited females, I have had, could be counted on one hand.
"Would you like to bring Mark round to my daughter's birthday party?" Brenda asked in her somewhat high, educated voice. She smiled, half nervously, unsure of this strange, ragged man, obviously knowing that Jennifer on the missing, not that she ever took Mark round the school…. kids talk. Tried not to look at her backside as she hurried away along the street, head bent slightly forward, long skirt swishing about her. School bell having rung, children enclosed in their classrooms, morning suddenly silent.
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