Runaway

Frank walked across the road, spread a newspaper on the kerb and sat down. He shivered. He embraced his stomach with both arms and rocked gently backwards and forwards. His blond hair had the look of an over-used kitchen brush and his face was patchy where he had tried to wipe the grime off with his sleeve. London had seemed like a solution when he ran away from the anger and violence of his Sunderland home. But at least he had food there. London has twenty times the population but a fraction of the community spirit that he had hoped would catch him up and nurture him. He was alone in the biggest crowd in England.

One crowd attracted his attention earlier that day as he was wandering the streets near Piccadilly. He couldn't get to the front and was too small to see over the heads, so he wasn't sure exactly what was happening. But he recognised the tune of "Happy Birthday" played by a military band and wondered who the people were singing it for. Nobody sung for Frank's birthday last Wednesday - or was it Thursday?

He felt in his pocket and pulled out an apple core he found on the pavement earlier. Brown and dirty it may be, but whoever had thrown it away wasn't hungry enough to eat it to the full. He wiped it with one of his threadbare woollen gloves and nibbled it all round, savouring every scraped morsel. He couldn't make it last long. He reached into the other pocket and found nothing. Supper was over, so he might as well find somewhere to sleep.