Weekend Freewrite 6 - Down on Maggie's Farm

On Tuesday, Margaret told me she liked the little oranges with the seeds better than the ones I bought. I hated her for that. I mean fruit is fruit but Margaret, or Maggie as she was known around our way, was a cantankerous old goat. She would sit and eat sunflower seeds all day on the pavement outside her house, spitting the shells at an empty can of lager or at the drain in the gutter, anything to pass the time. I guess the oranges were no good because they were missing the all-important seeds but well, she could have just let it go for once. I had inherited the duty of looking after Maggie when my good for nothing dad decided to split and leave us up shit creek without a paddle. Things were tough in my area in the 1980's and Maggie had no one. Auntie Maggie, she was called. She wasn't my dad's sister, she wasn't my mum's sister, in fact, I'm not sure was birthed of this world, to be honest. Never a kind word came out of her mouth and the best you would get from her was a disgruntled nod if you had brought her the right beer or the brand of cigarettes she liked. That Tuesday when I bought the oranges with no seeds I got pelted in the back of the head with sunflower seeds.

They were all the same, I decided. These lads, who hung around the common, skinny, tall streaks of nothing but fast as anything, like greyhounds. They were always on their bikes and were always quick to come charging after you and beat you down for your money. A 10 pence pick and mix for god sake, things were tough in my neck of the woods growing up. I learnt how to run, some serious Forrest Gump style running. Hurtling down the road and around the corner I would pass straight through the middle of the pack of bikers, only to be followed by shouts and hoots as they peddled like demons after me and my 20 or 50 pence pocket money. If I reached the shop I was safe, as the shopkeeper, Ahmed wouldn't let them in and would stand at the door threatening them until they slunk away. I would gorge on half of my sweets just in case they caught me, before leaving at a run, tearing down the main street, or walking casually by flipping them the bird if a police car happened to be passing.

The lemon sherbet that melted all over the counter was how it all started that day. I stayed in Ahmed's shop to clean it up as he was friendly but strict.
"You spilt it so you'll clean it up."
After I finished I could see them gathered outside, bikes lined up in a row, bells tinging as if to signal my doom. Nothing for it, I put my head down and charged out of the shop straight into the biggest of them and a fist to the side of the head. I remember seeing the proverbial stars as a few of them kicked and punched me halfheartedly but it was my money they were after. I fought with one boy who rummaged my pockets and as I wrestled his hand I saw a tartan push trolley approaching up the street. I choked back the tears, as the bruises were starting to mount and I realized it was Maggie. She smacked the largest boy across the knuckles with her stick, "get off him you little scumbag" she shrieked at him and cracked another lad around the head. He went down like a tone of bricks and his head bounced on the floor, the biggest lad was sobbing as she hit him again on the knee. The rest of them abandoned the two who had gone down and as I got up slowly, knees creaking and eye smarting from the attack she just nodded at me with that same disgruntled nod. Things changed from then on. I still got chased now and then but the lads never came down our street where Maggie lived.

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This story is a combination of three prompts, each written in 5 minutes and posted back to back.
This post is in response to mariannewest weekend free-write writers prompt which can be found here. Check it out if you want to join in with the mad dash that is 5 minute free-writing. All pictures are from unsplash.com free to use. Credit to photographer: Leroy Skalstad