A PRAM ON THE TRAM
The tram was a new-ish and welcome asset to the area, but already graffiti defaced one of the signs? Why did youngsters do this? Maybe the scene below holds an answer? I was seated on the left, near the front, of a fairly empty carriage on the metro, otherwise known as the tram. A young woman got on with a child in a pushchair. He was about 3 years old. She manoeuvred the buggy past me, right up to the front, so the boy was close to, and facing, a wall of darkened glass and metal. The hood of the pushchair was also up around his head, cutting off any visibility to the sides. The woman dropped heavily down on to a seat behind him and across the aisle from me. We set off and after a few moments the little one started swinging both legs, backwards and forwards. The buggy started to rock with the motion. Well a child has got to do something for entertainment? But then there was a sad development. “F--k off! Will you stop it!” the young woman, presumably his mother, admonished. If the swear words had been said humourously it might not have been too bad. Not a good example, of course, but they could have been spoken affectionately. But they weren’t. They were said in a bad-tempered way. This was happening mid-morning in an ordinary suburb. Something here was wrong. Now the child, wanting to see, pushed the chair hood back so he could look out of the window. But instantly his mother pushed up the hood. She pushed it up hard, and back over his head. “F--king stop it!” she told him. She began to study her phone. I looked out of the window on my side. Then there was the click and hiss of a small can being opened. I was now looking forward. I saw the child reach back, around the side of the hood. Between his fingers he held a quaver, or some such small snack. His little hand offered it to his mother. “I don’t want it. You eat it,” she responded. But she didn't say this kindly or coaxingly. She said it bluntly and dismissively. He took back the offering, disappearing again from view. Our journey continued. She hawked up some heavy-sounding phlegm. And then she hawked up some more. It sounded like a variation on machine-gun-fire. But it was not a crime to have catarrh, nor to bring it up noisily and swallow it. What might have made an angel weep, though, was that she said nothing kind to the child. She had no chat for him at all. Nothing playful. No love. What hurt, mean place had she got herself into? What would free her?