Runaway Bribe

I had made the decision to run away from home. At the age of 7 it is a difficult decision to make. There are many issues to consider. Towards the far end of the list was where to go, where to live, what to do for money, how to get a job. At the forefront of the list was who would put out my clothes, get me breakfast, tie my shoelaces and wash my face. The practicalites of running away escaped me because I was in a very, very bad mood and I was determined to punish my parents for not letting me get my own way.

It all happened on a bright and warm summers evening but still during school term. Any schooling beyond, say June, I considered to be a waste of time. The weather was too good to be confined to a classroom and anyway, with the long holidays approaching everything was winding down and with no urgency or commitment. I would rush home at the end of school, or rather walk across the playing field and through the gate in the back fence of our house. There was that advantage of living next to the school, just that one. My Mother would have a drink and biscuit ready. A tall, narrow faded red plastic tupperware beaker close to full with orange squash and a digestive. Delicious.

Then out to play. We lived in a cul de sac, on a gentle slope and with a nice wide pavement which swept  the corners and curves formed around the grassy verges and the driveways to the neighbouring houses. At exactly 4pm in any good weather, be it the depths of winter or high summer it was as though the Pied Piper had struck up a tune. Out of the houses there poured and tumbled children, toddlers with older brothers and sisters, independent under 5's, boys of ages 6 to 8 dressed as cowboys or spacemen, girls of the same age range as ballerinas or nurses. Political correctness and equal opportunitues had not yet been invented. Of course if it were a friday then Westgarth Gardens would be again deserted at 5 minutes to 5pm as it was time for Crackerjack on the TV.

After some time coursing and rampaging about it would be time for tea. Fish fingers, chips and peas were a favourite with lashings of tomato ketchup followed or accompanied by butterscotch flavour Angel Delight.

On that particular day of my decision to run away from home all had been going quite well. Play was good, Tea was good. The evening paper had arrived and I scoured the TV listings for anything interesting to watch. In those days there were only 3 channels and that had swelled by 30% with ITV beginning to broadcast. Of course still only black and white available. At 7pm there was a Western to be shown. I really wanted to watch that even though it was after the parentally imposed watershed for a school night. A trade off was necessary to oil the wheels of parental decision making. I practised the script in my head of ' If I am washed and in pyjamas and otherwise ready for bed can I stay up late and watch a really good programme?'. Again in my head the answer would undoubtedly and resoundingly be 'Yes'.

It was NO. I was a bit knocked back by this. Initial stunned silence was followed by a whining and blubbering, then a gentle kicking out at the legs of the kitchen table. I could feel the colour rising in my face and the salty sting of genuine tears (very discernible from the false crocodile type). Any appeal to my parents was resolutely repelled. Something was said, Mother appealed to Father with "Donald, put your foot down", another thing thrown and the door slammed as I ran upstairs to pack up my belongings.

Such a dramatic chain of events cannot help but draw attention and my siblings gleefully followed me to see what would happen next. At age 7 I did not have a lot of possessions. Action Man and outfits , Corgi and Matchbox toy cars, a few Ladybird Books and enough clothes to populate three shallow drawers and a cupboard in a small dresser that my Grandfather had made. Over the blur of time I am not not sure if I found a bag or in fact wrapped up my things in a large square cloth and tied it to a long stick to be carried over my shoulder. The confusing issue is that I did take part in a fancy dress competiton as Dick Whittington around that time with my younger sister as the leotard and face painted whiskered cat. Anyway, I announced my departure and left the front door wide open in extra defiance.

My siblings trailed after me, either to wish me well or just see me off the premises. At the driveway gates I had to walk through a small crowd of children. My mumbled reason for carrying a stick with bulging hankerchief excited considerable interest and by the first lampost up the street I had quite a following.

In the background I could hear sounds from the laying down of wooden stilts, the resting of bikes in hedges, the careless fall to the path of a scooter, a silence where there had been the 'whip, whack' sound of a long skipping rope, the bounce and roll of an abandoned football. Even the intricacies of cats cradles, passed between the grubby hands of countless youngsters, ceased. The gathering would soon attract the attention of the Authorities under the Civil Unrest Legislation. Every child in the entourage began to ask the same questions of me, " What yer doin?", "where ya goin?", "Can I have yer bike if you don't want it?" and so on.

My anger and outrage, that caused me to leave home, was rapidly turning into exhaustion and not a little embarassment with all the attention. Concerned parents, having noticed from lounge windows the nearly-riotous assembly in the street, could be heard calling in their children and the tail end of the crowd was being picked off one by one in this way.

In a smart about turn I almost skittled away those following closest and went back home. I had managed to leave home by a distance of about five house driveways up the street. I felt that would make enough of a statement of intent to my parents who would not now have any doubts about the serious nature of their behaviour.

As I entered the kitchen my parents looked up with that all-knowing expression that I later mastered myself with my own young children. If I remember correctly I did get to watch a bit of that Western when washed and in pyjamas but it was rubbish and I began to wonder what all the fuss had been about.

 Bedtime.