Excerpts from
The Journey to Ribe
By Peter Seeberg
The train was due to leave at 13.52. Mother would go with him. To make sure that he actually left, and they would never see him again.
- Donīt you forget how we just took you into our home, she screeched, but we got a bad deal, so now letīs see an end to it.
They lived partly off the money they received for having him. Father and mother always fought over who should have the cash, spent as soon as they got it on beer and cigarettes, thatīs just how it was. It was for the best. They were the kind who improved with booze and fags. They would sit there all day, not bothering a soul, they might even offer him a beer, but he shook his head to say no and they shook their heads to each other and jabbed their fingers in their temples and made idiot signs. Yeah, well.
It was a lovely day, this day on which he was at last going to be banished. The three earlier ones had not been so fine. The first time was in sugar beet season and he had slid in the mud left by the cartloads of beets and fallen with a wallop and had got all dirty and mother had clouted him and made a scene in the middle of the village.
Later on he had to admit that it was impressive the way they werenīt bothered if people were watching when they went over the top, if people were standing behind the shop door or in the front garden and saw their outrageous behaviour. They were social outcasts in the village, with no family, second generation social outcasts at that, their parents incomers at the time of the work on the dikes. Even though no one had any respect for them, mother had made up her mind that she would take over looking after the community hall when the old cook-domestic pegged out. Which could be very soon now.
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