HUMBOLDT - Barkermouth & Bloomdell (Complete)

Chapter 29.

The dirty black chair creaked and groaned under the strain of the mountain of flesh that straddled its small cracked wooden seat. Buttocks hung over either side of the rickety chair, like overfull saddlebags draped over an old bony nag. Both were soon to be heading for the knackers yard.

Peter Rictus, also known up at the Hospital as Gobbler, was by no means a small man, by every means he was a tremendously big man, as his nickname suggested, he loved his food. He loved everyone's food. Scraps were never in danger of being thrown to the dogs, not while he was sat at the table.

As a young boy, he'd been small, and weak. Not an ounce of fat lay upon his bones, many of which could be seen poking up under his skin. Food hadn't been plentiful, and as the youngest and smallest of three boys, he tended to get the smaller of the portions. His mother and father had always been poor, as was everyone down his street.

His mum would say 'We can always do without.'

Then meal time would arrive, and the boys knew that they couldn't do without, and so did their mother. Their father made sure that at least one good meal graced their table every day. Many hard days of work blistered his hands, so he was able to provide food for his boys.

God forbid you leave food on your plate at the end of the meal. It was expected of you, to leave your plate cleaner than when it was stacked in the cupboard. It was what you did, it was what hungry children did.

That was the defining moment in Peter's life, his fixation with food was beat into him that night. His father made sure that Peter would never leave a morsel of food anywhere within sight, never, ever again.

One of the many menial jobs that his father had performed for so little pay was to shovel shit- horse shit. In the evenings, once everything in the streets had quieted down, Pete's father would be sent out with a push cart and a shovel to walk the streets and scoop up all the horse manure that had been literally dumped on the road. The streets of Borden teamed with horses during the day and manure built up to become quite a problem. Some believed it be a health risk, and so the manure collectors were sent out twice daily to shovel shit. It was hard graft, which paid little, but as Peter's father had always said, 'Shit puts food on your plate, lads.'

Shit also kills you, Peter thought.

His father Jim had gone out to work one evening. Pushing his cart and collecting manure as he always did. He filled his cart, and then had taken it as usual to the works yard. It was then to be loaded into wagons, where it would be sold to local farmers to be used on the fields. On this particular wet night Jim had been told to shovel his cart's contents straight into the already overfull wagon. After hurling the last of the collected manure over 15ft into the air to the top of the pile, Jim had turned to leave, when he heard a snapping, crashing sound from behind. He had looked back over his shoulder just in time to see one of the wagon's wheels collapse and splinter into pieces. With no chance of diving for cover, the avalanche of manure washed over him, burying, and suffocating him instantly. It had taken his work colleagues over 15 minutes to dig his body out.

Shit definitely killed our dad, Peter smirked.

As the man of the house now, Peter no longer allowed food to go short. He made sure that the larder was full. Every morning before he left for work he would walk around the corner to the shop on Hare Street. He would buy his mother a pint of milk and the freshest loaf that the shop had on its shelf. Peter and his mother lived by themselves, both his brothers had left home, one for prison, locked away for picking pockets and thievery, the other, no one knew, he'd just walked out one day never to be heard from again. Soon after, his father had died, leaving Peter to care for his mother.

Peter sat at the small table, straining the already fragile chair to its limit, and ate dinner with his mother. She nibbled a piece of bread, whilst she watched with proud eyes as Pete gorged himself on enough food to feed a small family, liver and onions in a sea of gravy, always his favorite. His 23 stone, obviously no deterrent.

Peter's mother never asked where the money came from that paid for such good food to be laid on her table every day. She didn't actually care. She had spent too many years hungry so that her baby boys could eat and grow up strong. A constant lack of food had stripped away any morals she may have harbored about full stomachs and breaking of the law. She watched her son as he swallowed mouthful after mouthful of food, barely chewing it before the next was taken to task.

Out of the blue, she said 'Well....'

Spitting food in her direction as he chewed, he asked 'Well what?'

She said 'Are you going to see your brother?'

She knew better than to talk to him whilst he ate. He had never been able to deal with more than one thing at a time. As he ate, all he could think about was the next mouthful. The table was covered with a threadbare cloth, more stain than white. Worn cutlery lay bent and dulled beside chipped and cracked crockery. Peter had only one thing on his mind, food, all else didn't matter, not until after he had crammed his belly full with breakfast, dinner, tea and supper.

Raising an eyebrow quizzically 'Brother?' and swallowed another mouthful.

Annoyed she said 'Yes, your brother, Reginald. You know the one in the clink.'

She couldn't help but sigh as she watched him spill gravy down the front of his patched shirt. Not willing to waste a single drop, he traced his spoon along the spill, up his shirt and into his mouth. Satisfied, he slapped his lips together, threw down the spoon, and pushed the empty plate in to the center of the table.

'Mmmm, lovely, thank you, mother.'

Peter was a slob, of course he was, but at least he was a polite slob, to his mother at least.

'I'm up at the prison late this afternoon. I'll pop in and see Rev then, if they let me.'

Smiling, his mother knew Peter was a good boy. She said 'Good.'

Retrieving his plate and screwing up the tablecloth, she made her way into the kitchen, asking as she went 'will that nice boy you work with be going too?'

Pete was sure that his mother had a liking for 'that nice boy'. He didn't like that sort of thing, not from his mother. It wasn't that he was prudish or anything, but she was his mother, she wasn't supposed to show that kind of interest in anyone, especially a man and definitely not anyone he knew, and Walter was the worst. The thought of it turned his stomach and made his temper boil. He'd have to warn 'that nice boy' of the consequences of bad behavior around mummy. As if on cue, a loud banging shook the front door in its frame.

His mother's voice floated from the kitchen among the bangs and clatters of the Pots and pans 'Can you get that Peter, dear?'

Storming down the hallway, Peter grasped hold of the door knob and flung open the front door to reveal a tall stocky man in his mid-40s, with had wavy black hair and a thin pencil mustache. He lent against the door frame and with pale blue eyes smiled his greeting. Draped over his arm he carried his tatty old raincoat. The weather was getting close, he pointed out.

Walter smirked 'How's it going Gobbler, me mate?'

Peter scowled- that nice boy- he thought 'NICE BOY! For fuck's sake, he's nearly twice my age.

Out loud he said, 'Kick my fucking door again and I'll have you, Walter. Why can't you knock properly like everybody else? And don't call me Gobbler.'

Turning his back on the source of his annoyance, Peter stalked into the living-room, grumbling his resentment as he went 'Wanker!'

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