Of A World That Doesn't Care

OF A WORLD THAT DOESN’T CARE

Bernard Morris

© 2014 Bernard Morris

First Edition

The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrievable system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

I am the one in ten

A number on a list

I am the one in ten

Even though I don’t exist

Nobody knows me

Even though I’m always there

A statistic, a reminder

Of a world that doesn’t care

UB40

The ringing of the alarm clock assimilated into his dream, dragging him into the real world. Rickie Stone awoke to find his younger brother standing by the side of the bed, alarm clock in his hand. The alarm rang painfully in Rickie’s ear.

Knock it off, bruv.

Rickie pulled the blankets up over his head as if attempting to suffocate himself. Kurt, in his blue pyjamas, stood there allowing the ringing to continue.

Knock it off I said.

Kurt turned the alarm off.

Aren’t you getting up then, Rickie?

There was no answer from Rickie. He lay comfortably under the blankets, curled up, hands between his legs. Kurt looked down at the breathing hunch of blankets on the single bed.

Rickie, it’s just gone 8 o’clock.

What do you want me to do about it?

You’ll be late if you don’t get up.

I’ll get up in a minute.

Steven’s already up.

Do you want me to give him a medal?

It’s nearly five past.

I’ll get up in a minute.

Rickie snuggled up, the springs squeaking. Kurt put the clock down. He smiled, scratched his chest, grabbed the blankets and stripped the bed. He ran out of the room, laughing all the way down the stairs, Rickie frantically pulling the blankets back on to the bed.

You little twat!

Under the blankets Rickie snuggled up again, hands squeezed tightly between his thighs. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep only to be awoken by the stamping off his mother’s feet as she climbed the stairs. Rickie waited for it, that sound. When mother reached the eleventh stair the eerie creak sent a shiver down Rickie’s spine. That creaking step, it was like a coffin lid rising. Rickie imagined the creaking step giving way, dragging mother into a bottomless pit. He laughed to himself as he pictured mother tumbling down into the dark unknown of the cellars at Number 14, Birchwood Road.

Mother, having survived the eleventh step, reached the top landing. She stood at the opened door, a cigarette poised at an angle near her mouth, one elbow resting on the doorknob. Amongst nicotine and tar she gave a spluttering cough.

Come on. Up you get. You’re not staying in bed all day again.

Just give me five more minutes.

I’ll give you a clip round the ear-hole. Come on. Get up. No wonder the country’s in the state it’s in when there’s layabouts like you who just want to stay in bed all day.

It’s Thatcher’s fault. Put her on the guillotine, that’s what I say.

Well I can’t argue with that, son. But you’re still a lazy bugger. Now get up.

Mother fingered her hair and took a drag of her cigarette.

Three months to go and you can’t make an effort to get up. It’s not going to help you get a job, you know. Lying on your backside all day when you should be at school learning.

Rickie peeped from behind the blankets.

Oh mother, you do look nice in those curlers.

It’s not a question of looking nice, is it? I’m a bloody scrubber, that’s all I am. A bloody scrubber. Since your father was made redundant I’ve had to work my tits off and still got sod all to show for it. Twelve months he’s been out of work.

"Yeah I know. I do live here, you know."

You won’t for much longer if you don’t shape yourself.

I’m not Barbapapa.

"I’m not having you signing on when you leave school. You’re going to make something of your life. So come on and get up. I don’t want any more letters from your headmaster. I’ve had two already."

Does my dad know?

Eh?

I’ll get up in a minute. I’m just stretching my legs.

I’ll stretch your head if you try my patience any longer, I’m warning you.

Yeah and I’ll report you to social services.

Come on. Get up before I go to work.

Mother took another drag. Rickie lay there looking at the dreamy whirls of smoke swirling in the beam of morning sunlight coming through the curtain gap.

I want you in school, lad. I want you to leave that school with something to show on paper. You’ve got seven o levels to take and there’s no time to waste. Now get up.

Having o levels doesn’t guarantee you a job, mum. It’s not as if there’s hundreds of jobs round the corner.

You won’t get a job staying in bed, will you?

Oh I don’t know. I’ve got the body for it.

Mother went to drag the blankets but Rickie quickly pulled them up to his chin and held them tightly.

Hold on, mother.

Up, I said.

I’ve got nothing on under here. I’m not your little boy no more. I have my dignity.

Mother looked at the clock. It was seven minutes past eight. She had just twenty minutes to get to work. She was a cleaner at The White Hart just round the corner.

Rickie waited for her to leave the room.

She didn’t move. She took two more puffs of her cigarette, coughing between each puff.

Bloody fags. They’ll be the death of me yet.

Is that why you smoke ‘em? Hoping for an early death, are you?

Mother looked at the clock again.

Look at the time. I’ll have to go less I’ll be late for work. Your father’s downstairs, Rickie, so you’d better get up. He’ll be shouting you if you don’t make an effort and shift yourself.

I’ll get up if you go. I’m not getting up with you standing there, am I?

Ok. Well you just make sure you get up. Bye, love.

She kissed him on the cheek.

Get off me!

Rickie wiped his cheek.

Mother went downstairs.

Rickie stretched himself out, his bare feet sticking out from under the blankets. He could just see the early morning sun through the slight gap in the curtain. It was spring and the air outside was fresh.

This summer 16-year-old Rickie was going to leave school. He attended Greenstone Comprehensive and would be officially leaving in three months time. He was in the same boat as the vast majority of school leavers: he would leave school this summer not to get a job in an office or to join an apprentice, but to join the ever-lengthening dole queue.

The situation was not only confined to the North West; it was the same throughout the country. There were simply insufficient jobs and the school leavers would suffer drastically. The outlook was grim and in the coming months most of the leavers would be thrown out and dumped on to the scrapheap of unemployment.

Ahead of him Rickie had seven o levels to take and knew he would fail them all. And he couldn’t care less. As far as school was concerned, he had adopted a couldn’t-give-a-monkeys attitude for he had known school leavers with ten o levels to their name unable to find work.

That was the tragic and distressing situation. It was 1980 and there were no jobs. Most of the kids had only a future of social security benefits. Most would be compelled to face the emptiness of unemployment. Most would be doomed to hang around street corners kicking cans of coke down the pavements out of pure boredom and frustration and feelings of rejection. Most would be constrained to walking the streets before their working lives had even begun. Some would be led to crime.

The gloomy outlook inside Rickie’s head was interrupted by his father’s voice.

Rickie?

Right, dad. I’m just getting up.

Well hurry up about it. I’ve had two letters from your headmaster as it is. I don’t want another one.

What? You’ve had two as well? That’s a coincidence. So’s my mum.

Rickie ran his hands through his wild mop of hair and yawned the last remnants of sleepiness out of his body. In a lethargic manner he climbed out of bed. Rejuvenated and refreshed by a quick shower he dressed and went downstairs, joining his two brothers at the kitchen table.

12-year-old Kurt was getting on well at school. According to his report, he had a promising future ahead of him. Kurt is a very mature pupil and seems to be doing well in all subjects. He has undoubted ability for science and mathematics and should do well in the future exams. Steven was a year younger. Like Kurt he seemed to have settled well in his new big school. The young brothers were coping well at school, a place seemingly of futility due to the present job situation.

Rickie plopped himself between his two brothers and filled his bowl with Rice Crispies, smothering the cereal with sugar until they resembled tiny snow-covered hills. Kurt passed him the milk and when it was poured over the cereal the snap, crackle and pop was heard.

In his suit and tie, father poured himself a glass of water at the sink and drank it in one gulp, his large Adam’s apple moving up and down.

Rickie swallowed a mouthful of rice and looked up at his father.

Job Centre?

Where else?

Fiver you don’t find anything.

I probably won’t but you never know. Fingers crossed. It’s always better to be optimistic.

As opposed to realistic, you mean? There’s no work out there, dad. As long as you like kidding yourself.

I’ll have to go, boys. It’s twenty past eight. A steady walk to town and I’ll be there before nine.

Why don’t you wait for fifteen minutes? There’s a bus at twenty to nine.

I can’t afford to pay twenty four pence every time I go to the Labour Exchange. Talk sense, lad. And anyway, walking’s good for you. Keeps you fit. Right, I’ll see you all later. Bye.

Before closing the front door he stopped and shouted across through to the kitchen.

Don’t stay off school again, Rickie.

I won’t, dad.

The front door shut.

Kurt licked the sugared milk from his lips.

"So you’re actually going