Another life

This is the opening of my autobiographical book. Happy to load more if anyone is interested. Any comments would be welcome. I’m wondering whether an option could be to try pitching it to magazines?

I put my hand out for the bus but it went straight past ploughing up rain from the road and throwing it over my shoes and white socks. I walked on to the next bus stop. I loved being on the top deck in the front seat. There I felt tall looking down on the tops of umbrellas. Looking up I could see the long steel straight arm of the trolley bus as it swung gangly round bends in the road. The stale smell of cigarettes was comfortingly familiar and I liked to pick at the short fabric pile seat covering. When I arrived at the house I stood on tiptoe to reach the large brass door knocker, I noticed it needed a polish - that was something I could do. The door opened. I wasn't expecting it to be a man. He was tall and thin and smelt of mothballs.

'Yes?' is all he said.

'I'd like to come and live here,' I said.

'Why do you want to live at Dr Barnardos?'

I hadn’t anticipated that question. Why?  Well, what could I say? So I said nothing and just stood rather awkwardly looking up at him and gave my best smile. He smiled back, in that sympathetic    way and said, ‘I’m afraid not. This is a home for children without parents who are referred to us.But you could always come and help handing out sparklers on bonfire night, if you bring a note from your parents.’

This wasn't the first time I had tried to get away from unpredictable and dangerous adults, where by bad luck of the birth dice I had landed. My first attempt was three years earlier when I was six years old. Big Ben in London was to be my new home, but there was the small obstacle of the train fare to get there.  

Inspired by the usherettes at Saturday morning pictures at the Odeon cinema I had a eureka moment. I made my own version of a tray using cardboard, glue and string and instead of ice-cream, I filled it with painted cotton reel characters, using buttons for feet; calendars with my art depicting the months and seasons and if none of those appealed, there was always my star and glitter stuck pencils - useful for any commuter to fill in their newspaper crossword. 

My customers were mostly men in polished brown brogues and trilby hats and a few women in wine glass shoes and beige handbags. For some reason they all thought to pat me on top of the head, this wasn't pleasurable for me but it must have meant something to them as they dropped coins into my tin.  This was my after school enterprise and a week's trading outside Malden Manor railway station entrance, with the string rubbing the back of my neck red, I had enough pennies and threepenny pieces to buy a train ticket. On tiptoe, I proudly tipped my takings onto the shallow brass plate and asked for a ticket to Waterloo. All the man in the ticket office saw was a pile of coins, half eaten sherbet lemon and a small voice. He leaned forward to peer down through the narrow glass at me. He made a sort of snorting noise then smiled.

  'It's you,' he said, as if he knew me. You want a ticket to Waterloo do you? Will that be a single or return?'