Charlie Feehan Character Analysis

Warmth. That was what the poor craved most in the winter months, but without money we seldom found it […]. To be poor was to be cold. The two were the same. But me, I refused to let it take me. So one day I plotted a course––a simple rectangle of main streets it was, covering only a few miles in distance. And that very night, when I felt the cold, dull ache in my bones, I headed out into the dark, damp streets of Richmond, and […] I ran.

True, it was the warmth I sought each night I headed out. It was the prickle of skin and the sweat on my brow. But soon there was something more. The sleazy streets seduced me, and, like a moth to the flame, I gladly surrendered.

I’d heard that [Squizzy Taylor] was a man not to be trusted––a scheming blaggard who’d squeal on his mother to save his own skin. But already I liked him. There was something about him I admired. Pint-sized and snappily dressed, Squizzy Taylor commanded respect. And what’s more, he got it.

Normally I would have felt uneasy, limping through the city streets in the daylight hours. Without an adult escort, I was fair game to be collared by a truant officer. But today, I felt different. Today, although my victory had not been entirely aboveboard, I had joined the ranks of the gainfully employed. I was one of them.

That night in my sleep, I dreamt of a house with pink walls […].All three of us were there, Ma, Jack, and me, sitting in front of a crackling fire. Beside the hearth, stacked neatly in rows, was a pile of wood stacked so high it reached the top of the mantelpiece. We sat smiling, faces aglow, dunking bits of bread into steaming soup […].

Next morning, it was the cold that woke me early. When I opened my eyes, the pink walls in my dream had turned a moldy gray and black.

It was quick, my father’s death […]. As soon as he took his last breath, Ma and I were forced to think of the future. Even in death, the poor were denied the luxury of grieving. There just wasn’t time […]. [W]hen the undertakes came to wheel my father’s lifeless body out to the hearse, it was as if they took my childhood with them.

I was proud of my legs. Before the running, they’d been nothing more than two slender sticks […]. But now with the miles in them, they were steely and strong. They were runner’s legs––legs that would one day carry me out of the slums for good.

Slowly [Dolly] opened the lid and removed a pair of shiny black boots […]. Although I was excited, nothing came from my mouth […]. Next thing I knew, Dolly was bent down untying the laces on my father’s boots […].

Standing with her arms fully stretched, she held the boots away from her as if she was handling something unspeakable. Suddenly I found my voice.

“I might keep ‘em if ya don’t mind, Dolly […]. They were my father’s,” I said softly.

I didn’t want what other people wanted. I didn’t want to be like Nostrils, sticking labels on tins of jam at Rosella’s, or like my father, who’d busted his gut down on the wharf for years. I wanted something more than that. I wanted a piece of the action. It didn’t have to be a huge helping, just a slice of it.

Enough to give Ma and Jack a better life.

I stood next to Nostrils, smiling confidently, almost daring the copper to take it further. Never before would I have had the nerve, but as he looked into my eyes I held his gaze, and it was then that I realized what I loved about working for Squizzy Taylor. It was more than just the money. It was the power I loved as well.

I ran during the day and I ran at night. In fact, I ran so much that I didn’t bother changing into my father’s old boots anymore. Ma and I both had our secrets now […]. I avoided her as best I could, preferring to spend my time with Nostrils or Squizzy or Dolly. At least with them I didn’t have to pretend.

Reluctantly she swung my way, and it was then that I saw her battered face. I was shocked […]. I could not believe that the woman standing before me was the same one who’d brought me into this world––the one who’d cared for me all these years.

True, I had been wearing my father’s boots for some months now. Wearing them was easy […]. Any mug who knew the art of tying laces could do that. But filling them, now that was a different story altogether.

[…A] wave of bravado rose in my chest. I reached down and grabbed an apple, then tossed it into the air. When it landed in my right hand, I lifted it up to my mouth and took a healthy bite[…].

“It’s a pleasure doin’ business with ya,” I said, taking the envelope from his outstretched hand. “And by the way, them apples––they’re a bit on the green side.”

During the city runs, I’d been able to distance myself from Squizzy’s debtors. To me they were simply names on a list.

But now, after my meeting with the Cornwalls, I realized that these people were more than just names. They were real people, desperate people––people with families, people just like Ma and me.

Had it been me in his shoes, I daresay the attention would have caused my head to swell the size of a football. But Nostrils wasn’t like that. On the football field, he was as ferocious as anyone I’d seen. You could see it in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to one day fill a spot in the seniors, but come siren time, when he stripped the jumper from his back, Nostrils could not understand what all the fuss was about.

I’d grown accustomed to [Squizzy’s] sarcastic tongue. But tonight the tone in his voice was different. There was a viciousness in it, and it frightened me.

“What the flamin’ ‘eck d’ya think yer up ta?” he roared. “Ya thinkin’ a joinin’ the priesthood, are ya, lad? It’s charity work yer interested in, is it?” […]

“Mr. Taylor, I can explain […].”

In a flash, Squizzy jumped to his feet, gun in hand. He rushed me and stopped only a few inches from my face.

In a person’s life, there are some moments that define who you are––miniscule moments where you’re called upon to act, faster than a flip of a coin.

Heads or tails.

Yes or no.

Go or stay.

Perhaps my mind was already made up, but as I turned and saw them on top of him, Nostrils raised his head and screamed. “Run, Charlie! Run!”

“Did ya ‘appen to know, Charlie,” [Ma] said, pouring the tea, “that me and Alice ‘ave somethin’ in common? […] It just so ‘appens that Alice loves to dance.”

Right then, the strangest thing happened. A vision of my father appeared in the living room as clear as Ma was sitting in the chair opposite […]. He raised his eyebrows, then smiled.

“Giddyup, Charlie.” He winked.

Then he was gone.

Full of rage, I dropped by eyes to the ground and saw my shiny black boots. Right then, something clicked inside my head. Everything became clear. Silently I left the office and made my way to the laundry. After changing into my father’s old boots, I strode back down the hall. I […] placed the boots on the table, right under Squizzy’s nose.

As I sat against the bed, the stash reminded me of the play money my father used to make me, and how I’d pile it into neat rows, always asking for more […]. But this was no longer a game, and I was no longer a boy.

Not so long ago, thousands of people had flocked to Ballarat to dig up the earth in search of gold. Of those thousands, only a few had been lucky enough to strike it rich […]. I tried to picture the men who’d dug the holes […].What had driven them to such lengths?

Looking out across the fields, I suddenly realized what it was. These men were just like me. These men had dreamed of something more, something better.

Even just a slice.

I went back to that first time I’d ventured out––that time I plotted a course of four main streets to rid myself of the cold, dull ache in my bones. Tomorrow, however, I’d be running for something more. I’d be running for my father, for Ma, for Jack, for Alice, for Nostrils, and for Mr. Redmond. Tomorrow I’d be running the race of my life, and the stakes were high.

[… I] began untying the laces on my father’s boots. For a moment I was back sitting on his bed again. I remembered his skeleton arms and how they’d struggled with the weight of the boots as he passed them to me […]. Maybe he’d planned all along to be here with me––here when the stakes were high, when I needed him most.

As I turned the knob, Ma appeared behind me.

“Where are ya goin’, Charlie?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ runnin’, Ma.”

“Runnin’? Where to?”

I dropped my eyes to my father’s boots, then looked up and smiled.

“Who knows, Ma. Who knows.”

Warmth. That was what the poor craved most in the winter months, but without money we seldom found it […]. To be poor was to be cold. The two were the same. But me, I refused to let it take me. So one day I plotted a course––a simple rectangle of main streets it was, covering only a few miles in distance. And that very night, when I felt the cold, dull ache in my bones, I headed out into the dark, damp streets of Richmond, and […] I ran.

True, it was the warmth I sought each night I headed out. It was the prickle of skin and the sweat on my brow. But soon there was something more. The sleazy streets seduced me, and, like a moth to the flame, I gladly surrendered.

I’d heard that [Squizzy Taylor] was a man not to be trusted––a scheming blaggard who’d squeal on his mother to save his own skin. But already I liked him. There was something about him I admired. Pint-sized and snappily dressed, Squizzy Taylor commanded respect. And what’s more, he got it.

Normally I would have felt uneasy, limping through the city streets in the daylight hours. Without an adult escort, I was fair game to be collared by a truant officer. But today, I felt different. Today, although my victory had not been entirely aboveboard, I had joined the ranks of the gainfully employed. I was one of them.

That night in my sleep, I dreamt of a house with pink walls […].All three of us were there, Ma, Jack, and me, sitting in front of a crackling fire. Beside the hearth, stacked neatly in rows, was a pile of wood stacked so high it reached the top of the mantelpiece. We sat smiling, faces aglow, dunking bits of bread into steaming soup […].

Next morning, it was the cold that woke me early. When I opened my eyes, the pink walls in my dream had turned a moldy gray and black.

It was quick, my father’s death […]. As soon as he took his last breath, Ma and I were forced to think of the future. Even in death, the poor were denied the luxury of grieving. There just wasn’t time […]. [W]hen the undertakes came to wheel my father’s lifeless body out to the hearse, it was as if they took my childhood with them.

I was proud of my legs. Before the running, they’d been nothing more than two slender sticks […]. But now with the miles in them, they were steely and strong. They were runner’s legs––legs that would one day carry me out of the slums for good.

Slowly [Dolly] opened the lid and removed a pair of shiny black boots […]. Although I was excited, nothing came from my mouth […]. Next thing I knew, Dolly was bent down untying the laces on my father’s boots […].

Standing with her arms fully stretched, she held the boots away from her as if she was handling something unspeakable. Suddenly I found my voice.

“I might keep ‘em if ya don’t mind, Dolly […]. They were my father’s,” I said softly.

I didn’t want what other people wanted. I didn’t want to be like Nostrils, sticking labels on tins of jam at Rosella’s, or like my father, who’d busted his gut down on the wharf for years. I wanted something more than that. I wanted a piece of the action. It didn’t have to be a huge helping, just a slice of it.

Enough to give Ma and Jack a better life.

I stood next to Nostrils, smiling confidently, almost daring the copper to take it further. Never before would I have had the nerve, but as he looked into my eyes I held his gaze, and it was then that I realized what I loved about working for Squizzy Taylor. It was more than just the money. It was the power I loved as well.

I ran during the day and I ran at night. In fact, I ran so much that I didn’t bother changing into my father’s old boots anymore. Ma and I both had our secrets now […]. I avoided her as best I could, preferring to spend my time with Nostrils or Squizzy or Dolly. At least with them I didn’t have to pretend.

Reluctantly she swung my way, and it was then that I saw her battered face. I was shocked […]. I could not believe that the woman standing before me was the same one who’d brought me into this world––the one who’d cared for me all these years.

True, I had been wearing my father’s boots for some months now. Wearing them was easy […]. Any mug who knew the art of tying laces could do that. But filling them, now that was a different story altogether.

[…A] wave of bravado rose in my chest. I reached down and grabbed an apple, then tossed it into the air. When it landed in my right hand, I lifted it up to my mouth and took a healthy bite[…].

“It’s a pleasure doin’ business with ya,” I said, taking the envelope from his outstretched hand. “And by the way, them apples––they’re a bit on the green side.”

During the city runs, I’d been able to distance myself from Squizzy’s debtors. To me they were simply names on a list.

But now, after my meeting with the Cornwalls, I realized that these people were more than just names. They were real people, desperate people––people with families, people just like Ma and me.

Had it been me in his shoes, I daresay the attention would have caused my head to swell the size of a football. But Nostrils wasn’t like that. On the football field, he was as ferocious as anyone I’d seen. You could see it in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to one day fill a spot in the seniors, but come siren time, when he stripped the jumper from his back, Nostrils could not understand what all the fuss was about.

I’d grown accustomed to [Squizzy’s] sarcastic tongue. But tonight the tone in his voice was different. There was a viciousness in it, and it frightened me.

“What the flamin’ ‘eck d’ya think yer up ta?” he roared. “Ya thinkin’ a joinin’ the priesthood, are ya, lad? It’s charity work yer interested in, is it?” […]

“Mr. Taylor, I can explain […].”

In a flash, Squizzy jumped to his feet, gun in hand. He rushed me and stopped only a few inches from my face.

In a person’s life, there are some moments that define who you are––miniscule moments where you’re called upon to act, faster than a flip of a coin.

Heads or tails.

Yes or no.

Go or stay.

Perhaps my mind was already made up, but as I turned and saw them on top of him, Nostrils raised his head and screamed. “Run, Charlie! Run!”

“Did ya ‘appen to know, Charlie,” [Ma] said, pouring the tea, “that me and Alice ‘ave somethin’ in common? […] It just so ‘appens that Alice loves to dance.”

Right then, the strangest thing happened. A vision of my father appeared in the living room as clear as Ma was sitting in the chair opposite […]. He raised his eyebrows, then smiled.

“Giddyup, Charlie.” He winked.

Then he was gone.

Full of rage, I dropped by eyes to the ground and saw my shiny black boots. Right then, something clicked inside my head. Everything became clear. Silently I left the office and made my way to the laundry. After changing into my father’s old boots, I strode back down the hall. I […] placed the boots on the table, right under Squizzy’s nose.

As I sat against the bed, the stash reminded me of the play money my father used to make me, and how I’d pile it into neat rows, always asking for more […]. But this was no longer a game, and I was no longer a boy.

Not so long ago, thousands of people had flocked to Ballarat to dig up the earth in search of gold. Of those thousands, only a few had been lucky enough to strike it rich […]. I tried to picture the men who’d dug the holes […].What had driven them to such lengths?

Looking out across the fields, I suddenly realized what it was. These men were just like me. These men had dreamed of something more, something better.

Even just a slice.

I went back to that first time I’d ventured out––that time I plotted a course of four main streets to rid myself of the cold, dull ache in my bones. Tomorrow, however, I’d be running for something more. I’d be running for my father, for Ma, for Jack, for Alice, for Nostrils, and for Mr. Redmond. Tomorrow I’d be running the race of my life, and the stakes were high.

[… I] began untying the laces on my father’s boots. For a moment I was back sitting on his bed again. I remembered his skeleton arms and how they’d struggled with the weight of the boots as he passed them to me […]. Maybe he’d planned all along to be here with me––here when the stakes were high, when I needed him most.

As I turned the knob, Ma appeared behind me.

“Where are ya goin’, Charlie?” she asked.

“I’m goin’ runnin’, Ma.”

“Runnin’? Where to?”

I dropped my eyes to my father’s boots, then looked up and smiled.

“Who knows, Ma. Who knows.”