The Sunbaby

New Zealand Listener, Volume 31, Issue 788, 27 August 1954, Page 16

The Sunbaby

by

PETER N.

TEMM

VEN when Charlie coughed loudly into his crumpled hanky, the young fellow didn’t stir. Charlie sat down, glowering, on the end of the seat. This part of the bench was shaded by the sign hanging outside Jack’s barber shop; at this early hour of the morning, sitting there was a comfortless business. The other end of the bench, Charlie’s accustomed and unquestioned right, was occupied. Tugging at his brown-stained whiskers, Charlie brooded. Perhaps the fellow was waitinoe for a bus; there would be

one along soon, perhaps he’d go then. Charlie coughed again, hoarsely, and nearly Strained his eye muscles in an effort to peer, unnoticed, at the intruder. With something of a shock Charlie realised that the fellow was asleep. "Blast!" he exploded, pounding savagely at the cracked asphalt footpath with his stick, He couldn't be entirely rude, go and shake the bloke, and order him out of it; much as he’d like to. But when the bus came along, that would be an opportunity; then he could wake him and tell him that the bus was there. The young fellow sat slumped in the seat, his: head lolling back and = almost touching the tangled mess of fennel, tecoma and bamboo that reared up in an oddly mixed jungle from behind the stone wall, the play-

ground of little brown lizards, sparrows, and rats. The intruder lay partly against the brick wall of Jack’s shop, which was at right-angles to the seat. In and out of the cracked mortar of the wall busied countless ants, pausing briefly in their frantic scurryings to touch feelers, then hurry on. Chaflie liked to sit there, where the bleak sunshine was stronger, and watch them. He’d read that the feeler-touching was a kind of communication. They fascinated him, those little black devils; some mornings he would watch them for hours. Now there was that fellow sitting there, and so there was nothing for him to do, to pass the time. Nobody was about, yet. It was too early for the women to be shopping, Jack was busy inside the shop, and the other old men wouldn’t arrive at the seat for another hour, when the sun would be stronger. Time was wasting. Charlie looked again at the young man: a rather battered individual, he decided. Stained, grey suit, no tie, grubby shirt; and, in an attempt to diszuise the general dirty effect, a shapeless tweed overcoat that draped itself copiously over the fellow’s knees, and cascaded untidily to the ground. The | shoes were cracked. the blue socks a ' mass of datns; Charlie scrutinised him from head to toe for several minutes, feeding his resentment on the things he saw that confirmed his opinion that the fellow was a waster. "Pfoof." he muttered at last, in disgust. Then he struck the asphalt with his stick again, even more violently than before, and added, "Blast!" It was with some relief that Charlie watched a woman come around the cor-

ner and waddle up towards him, a wooden trundler creaking. on tired wheels behind her. Here, at least, was something to distract him; then he recognised Her, with Wismay, as Mrs. Breen. Charlie hissed angrily through his teeth. Obviously, it was not his lucky day. : Mrs. Breen trundled up close and peered short-sightedly at him. Charlie stared fixedly across the road. "Well, Mr. Keith. You are bright and early today, aren’t you? But not very warm, is it, eh?" She grinned amiably. Charlie didn’t bother to reply. Mrs. Breen glanced along the seat.

"IT see you have a iriend, She said maliciously. "Isn’t that your favourite seat, Mr. Keith?" "Mis. Breen," Charlie said heavily, tearing his eyes away from infinity, "I would thank you to mind your own business. Haven’t you some shopping to occupy yourself with, instead of standing there twittering?" Insults were meaningless ‘to Mrs. Breen. Preoccupied with malice herself, it was inconceivable to her that anyone else should even attempt to outdo her. Calumny lapped expectantly in the curl of her tongue, like stale spittle, Gossip was her life-blood. Still, she sensed the currents of restlessness that clung about the person of Mr. Keith; therefore, she continued vigorously: "Really, you old men make mie sick, the way you just sit in this same seat in the sun every day, day after day, doing nothing but talk, talk, talk. You just let yourself drift into old age. Now, if you did something useful, like getting an active club together, indoor bowls, or something .. ." On she went. Charlie closed his eats, and sighed. He looked with misery at her dumpy, black-coated figure, her three chins, her generous, heaving bosom. He wondered idly, for the hundredth time, how her husband, a fine decent man he was, too, managed to put up with her. It was a shame. "Eh?" said Charlie. "What was that?" "Sunbabies," said Mrs. Breen sternly. "A lot of sunbabies, sitting here, day after day, doing nothing useful." "Mrs. Breen; I beg you, in the interests of your own safety, to remove your (continued on next page)

— (continued from previous page) offensive person from my sight this instant," Charlie trembled with rage. Mrs. Breen drew back in sudden alarm: she had never goaded him quite so successfully before. Wisely deciding that perhaps she had gone far enough for one day, she and her trundler withdrew, at a dignified pace. But at a safe distance she turned for the last word; "No gumption," she called. "Just a lot of lazy old sunbabies!" Charlie did not reply. From the doorway of his shop. Jack said, "You really told her off, eh?" Charlie searched his expression for a smile, found none. "Sunbabies!" he spat. "Good God! Tell me, Jack, do I look like a blasted sunbaby to you?" Jack said seriously, "Can't say you do, Charlie." Then, adroitly changing the subject, "Who's your cobber?" The young fellow at the end of the seat had not shifted his position; in fact, only the shallow breath movements showed he was still alive. "Blast him," Charlie growled. "Pinched my seat. Can’t even watch the ants now. When you get on a bit and not so good at moving around," he explained, "you get interested in little things. Take old Alf; he should be along soon. He makes things out of used matches-little ‘toys and all. Doesn’t do his eyes much good, but keeps his mind busy. Now if this bloke wasn’t there, I’d be at my hobby." He = scowled fiercely, and tugged at his moustache.

"Young pup," he muttered, "Wait till I tell the others about his damn cheek." "Here's the bus," Jack said. Sure enough, the orange bus was bowling along towards them. "Do you think hes waiting for it?" "I’m sure he is," Charlie replied erimly. "This will be a pleasure." He hauled his great, straight length upright, and, leaning heavily on his stick, limped to the other end of the seat. He shook the young man’s shoulder firmly. "Bus," he roared in the offender’s ear. "Wake up, bus!" The young man’s expression altered, but his eyes remained as they were. "Thank you," he yawned. "Dozed off.’ He groped at his side, and from beneath the drape of his tweed coat produced a white stick. Charlie looked at it blankly for a moment; the bus squealed to a halt beside them, "Here," he said, "let me help you "I’m all right," the other insisted; but he allowed Charlie to propel him, with great care, to the steps of the bus. "Thank you very much," he said, "I'll be all right now." He climbed the two steps easily, bought his ‘ticket, and groped his way into a seat. The bus drew away. "You’re welcome any time," Charlie yelled after it. He sat down in the corner seat, and looked at the frenzied ants. "Blast!" he said angrily. on