Lane Boy - Chapter 1 - Like Moses in the Reeds

1961 Like Moses in the Reeds

The Bakers Van Part One

The old bakers van door slid open at 11.30 pm. An elfin like four year old stood in the steel door frame. Crumpled grey school shorts ballooned and hovered over stick legs. A Picasso boy. Scruffy white hair radiated around his head in a tortured halo, backlit by the streetlamp shining through the drivers seat window behind him. His face like a rabbit, coming out of its warren, anxious, but driven by a force beyond his own fear.  Survival. The cold outside air puffed into the vans musty belly. The crying toddler behind him, buried under a pile of pillows and blankets, had fallen silent at the tearing open of the door. The elf’s attention went back to his two year old brother Peter, who he had not been able to settle. 

Where were they? He looked at the house in front of him where they were parked. There were no lights on. He leaned out a little and looked at the houses each side. Same. Pitch black. Peter started to sob again. Alan leaned back into the bedding and patted him on the head, ‘Shhhh’. Peter stopped. 

Alan listened hard. He should be able to hear the party. That’s where they were. It would be okay. I’ll just go get Mum to help. 

He could hear the cars humming up on the main road not far away. In the distance a siren wailed. There were always sirens. A dog barked in a rotating beat up the street and then stopped. He could not hear any music or laughing. 

He turned back and crawled over to Peter who was distracted by the cold fresh night now invading their cosy little nest in the back of the van. 

“Wee,” Peter whined. 

“Okay, come on,” Alan took his hand and together they clambered down into the gutter. “Do it there,” he said pointing to the back wheel. The two boys stood side by side, doing it, like their dad showed them many times behind the cricket pavilion between schooners of beer. With a ceremony of shaking, the little men finished up their business and buttoned up.

“Go Mum?” Peter asked Alan as kindly as possible. 

Alan knew he should know, but he did not know where his Mum was. He was a smart boy, he knew that, and he also knew how to fix things. He could make games from stuff in the back yard and he knew how to handle a hammer. He could hit tacks squarely into a potato box without them bending, having spent many a sunny afternoon in the backyard working next to his dad. Stan would set up his oldest son with a little pile of black half inch upholstery tacks, a bit of old gimp trimming, the smallest upholstery hammer he had and a screw driver. Alan would watch very closely and follow along as his father ripped and levered old velvet covers off antique dining chairs, re-strung their webbing, freshened up their flock padding, and then draped brand new fabric across their seats. The gimp trimming was the last step, and Alan really liked this part as it covered up all the messy edges magically in one swoop. He would keep an eye on his dad’s jobs, and tried to be present for this last step as much as he could be to watch the magic transformation happen. It was the cherry on the top of the cake. 

Joy, his mother, worked with his dad on the more complex jobs where the covers had to be sewn and tailored into very special fitted shapes. Alan was not allowed on her big industrial sewing machine, but he didn’t mind. It was noisy and nasty. One day his mum came out to get help from his dad, holding her finger with a blood soaked hanky. The needle had gone straight through her fingernail and come out the other side, and she could not get it out, she was stuck to the machine, trapped by the needle. So she calmly unscrewed the needle contraption from the machine and came out to get his dad to use pliers to pull it out. Alan knew he could not do that, but he knew how to hammer the tacks in okay.

“Come on, lets go get her,” Alan said, desperate not to have Peter start crying again. “Where’s your shoes?”

It was nearly the end of summer. The days were still balmy but the nights were starting to bite with the change into Autumn. Alan scrambled around and found their jumpers. He helped Peter with his shoes, and pulled the home knit over his head. Peter was quiet and did what he was told. Alan had no idea what he was doing, but this was how Mum did it. He knew he could use tools pretty good, so he could probably find his mum. 

Standing beside the van, Alan looked up the footpath one way, and then the other. The dull light from the overhead street lights dotted a trail both ways. The dog barked in the distance again. He chose the other way. 

Hand?” Peter looked up at Alan - arm stretched out. The toddler and young boy walked into the night holding hands. 

Every house they went past might have been where their parents were, but there were no lights on in any of them. Alan figured if they just kept going a little bit more they would get to the one. They got to the end of the street, where it met a main road, a T junction. Alan knew they were not far from home because his mum had said the party was just around the corner when they left home, and it sure did not take long. The problem with sitting in the back is, you can’t see where you are going. Maybe he went the wrong way, maybe they were back the other way towards the dog. By this time Peter was starting to act up. 

He stopped. “Wan’t mum.”

“It’s okay, I went the wrong way. Mum’s back this way, come on.”

Peter was not having it. He dropped Alan’s hand and started stomping the ground, whining. He threw himself on the ground like an upside down turtle. 

“Come on, we can get her, come on, it’s okay, this way,” Alan could feel his own tears welling up. He couldn’t just sit here with Peter rolling around on his back. What would happen? He gently coo cooed Peter, rubbing his arm and pulling him close to cuddle. This helped. Peter got up and took Alan’s hand. They set off back over the ground they had come. Soon they were at the van again. 

“Bed,” Peter moaned, pointing at the open van door. 

Alan looked at the van, and made the best decision he could. “Okay, come on, lets go bed.”

He tucked the little fella in and lay down next to him. He hauled the side door almost shut. He had not taken off their shoes or jumpers. Soon Peter was asleep, but Alan was not. He knew Peter would wake up again and before he did, he had to find his mum. 

***

The Bakers Van Part Two

He figured they would be just a few houses down, in the dog direction. He slowly pulled the door back just enough so he could squeeze out without it clunking back into its cradle with a bang. He couldn’t shut it fully as it would wake Peter up. He stood outside the van with his head against the opening for a few minutes to make sure his little brother stayed asleep. Then he leapt out of the gutter and ran as fast as he could toward the barking dog, only slowing long enough to look for lights up the driveways of the houses. He saw a dull warm glow in the front window of the third house, and the silhouette of a man reading. There was no party going on there. He came upon a laneway that dipped back in behind all the houses. No way he was going down there, but something looked familiar, but it was dark and he was confused. His bearings were not tuned in. He soon got to the end of the street which met up with the other main road that hemmed the street into a grid. He didn’t want to go onto the main road. There were plenty of cars and he was a boy, in the night out alone. He knew that was not the right way of things. Maybe its best to just go back to Peter and wait. They will come back eventually. Yes. He had to go back now. 

There was a street sign, right at the corner, but only the dark side was facing him. Maybe he could try to read it. He knew some letters. He walked around to the lit side. M O O and some others he was not sure about. Cars were charging past in the lanes up in the centre of the main road. There were the smaller side access roads that ran parallel so the locals could get off the highway, and into the side streets. A car turned in off the main road, and into the side road which would access where he was.  He ducked back against the house fence trying to stay out of sight, but it seemed to come straight at him with the brightest lights, so bright everything turned into a white mass. It pulled up right next to him against the curb, its engine still running. Next thing, blue lights started blinking on its roof. It was the police. The car door opened, and the blinding white light blacked out as the huge dark figure stepped in front of it. The light beamed all around him and between his long legs. It looked like the cowboy in the sunset on the cover of his dads Johny Cash record.

***

“So, young fella, what’s going on? Where are you meant to be?” Officer Flannigan had brought Alan over to the car where his partner was busy with his notepad. Flannigan wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and propped him up on the passenger seat. Alan knew he was in big strife, and he knew what Dad thought of the cops, but more time was passing and he had to get back to Peter or he would be in even bigger strife with his dad.  

“I was just having a walk.”

One of Flannigan’s eyebrows kicked up, “I see, what’s your name son?”

“Alan.”

“Okay great, Alan, my name is Officer Flannigan, and this is Officer Ramsey, can you tell us where you live?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the address?”

“15 Cyril street, but I have to go now, I have to go back to my brother.”

The other officer made his way around to the drivers side of the car and pulled out the radio, and started talking rapidly into it. Alan heard his address being spoken into the radio.

“Great, that’s not far from here, is your brother at home Alan?” 

“No.”

“Okay little mate, are your parents at home?”

“No.”

“Alan, where is your brother?”

“Just down there, in the van,” Alan pointed back down the dark street towards where he had left Peter sleeping. 

“Is he walking like you?” Flannigan’s voice was starting to quicken. 

The other officer was now quiet and came around. “They’re sending a car over there pronto.”

Alan, looked back at Officer Flannigan, “No, he’s asleep.”

Alan could see Officer Flannigan’s face changing before his eyes. It had gotten all stiff and had become very pale.

 “Okay Ramsey, get in, we need to have a look.” Flannigan, gently pushed Alan across to the middle of the seat, and hopped in next to him. Alan was tiny between the giant men. He could not see out the front window. There were so many things on the dashboard. He had never seen anything like it. He felt strange. Very strange, but in a good way. He liked it. He felt safe. His dad said the cops were mongrels, but they had all these things, and their uniforms and all the stuff in their belts. He looked up at Officer Flannigan’s sleeve with its special stripes and badges rubbing against his head. He looked down at the big mans belt. There were so many things stuck onto it. There was a good smell of leather, metal and oil that reminded him of his Dad’s tool box. Was that a gun holster? He felt important, and that this was important business. He had never felt so special. Crackling kept on coming out of the radio. Scratchy noises broke out of it now and again, and then one person would talk, and no one replied as if people were having one way talks. 

The police car creased quietly around the corner, no siren, just the blue light flashing as they drove slowly down the street. The car was so smooth, it glided like it was floating, not like the old van with its worn out springs.

“Go slowly,” Flannigan quipped, “In case he’s on the road.”

“How old is your brother matey?”  Flannigan asked Alan, looking down at him.

“Two.”

“Where did you leave him, where’s the van?”

“Just up here. see? There it is, that’s it!” Alan was relieved. The van was still there. Maybe they could just drop him off and he could get back to bed next to Peter and everything would be okay again. Yes that would be good. Mum and Dad didn’t have to know about this. 

Officer Ramsey parked the car a few spaces back from the van.

Flannigan sprung open his door and lurched out fast, and then stopped in mid air as his thoughts caught up with his instinct. He stepped back, and reached in to Alan, “Come on fella, we don’t want to scare him, you better go first, but we’re right behind you.”

Alan walked up to the van, and his stomach dropped. The door was wide open. He just stood there about three feet away, listening to the silence inside. He peered back at Officer Flannigan. Ramsey was perched at the side of the drivers side door talking into the radio. He saw Alan’s pause and glared at Flannigan. Flannigan glanced back at Ramsey, and then dashed forward, grabbing Alan by the arm, “Come on matey, lets have a look, its okay.”

They stepped forward together, Alan leapt into the van, knowing what was not there. Flannigan leaned in behind him, his big torch light shinning around inside the musty steel den. Blankets, an empty fuel tin, a few ropes and pillows, and no little brother. 

***

The Bakers Van Part 3

Joy, in her best nylon paisley kaftan, was sitting on the cold blue lino chair, weeping. Stan, sporting a tight rib knit purple shirt and blue sports trousers, was prancing back and forth in his new dove grey loafers at the StKilda Police headquarters at 2am.

“Mr Rodwell, I don’t think you realise, what’s happened here. You are not in a position to be barking at us. You are in a lot of trouble. Just give us the details, without the crap, so we can do our work. The search has begun but we need information fast.” 

The Sargent was losing his patience. Clearly the father - when they had finally returned to the van, was as full as a goog. The wife, albeit a lovely lady and apparently fully sober was completely useless as Stan kept on telling her to shut up if she piped up to help and she obeyed religiously. 

“For crying out loud, you don’t know what you are talking about.” Stan bellowed. “Its not your business what we do, they are fine. They are our kids. Its none of your bloody business. You needn’t stick your beaks into things.” 

The radio blurted out a loud scream at the radio desk. Another car called in empty. 

The  Sergeant barked, “For goodness sake, its only a street away from where they live, have you really gone over the back lanes properly, I mean get out and walk through them, maybe he wandered back trying to get home.”

“Upper west section of Moore street covered Sarge, done it 3 times, what next?”

“Do it a fucking gain.” The orders barked on into the early hours, as every unit in the lower south section of the precinct was mobilised in the search for the missing toddler, Peter. By 4am, they had combed every back alley and street within 5kms on foot and otherwise - of the last known location of the boy. He was gone. 

The young cadet on the desk looked over at the big grandfather Sarg hunched over the radio, running his hands through his thin hair. Everyone knew what was bothering him. The worst possible thing was that the little kid may not even be in the area anymore. Abduction was the elephant in the room and it was looking increasingly likely. Three missing children in the area over the last 2 months - kids just vanished into thin air, gone, still not found. The Sarg was sick with the worry. All he could think was not again, not again. The minutes that passed felt like blood dripping from an open wound, unbound.  

 How far could a two year old toddler toddle without someone in the neighbourhood seeing him or taking him in and calling the cops? But of course, maybe someone did see him, the wrong kind of someone. 

Alan watched it all, with a plastic cup of passionfruit Kiora cordial in one hand and a Yo Yo biscuit in the other, through a glass window, while sitting next to a nice kind policewoman whose legs made squeaking noises when she moved. He was so tired. He just wanted things to be like they were before. 

***

The Bakers Van Part 4 - Dawn

Sandy McKenna, the milkman, clip clopped his horse down to the end of Cyril st for his last delivery of the morning. Six bottles for number 15, and then he would slip around the back of the lane to sort out the Greeks at the milkbar, and then head home. Dolly was tired and so was he. He stepped down off the cart and carried the milk over to the gate. He swapped the empties for the full ones and hopped back up. 

“Come on old girl, not far now, nearly there.” With a little click click of his tongue and a gentle flick of the reins she clopped her big hooves carefully easing around into the alley. “Steadeee, steady girl,” he called quietly so as to not wake up the world. It was 5.30am, and the sun was throwing a glow upwards, to the top of the fences. The bottles rattled in their crates, and the cart wobbled back and forth as they stepped over the uneven cobblestones in the laneway, heading towards the  back service gate of the Greeks milk bar, behind Moore st. The lane ran behind the back of the houses on both Cyril st and Moore st. 

They were halfway up the first lane, when suddenly Dolly baulked and pulled back. “Woah, wooow … what’s wrong? wooo.” 

Something spooked her. Sandy knew not to push on. He trusted Dolly more than he trusted his own eyes. He clucked at her in a low gruff tone to soothe her nerves, shhh … steadeee steady girl. He loosened the reins and and let her pull up at her own pace. He tightened up the slack in the leads once she had stopped and looped the leather around the post, keeping her head in close, in case she got towy and decided to bolt when he was down on the ground. He reached down into his tucker box grabbing the torch. Leaning further under, his hand hit cold steel. He pulled out the old iron crank handle he kept under the seat for a little bit of security. 

These laneways were the hiding places of all sorts of unsavoury behaviour. One time he had come across a dead man, beaten horribly to death. The poor bloke was bundled up half in and half out of a rubbish bin like a piece of discarded junk. Not a good way to go. Shady stuff was done in shady places, and there ain’t no lights down these back alleys. That horse isn’t stupid, he mused. He had seen far too much of it in his thirty years doing the rounds to doubt her radar. 

Just because he couldn’t see anything ahead, the Dolly clearly did, and she was in front of him.  He stepped down on the right side of the cart. As he walked towards the front of Dolly, he ran his hands along the flank of her steamy sweaty body. Muscles twitched and a couple of snorts filled the air with hot horse breath. He came up to the front, and shone the torch about. There was nothing going on.  Maybe it was a dog. Dolly had blinkers attached to her harness to cut out the distractions of domestic activity going on to the side of her vision as she did her work. To get past that, Dolly had turned her head fully to the left side, to overcome the blindsiding of the blinkers. Her head was nodding and shaking towards the fence as she continued to snort. She was not prepared to ignore whatever it was causing the commotion. He walked around to the other side, and shone the torch into the dark crevice she was nudging at. He was not prepared for what he saw.

***

Sitting in a cardboard box, partially covered by towering weeds was a very young boy, clearly sleepy and woken up by Sandy’s arrival. This was not what was bothering Dolly though. Between the boy and Dolly stood an outrageously large black cat. He almost missed the critter but for a bizarre  pure white tail, creating a luminous glow, whipping back and forth. The cats back was arched, as it hissed quietly at Dolly. When Sandy shone the torch directly at it, it turned its face to him.

Those darn eyes lit up so brightly, I swear, it was like a magneto coming from inside the dam thing. I ‘ve seen a ton of animals in the dark with their glowin’ eyes, I mean for Christ sake, my dad and I used to go hunting every night for rabbits out in the Glenhuntly paddocks when I was a kid and that’s how we got em, with a torch shone in their eyes, they were sitting ducks. And the foxes eyes were bright red, but I ain’t never seen nothing like this thing. That cat - they weren’t no glowy green cat eyes

As transfixed as he was, Sandy flicked the torch upwards to shine behind the cat. The white haired kid was there alright. Sitting up in a Victoria Bitter beer box, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Sandy stepped toward the boy, and at that the cat darted off in behind the fence.

“Well I’ll be … Just like baby Moses in the reeds”