No trick No Treat

Elspeth Beaton

It was Hallowe'en. We were sitting quietly by the kitchen fire when our door bell rang.

"Who can that be at this time of night?" asked my mother.

I jumped up to answer, hoping it might be some of my pals calling for Hallowe'en treats.

Instead, a strange boy stood on the outside landing with a tied bundle at his feet. His face was ashen, clothes thin and ragged, worn oversized boots clung to his bare feet and legs.

"Firewood ... need any firewood?" It was a plea rather than a question, having climbed many tenement buildings without success.

"Who is it?" called my mother from the kitchen,

I moved inward leaving the door open. "It's a boy with firewood, Please, Mum could you buy some?" I whispered.

My mother hesitated. "How much?" I ran back.

"Tuppence," his tone more hopeful this time. "Please, Mum," I persisted, "it looks a lot for tuppence?""All right ... tuppence, you say, where's my purse."

The bargain sealed, the boy handed over his precious bundle and took the money without a word. His quick glance before disappearing down the stairs, was one I'll never forget. Two tired eyes, coming to life for an instant, gave a brief sign of grateful relief.

For this young boy there was no trick - no treat... the money was not for Hallowe'en. He'd been carrying the chopped-up wood to make a sale and take the two pennies back home.

During the thirties in Glasgow, thousands were affected by the Depression causing poverty within families beyond endurance. Evidence of such unemployment and destitution existed throughout the country.

The boy, like so many children of his time, had been c4ught up in the misery - but for an instant, these two pennies that passed between us had at last given him temporary monetary reward,

My mother refused to buy the next time he called at our door. Despite my simplistic pleadings, she maintained the chopped wood wouldn't burn to light the fire - not worth two pennies from her own well worn purse.

He never called again.

Although a child at the time myself, the memory of that poorly clad and ill-fed boy standing at our door on a cold night, remains with me to this day. I often wonder if he served in the war that was to come in 1939. His begging days and nights would have come to an end, as it did for so many throughout the long years of Depression.