The Runaways

By Patrick Gildea

Andrew Munroe gets declared bankrupt after his building business in Leeds West Yorkshire suddenly collapses. Andy is diagnosed as suffering from clinical depression. He abandons his wife and daughter hoping to kick-start his life finding work down in London. He feels that he has let his family down badly and assures himself that they would be far better off without him. After hitching a lift that takes him down to the South East Coast, Andy meets up with a kind and caring pair of star-struck elderly lovers, one of whom owns a boarding house in Basildon.
Two other main characters in the book enter the story intermittently. The first is a girl named Gita from Birmingham, who is running away from an arranged marriage. As her story unfolds she too will eventually end up living down on the South East Coast.
The other is Sam, a loveable rogue born and bred in the East End of London. After serving an eight-year prison sentence in one of Her Majesty’s Correctional Facilities for manslaughter, he too shuns his place of birth and makes his way towards the South East Coast.
All three will eventually meet up but not in the circumstances that you may expect or predict.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398420892

Patrick Gildea

Patrick Gildea was born in Paisley, Scotland, he moved from Paisley to Bradford, West Yorkshire, in his late teens after meeting his wife-to-be Maureen on holiday in the Isle of Man. They both lived happily in the West Riding for the next forty years. Now fifty years on since they met, both are still joined at the hip. Pat, as he in known by his friends, has now retired and has relocated once again with his wife, this time to Southend on Sea in Essex to be nearer to their daughter, Morgan; and grandchildren, Scarlett and Hugo. His style of fictional writing will have you in tucks of laughter one minute and then have you reduced to tears the next. Patrick’s academic qualifications stemmed from the University of Life, having worked in the construction industry for over the past twenty years. The latter part of his working life was spent as a senior officer working for local government. His life skills moved him away from a plumber’s blowlamp to producing various technical reports to senior council officials and local members of parliament.

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About the Author

Patrick Gildea was born in Paisley, Scotland. He moved from Paisley to West Yorkshire in his late teens after meeting his wife to be on holiday in the Isle of Man. Now fifty years on, both are still joined at the hip. Pat is now retired and has relocated once again, this time to Southend on Sea; he has been a prolific reader since childhood. His style of fictional writing will have you in tucks of laughter one minute and then have you reduced to tears the next.

Patrick’s academic qualifications came from the University of Life, having worked in the construction industry for over the past twenty years.

The latter part of his working life was spent as a senior officer working for local government. His life skills moved him away from a plumber’s blowlamp to producing various technical reports to senior council officials and local members of parliament.

Dedication

To my wife, Maureen, without her help and constant inspirational motivation, I would never have picked up the gauntlet and started to write my first book.

Copyright Information ©

Patrick Gildea 2022

The right of Patrick Gildea to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398405769 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781398420892 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

Austin Macauley Publishers

This story could be classed as lighthearted fiction, with a sensitive mix of Scot’s humour and pathos thrown into the melting pot. (Possibly a holiday read), but I further recommend the reader to have some Kleenex tissues at hand.

Synopsis

The main character being Andrew Munroe, the story unfolds with Andy being declared a bankrupt; after his building business in Leeds West York’s collapses. As a consequence, his health quickly starts to deteriorate; he is then diagnosed as suffering from severe depression. He then in his present condition makes the monumental decision to walk out on his current life, wife and young daughter. His reasoning being that they would be better off without him, as he perceived himself as a loser, and a waste of space carrying a heavy millstone around his neck. Andy plans to leave his home city of Leeds and hitch a ride down south to London where, hopefully, he can kick start his life once again as a prospective building trade operative, leaving his wife and daughter to hopefully move forward with their own lives.

The book continues to bring in many other strong characters that have major roles to play in the book in regards to their personal lives, loves and misfortunes. As the story unfolds, two prime characters appear throughout the story at different intervals.

Gita Bhatia, a social worker, running away for fear of her life from a pre-arranged marriage in Birmingham. Now seeking refuge with her mother’s sister in Bradford West York’s. Away from her seemingly dishonoured father and the family of her betrothed.

Samuel Mulberry, a builder, a very cheeky chappy and rascal from the East End of London, Sam serves a term in prison on a harsh and unjust manslaughter charge. He comes out of prison after eight years a broken man with severe physical and mental health issues. Sam eventually ends up homeless sleeping rough in the doorways in the town centre of Southend on Sea.

The book ebbs and flows from Central Scotland to West Yorkshire, with a quick dalliance in between over in the north of France. The latter chapters of the story finally end on the southeast coast of Essex (Southend on Sea) where all the main characters in the book come together in their different roles to complete the tale.

Passed experience, handwritten essays at adult summer school, RAC, Cirencester. Lengthy business reports, including option appraisals to town and city councillors and MPs. I dabble in writing my own poetry. I’m what could be classed according to my peers, as a prolific reader and part-time raconteur.

Main Characters

Andrew Munroe: The main character, Helen Munro: Wife, Evie: Daughter.

Ralph Butterworth: Business Partner, Betty Butterworth: Wife.

Gita Bhatia: Social Worker, Abner: Dad, Pretty: Wife Dalit & Cane: Brothers, Somia: Gita’s Close friend.

Sam Lenin Mulberry: Rough Sleeper, John: Father, Rosina: Wife, Eileen: Girlfriend, Sam, Mulberry, Dave: Three in one gang, Cardona, and Jason: Labourer.

Jack & Jill: Landlords of Sam’s local Pub.

Chapter 1

December, 2017

Early evening, December 2017, New Year’s Eve.

How in the lord’s name has it all come down to this? My name is Andrew Munroe, I’m 34 years of age, I’m now homeless and at this present moment in time, I’m sitting under a cold and drafty shop canopy. The weather has been truly shocking, to say the least; it’s been blowing up a gale now for most of the day. The rain mixed with hail beating down above my head sounds like machine-gun bullets hammering onto the cover of my meagre shelter.

I’ve been sleeping rough for the best part of a week now with a new acquaintance of mine, a Mr Sam Mulberry. Sam’s a nice guy but he has some serious issues in regards to the state of his health and his psychological condition, both of these points genuinely worry me. I’m no doctor and never will be, but the only place this little chap should be squatting in is a hospital, tucked up in a nice, warm, comfy bed, and fed on a proper diet of good, wholesome food and to be given the best suitable all-round medical care.

We’ve been sharing a squat now for the past few days in an area called Southchurch, begging for money and sometimes food through the day in and around the shopping centre of Southend on Sea. Many months ago, I’d been declared a bankrupt, I’ve deserted my family, all my friends, I’m now cold, hungry and now seriously wondering where life is now going to take me.

Being a rough sleeper on the streets had been the biggest and most eye-opening experience of my life. The very first day that I spent on the streets with Sam was highly illuminating, some people would offer me food and others would offer small change from their pockets. The one thing that I picked up on very quickly was the way that the people offering to help me out were not much better off than myself. The poor since time immemorial looked after the poor, nothing seems to have changed in my lifetime, (the rich get richer) need I say more on the subject.

As I trudge the streets with Sam trying to keep myself active, always aware of the specific agencies I wish to avoid, i.e. the police, charity workers, as I have no wish to be identified and returned back to my former life in Yorkshire. All that is now in the past. I let my family down badly when I left them in a state as near to poverty as imaginable. I sincerely hope that after getting over my disappearance, my wife Helen and my daughter Evie will accept my decision and move on with their lives. Just one other thing I haven’t mentioned, unlike most of the homeless on the streets, I don’t even have a dog to keep me company, just my little pal from the East End of London, Samuel L Mulberry.

It’s now early evening and I’m looking out into the Estuary, the tide is well in and I can hear the soft crash of the waves against Southend Pier. In the far distance, I can make out the silhouette of a large container ship navigating its way out of the Thames Estuary and slowly passing the fishing boats on our side of the river which are now all safely moored up for the night.

As the ship makes its way slowly out of the Estuary and into the North Sea, its superstructure is being highlighted by the lights on the other side of the river coming over from the Kent coast. Looking out to sea, I wonder where the ship is destined for, and what treasures might lay in its holds, and what’s in the large containers attached securely to her upper decks.

As the rain continues to pour in sheets from the heavens, it is now driving into the canopy that I am crouched under, and at this moment in time and to all intents and purposes, it is totally inadequate for my protection against the inclement weather, and I now find myself absolutely soaked through to the skin.

For most of the day, I have been begging with Sam in shop doorways, one of the downsides of this is that we are being consistently pestered by drunks and other homeless individuals who wish to engage in nonsensical conversation to relieve their boredom appertaining to their current situation. The majority of the rough sleepers feel that life has passed them by, with no hope of getting out of the downward spiral of poverty and homelessness, and in many cases, drink and drugs.

I truly share their apathy; life is hard for the poor souls on the streets, especially at this time of the year. Their stories being similar to mine, most of their hardship was brought upon their heads by greedy landlords, putting up rents to unaffordable levels, and money lenders exhorting high-interest rates on their loans. Families that were evicted from their homes were then put on a housing list by their local council housing office with absolutely no hope of them being rehoused unless they had truly exceptional circumstances, and then if they were lucky enough, they may be treated as a priority case.

For homeowners with unaffordable mortgage repayments after being made redundant or people with physical or mental health-related issues that are unable to carry on working, or just plain being unemployed with no hope of employment, they too could be forced into a life of abject poverty and left in a state of misery, homelessness and depression.

During my ‘sojourn’ in the seaside town of Southend, I had met a few interesting individuals. There were two in particular. These acquaintances were very different from the run of the mill rough sleepers or do-gooders, and there hangs the beginning of my tale. Their names were Gita Bhatia who is a social worker and as I’ve previously mentioned, the lovable rogue and ex-con Samuel Lenin Mulberry. During the rare occasions that we spent together, they both related their tales to me about their past lives which, believe me, had no embellishments.

Being on my own had given me plenty of time to reflect on the impact I left on my family, mainly my wife Helen, and daughter Evie. What are they doing? How are they coping without the financial support that we had all taken so much for granted? It just seemed back then, that the good times never would end.

My business, albeit a partnership, in general building works and home improvements was doing very nicely, our building contracts had hit an all-time high. Every time I prepared quotes for work that was then submitted to a client, you could guarantee that we would win at least fifty percent of them. Because of our workload, we were able to keep a regular team of quality sub contractor’s and a few not so reliable trades’ people in employment as and when their labour was required.

Both my partner Ralph and I saw this as an opportunity to indulge ourselves with some well-deserved bonuses. We bought new cars, treated ourselves to extra holidays abroad and, in my case, did some well needed major home improvements. My wife Helen and I also decided to invest in private education for our daughter Evie. The future was certainly looking rosy for us. What I didn’t realise was that dark clouds were starting to slowly appear on the horizon.

Without warning, around the end of June 2017, our work unexpectedly started to dry up for some unknown reason. Initially, it affected our larger private contracts first, nothing to panic about. Ralph assured me, Just a temporary blip. Ralph once again assured me that our regular sub-contract work would carry us through until things started to pick up again. The building trade historically had regular highs and lows. Such is life, he joked a little too unconvincingly. Reassuring me that if the worst comes to the worst, we may just have to lay off a few of our most unreliable sub-contract teams. Warning bells were starting to ring in my head in regards to Ralph’s constant and disingenuous assurances.

We had regular small building and property maintenance contracts with a couple of local councils and housing associations to rely on. Plus, small work picked up from our local weekly advertising rag to help us cover the lean times. So as Ralph, him being ever the optimist advised that we carry on as normal and remember, Don’t Panic, Mr Mannering! he jokingly advised me.

Ralph’s attitude continued to cause me concern. My father, now dead and buried for the past two years had always, being the shrewd farmer that he was, told both me and my brother Hamish from an early age to put something away for the lean times, Dad cautioned the pair of us that lean times will happen regularly in one’s long working life.

He also confided in us that unless you are born with a silver spoon in your mouth, which is highly unlikely for most of the working-class families like us living in the Scottish North West coast, sometime in your lives, you will succumb to one form or other of penury. Therefore, his second piece of advice was to ease back on the spending when money gets tight and always have a contingency plan to fall back upon in case things take a turn for the worst.

My parents James and Mary lived on the West Coast of Scotland. They owned a small farm that had been passed on from father to son; both my older brother Hamish and I were born and raised up on the farm. The farm was by no means large compared to some of the farms that were situated on Scotland’s Ayrshire coast. We produced and sold various root vegetables, mostly potatoes to some of the smaller greengrocers and mini markets in the villages and towns in our local area. Mum, when circumstances (mainly her health), allowed it had a stall in our village market, selling fresh veg and dairy produce, she only worked one day a week on her small stall but she kept reminding us that as small as it was profit-wise, it kept the wolves from the door. Both my parents knew that we were never going to be millionaires. They continually reminded me and Hamish that we were property-rich and penny poor.

As his lads turned from boys to men, Dad had made it crystal clear to both of us that the takings from our farm could not sustain three strapping men. One of us, me, in particular, would have to find alternative employment. I was more than happy to find another source of employment, as unlike my brother Hamish who loved farming, I soon realised that working on the land would never be my career of choice. I was now 17 years old and had just finished school the previous year, my challenge would be to find a decent job with a decent wage to help Hamish and Dad out.

Finding the right job was harder than I’d expected, travelling to and from the farm was a problem. Big brother got around that obstacle for me, acknowledging that I had been given the short straw having to find another job away from the farm. He lent me his motorbike to get from A to B until I had passed my driving test and could afford something a bit more decent with four wheels!

My father James and mother Mary had now both passed away, my mum died when I was only sixteen years old, I had just left school at the time and I took her passing quite badly, maybe it was my age, never the less, I got the feeling that the doctors treating her had never tried hard enough to save her. Mum had been in and out of hospitals since I was in short trousers, they blamed her illness on post-natal depression, granted both my older brother Hamish and I according to Mum were extremely large babies when we were born, we were reliably informed by her regularly when the mood took her, that I came out at 10lbs, and Hamish just under 9lbs. It was like giving birth to a pair heifer’s, she would bemoan.

Mum was in and out of the hospital regularly, always on a concoction of drugs. Half the time, she seemed spaced out and continually talked to herself or repeated the same sentences over and over again. As I approached sixteen, Mum’s health started to deteriorate to a new level, this came in the form of a full-on mental breakdown. She was once again admitted to hospital for specialist treatment, she now seemed to be suffering from physical as well as mental health issues.

It was a couple of weeks after my birthday when things had come to a head. Mum was still in hospital and this time, she seemed to be spending more time in bed than out of it, poor Mum looked totally out of it. She just lay in her bed in a daze. She didn’t even seem to recognise any of us sitting around the bed. Dad looked at her with a calm sadness in his face, the look that can only come from a love that you’ve shared with a lifetime partner. He knew that she was slipping away from him and he knew in his heart that there was nothing he could do about it.

Late that same night, the hospital contacted my dad and told him to return back up to the hospital straight away, I don’t know what the doctors treating my mum told my father or what they diagnosed, one thing was for sure it seemed like bad news to me. Dad’s head was bowed as were his shoulders hunched with tension, a sure sign that things were not looking too good for Mum.

I asked the obvious question that I didn’t really want the answer to.

What’s up with Mum? Is she very ill?

He told me with sadness in his soft-spoken lowland Scot’s accent that Mum had had a seizure during the night and they don’t think she will regain consciousness. The doctor had told him to prepare for the worst. In her moments of clarity, Mum, who was a practicing Roman Catholic, had told my dad that if things ever came to a head in regards to her health, he was to contact her local priest, Father David Brennan, at St Peter & Pauls RC, parish church in our local village. Mum didn’t last the night; nor did she receive the last rites from her parish priest. The doctor told my father that she died of complications; apparently, her body just gave up on her. From that day on, I would never trust another single word that a doctor would tell me.

Dad lasted a few years after Mum passed away. He was a born and bred farmer, as was his father before him. He was a bright intelligent individual and as strong as an ox, he averaged 18 hours a day working his farm. Dad had only two vices in his life, one was the Golden Stuff, his ‘Whisky’ and the other was his cigarettes, he was a forty a day man and they would eventually become his nemesis.

I was now married and living in West Yorkshire when I received the call from my brother Hamish, he informed me that Dad had been diagnosed with lung cancer; the cancer had also attacked other major organs in his body. Hamish, who was always the soft one in the family, found it hard to tell me that Dad was at death’s door. Once again, the medical profession told my brother that our father’s demise was imminent, the specialist gave Dad three months tops, any longer than that, they said would be a miracle! They do happen occasionally, I mussed.

Dad was gifted another six months of life, once again, what do doctors know? During those nine months, he shrunk in front of Hamish’s eyes from a 15st larger than life individual, into a skeleton of skin and bones. In the end, all our family and close relations were glad to see Dad pass away. I spent the last two weeks by his bedside at the hospital watching over him and waiting until finally, he passed over to be beside the woman that he could not seem to live without, my mum.

Helen my wife had started to notice the steady change in my mood, I went from the reliable husband and father, to a nervous wreck. This had come on slowly at first, about the same speed as our building business started to unfold. Our work had literally dried up within a couple of months. Ralph, my partner, managed the finance side of the business, he paid all the bills when invoices came in and arranged bank payments to our subcontractors on a regular monthly basis, I managed the contract side, doing all the tendering for new building quotes, and arranging to meet new or regular clients, whenever I got the heads up about proposed work that may be in the pipeline at some future date.

Unbeknown to me, outstanding invoices were not being dealt with, there was more money going out of our business account than coming in, it soon became obvious to me that we were spending more money than we were earning. This all came to a head when our regular building supply merchants refused to give us any more credit until all the outstanding invoices were paid up in full. Ralph also failed to inform me that some of our sub-contractors hadn’t been paid for the previous month’s work.

When things eventually came to a head, I challenged Ralph to explain why things had gone belly up in regards to our finances. He had originally told me that he was confident things would pick up. Ralph also informed me that he had no idea how things had gotten so out of hand as they were, as far as he was concerned, everything in the garden was still rosy.

Don’t worry, mate, I’m sure things will pick back up again shortly, he lied blatantly.

What Ralph failed to tell me was that he had been borrowing heavily from our company’s business account.

Always the trusting partner and being the fool that I am, I never gave that side of the business a second thought, I trusted him implicitly and likewise, he trusted me. We both agreed from the start of the partnership that we would only draw an agreed amount of money as salary from the main account and have our wages transferred into our personal bank accounts for our own private use.

My so-called partner and friend Ralph had gotten himself into some seriously deep debt, unbeknown to me or his wife Betty, Ralph was living a double life; the former was the reliable provider and loving husband. The other life was more akin to the character Walter Mitty, him imagining himself playing the part of a high roller, playing the gaming tables at the local casino but unfortunately for him, he was constantly losing money hand over fist. As well as providing for his wife Betty, Ralph had another younger woman in tow, a classy lady who had some very ‘expensive’ tastes.

When Ralph and his ‘fancy piece’ weren’t at the casino, they would be dining out in one of the many top restaurants in and around the city of Leeds or failing that, they would be cosying up in a quiet hotel room for a bit of afters. I discovered he had been giving the young lady luxury nights out at my expense. All the cash that he laid out on his dalliance came straight out of our business account and very soon, the debts started to mount