My Fault

by Billy Childish

  The fact of the matter is that he can’t bear the sight of me. But for now, all I have to do is sign the document authorising the destruction of my little pea-shooter. He hands me the busted stub, he takes it out from behind his ear, still wet and chewed, the leads blunt. I have to concentrate, to sign my initials, then my name. I have to sign the release sheet, to have my gun fragmented. He peers at my mark suspiciously . . . He lets it be known that he’s by no means convinced, but that’s where he’s leaving it for the moment, for the time being . . . Until further evidence comes to light!

  He turns to my mother, a few hushed words.

  ‘Oh no, the case isn’t closed yet, Mrs Hamperson, not by a long chalk!’

  He winds her up just for the hell of it. . . so she knows . . .

  ‘No one gets the better of Inspector Sorrel, madam! I have my files, my records . . . the long memory of the Law! The murdering computer, Mrs Hamperson!’

  He looks at her meaningfully . . . puts away his notebook . . . buttons his top pocket. . . pats it . . . smiles grimly and exits.

  When the old man caught wind of this latest catastrophe, he went off like a firecracker. He interrogated the old girl all over again, via the telephone . . . He got on the next train, and no messing about, he was home within the hour.

  ‘The police! In my own house?! Didn’t I say so?! Didn’t I warn you?! That council estate! My own flesh and blood! A common criminal! May God be my witness! Your son, Juny, not mine! Is that conceivable?! Tell me it isn’t true, I dare you!’

  He leapt at the carpet and shook it between his teeth, he bit himself all over . . .

  ‘Argh! God! Thug! Thug! Hyena! Hooligan!’

  He exploded like a Catherine wheel . . . He chewed the end clear off his pipe and spat sawdust. He hated himself, alright. His face swelled, and he came out in bumps; he withdrew into himself, and refused to speak to any of us. He went to bed and didn’t get up ever again.

  29. MISS HART’S MAGNIFICENT ARSE

  When people are out to save you, that’s when you’ve got to be at your most wary, to be on your best guard! They start showing fatherly concern? That’s when they’re out to fix you! They’re weighing you up for the chop, making little signs behind your back. They lay it on extra thick. ‘We’re only here to help you!’ ‘It’s for your own good!’ A smile in one hand and a knife in the other; a sweet hello and a kidney punch to boot! The ‘this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you!’ routine.

  That’s the teachers talking, the reiterators of half-truths and lies. Their masks tell one story but their actions another. They mouth off parrot-style, the same old claptrap, the soft soap of choice and freedom! They’re just setting you up, a sweet goodbye and a nasty shove towards the factory gate!

  Us? — Just dockyard fodder, monkeys for the treadmill. Half-arsed believers, ignorant and untutored, barely able to spell our own names.

  Those smarmy cock-suckers all got together and mapped out my future for me, behind closed doors. They even went as far as to call up the old man behind my back. They made various enquiries, ’til they managed to track him down at his offices in London. Did he know that I was insolent and a back-chatter? Or could he explain why I was late for class every morning, despite only living five minutes up the road? They laid it on pretty thick; none of my positive attributes got taken into account. My individualistic spelling and sense of humour never even got an airing. Basically, those jackals cooked the whole fairy tale up between them and fed it to him like cake.

  It seems that my artistic pretensions had been indulged to the hilt, and it was high time I was called to account! What I needed was a sound grounding in the ‘3 Rs’. Painting and drawing were definitely out! It was obvious that I’d been spoilt rotten!

  That was some event, those weasels having the gumption to lay it on the line like that, to chew the old goat’s ear off. And he didn’t just hang up, either, he actually chewed the fat with my long suffering teachers, and even agreed to come down and pay the dump a visit.

  That was a turn-up for the books. No one could believe it. The old girl unplugged her ears. For him to travel all the way down from the smoke? To hold pow-wow with those riff-raff? — Unheard of! Besides he’d always voiced his open contempt for the place. His hostilities were well known; he never failed to broadcast them, ten times a day . . . a thousand times.

  He storms through the kitchen, turns on his heels and slips on a cat shit. ..

  ‘My God, woman, the place is a pigsty!’

  He throws his brolly around like a geranium.

  ‘Who sent him there in the first place? I didn’t! I always said that he should have gone to a boarding school! This kitchen stinks of cat’s piss! Can he read and write yet? Well, can he? Don’t tell me because I don’t want to know! Jesus Christ, woman, they’re ringing me in office hours, can you believe it? Telling me of his short-comings! Of his criminal comings and goings! As if I don’t know already! He’s ignorant? He’s ignorant? They’ll be telling me the world’s round next! No, I won’t be coming home for tea! I’ll sleep on the couch in the office — don’t worry yourself about me, somebody has to earn the money, it doesn’t grow on trees you know! Someone has to keep that shack of yours from falling down!’

  That’s him barking on the telephone, explaining his point of view, his situation, voicing his doubts. That’s how he communicated, via the dog, direct, every two or three weeks.

  But what really knocks us sideways is that he actually does turn up to view my long-suffering tormentors. Despite my mother’s doubts, he really intends to have it out with them. He comes totally togged out in his Edwardian fancy dress, right down to the side-buckle shoes and velvet collared drape.

  When they clap eyes on that old cockerel, they can scarcely hide their admiration. The most immaculately dressed and mild-mannered gentleman who ever greased their doorsteps . . . He certainly caught them right off balance — their lists of complaints and grievances dissolved into air like milk. They’d never seen such a fancy tomato, the brims of his hat flopped right down over his ears. He peeps from beneath them, coquettish; he shimmers like a vision, his waxed whiskers blazing!

  The bunch of them become self-conscious, flapping their arms about like scarecrows, and staring down at their grubby hush-puppies. They ‘um’ and ‘arr’, they fall over each other in their rush to offer him the comfy seat.

  Even I have to admit that I felt proud of him, stood there like a dummy from the wax museum. The old coot certainly had bags of style. But in the end it was his dulcet tones that seduced them, the whispering voice of command. Mrs Cooper went damp at the crutch, she was literally queuing up to have a heart to heart with him, to give him the low-down on his vulgar offspring. He had them gathered at his feet, crouching on their haunches, hanging onto his every word. They wanted to know if he really did own a Rolls Royce? And how many horsepower? And the leather upholstery? A real walnut dashboard? He totally bowled them over.

  And the amount of fatherly care and concern that he showered on his youngest and most beloved son! I didn’t deserve him, that was plain as day!

  Look at how I repaid him: a no-good, disrespectful, gun-toting truant! It was obvious that he’d been sowing his seed on arid ground. They had genuine heart-felt sympathy for him; how could a celestial vision such as his good self have had any part in the conception of such an obnoxious toe-rag?

  ‘We’re sorry to have to tell you Mister Hamperson, but Steven’s progress isn’t all that it could be. To say that his performance leaves a lot to be desired would be an understatement! Not that we’re suggesting that you’re in anyway responsible, of course . . . You’ve tried, as you know that we have tried, Mister Hamperson . . . but the point is, is the boy lacks discipline! He has no concept of the word respect! He refuses point-blank to co-operate! The simplest thing that’s asked of him, he goes out and does the exact opposite! It’s as if he takes a perverse pleasure in being different! In short he’s eccentric, his behaviour’s abominable and his langu
age foul! He always has to be the clown of the class, the centre of attention! He’s ruining all the other children’s chances, not only his own! And I don’t have to remind you, that this is exam year, Mister Hamperson! He thinks he’s clever, but he isn’t; he’s utterly selfish and a fool to himself! He’s disrupting the whole curriculum! What I’m trying to say, Mister Hamperson, is that his exam prospects look bleak, to say the least. . . I’ve spoken to the career office, and to be quite frank, we can’t foresee any career possibilities for him whatsoever! Who’ll employ such a boy, answer me that?’

  The old man hums to himself, barely audible, on the edge of hearing, his fingers to his eyes, he pulls on his nose . . .

  ‘I’m in business, in London, you understand. I have many outside responsibilities, commitments. Of course, I take full responsibility . . . If only his mother had let me know the gravity of the situation . . . No, I blame myself, I’ve done all I could, but it obviously hasn’t been enough.’

  They shout him down; they won’t hear of him maligning himself in such a manner. How could he know? It’s not his fault, he shouldn’t kick himself . . .

  The old man smiles sheepishly, nods his head and dabs his eyes with his handkerchief. He brings it forth from his drape pocket with a flourish and lets go two mighty blasts on his hooter.

  ‘Yes, I’ve tried to instill good manners and truthfulness in the boy, I’ve tried my level best, but obviously, somewhere along the line he’s gone astray. And now I just pray to God that it isn’t too late to make amends, for him to pull his socks up and make a go of it . . . I’ll do all that I can, I’ll put him into further education if necessary — money is no object, of course . . . I feel sure that if he can only get a few decent exam results under his belt, then he can get a commission in the Royal Navy . . . Now there’s discipline for you, Naval discipline! A tradition in my family, you understand. The boy’s grandfather . . . I have friends at the Ministry.’

  He nods and taps his nose. His audience sit there spell-bound. By the time he comes to the end of his monologue they’re all hooked, lead, line and sinker! They’re head over heels in love. They stand and give him an ovation, slapping each other on the back and congratulating themselves. They all agree that they’ve done their level best, that the only other alternative is Borstal. They wash their hands of me! If I want to go to the devil, well so be it, their consciences are clear! The more they agree with each other, the more tearful they become — a regular waterworks. Someone must have spiked their tea . . .

  Just as I think that they’ve forgotten me, Miss Hart comes out into the corridor and takes me aside. She looks me up and down and fondles my lapels. She tells me I’m growing up to be quite a hunky fellow. She wants to know what I’m going to do with myself once I quit school? The back of her hand brushes along her thigh. She pouts and flutters her eyelashes. I wish she’d taken my head in her hands and pushed my face between those great throbbing tits.

  I get literary and compose a ballad for her right there on the spot, a sonnet to her magnificent arse. She’s bent over the grand piano in the main hall, she arches her back and looks over her shoulder. I stick out my tongue, the cheeks of her arse each side of my face, and Flam! She farts on my tongue!

  No one was more pleased than me when they finally got round to kicking me out of that dump. The teachers and their stinking pupils? Just a lot of nodding dogs! So, they agree or they disagree? But they still keep right on destroying life.

  We hung around waiting for the end of term, for our lives to just dissolve and disappear. The man from the DHSS comes into assembly and gives us a lecture on how to go about signing on at the dole office, and the rest of us are given entry papers for the dockyard. You can get so full of other people’s fine ideals and crummy advice that in the end you have to walk or puke.

  30. THE MURDERING COMPUTER

  One thing that you can be sure of in this world, is that nobody’s responsible. The starving millions? That’s somebody else’s fault — let them eat cake! The H-bomb? They’re blown to smithereens? — God must have dropped it! The chocolate vending machine’s out of order? It doesn’t belong to the publican or his wife, certainly not! Nobody is who it belongs to, and nobody deals with official complaints! It restocks itself, of its own accord, totally self-perpetuating! But somebody’s pocketing the non-returnable two bob bits; if you want to know their names you can go to the devil!

  You won’t get a straight answer — from the shop boy up, somebody else is pulling the strings. The Prime Minister? Lady luck? Don’t ask too many questions, it’ll get you precisely nowhere! Or at least into serious trouble. Somebody’s plotting your downfall? You should of shut your mug and kept schtum! Keep your head down or you’ll get it knocked off. I should know, and I should have had the sense to keep my trap shut. It always suits somebody to have you out the way. The murdering computer has his lists. It’s responsible for all manner of fires and deaths. He’s keeping his records, working overtime, making his plans, creating vacancies and filling them. Your national identity card’s out of date? Inspector Sorrel will come to hear of it, by first class mail. By Royal protocol! By microchip!

  Who’s responsible for the fact that I can’t read or write? OK, so I’m grouching again, we’ve all got our right to gripe, but who’s gonna take the can for my obvious deficiencies? My mother had a go, I can verify that much. I couldn’t read or write but I was as bright as a pin . . . came top of the year in 1972. The teachers didn’t put me up because they said that I was too eccentric and wouldn’t get on with the brainy types! So, I walk home and tell the old girl, she holds onto her iron and says nothing. A big basket of washing with the cat sitting on top of it . . . No one has ever stood up for me, and that’s why everybody has been free to take bigger and bigger liberties!

  And my father? He washed his hands and absolved himself, he went to bed and wouldn’t even say goodnight. No kidding, he felt sorry for himself. But me? I only got what I deserved, and I take full responsibility . . . on the chin, like a man, smack! I’ll carry the show for the whole stinking lot of them! I’m young and I’m strong, a writer with a backbone, fearless and brave!

  And it’s no good pointing the finger at the teachers, they’ll shout right back in your face, righteous to the core.

  ‘Nothing to do with us, madam! We did all that could be expected, we wash our hands of the brat! Go fill your pipe!’

  That big bitch sat right at the head of the class, skin tight slacks and cavalry boots, the piss-flaps clearly outlined like two half pound beefburgers, the nylon jammed right up the crack! And the back view — an arse like a cow! Old Ma Cooper, my form teacher, a sweet talker. You go and ask her about my so-called education.

  She spent fifteen minutes every morning telling us how bright and intelligent her daughters were, how they were in private education, rode ponies and would have nothing at all to do with a prize bunch of half-wits such as our good selves! We chewed at our pencils and spat...

  Me and teachers have always hit it off badly. Teachers and Thatcherites, hate at first sight! She picked on me in particular on account that I had the nerve to answer back. From the first day of school I was singled out to be made an example of, to break my will. And they’re always the big swatters as well, hysterectomy jobs. That old sow might have had her menopause but she still needs the Tampax to soak up the pus! She glowers at me, shaking her jowls with indignation, she grunts like a pig.

  OK, I apologise, I’ve gone too far . . . I take it all back and I salute you, you glorious liberals, you brave hearts and freedom-fighters, you champions of equal rights . . . The anti-pornography-freedom-of-speech-lobby! Go ahead, burn all the books! Fire bomb our houses! Prove yourself heroes! No one is responsible, nobody is to blame . . . Either all are guilty or none . . . Nobody bore me or raised me, they just fucked and washed their hands.

  31. HER MAJESTY'S DOCKYARD CHATHAM

  They made no bones about it, I’d completely blown my career opportunities. I was a waster, lying aro
und in bed ’til gone nine, playing with my dick. The only thing I learned in school was in the playground — the school yard mentality, the weight of a fist, the exact shape of a knuckle. I was late, I was on detention, I was punched.

  They didn’t exactly encourage creative thinking in that dump, everything they wanted to know was already sewn up and written down: dates, figures, numbers, whole lists of them. They don’t ask for opinions, all they want is agreement, and they’ve got stacks of it, passed down from generation to generation. ‘The History of the Yes-Men’. ‘God, church and private ownership. Amen’. ‘Utterances of the Dead’. Page after page of the stuff. I yawned and stared out the window; I was a scallywag and a masturbator, and the teachers knew it.

  Like I say, the only option open to a kid when you got out of that dump was the dockyard. Left at the town hall, tall, Portland stone, a clock tower. You’ll know it when you see it, check your time piece and hurry on up Dock Road to Brompton. Now, keep a sharp look out for her on your larboard bow, arched, brick-red, authoritarian; Her Majesty’s Ship Pembroke. Say, that’s some gateway, a gateway to inspire fear. That’s it, the only one of her kind — the main gate — I’d recognise that whore anywhere, I’ve passed through her enough times.

  I dig for my pass, rummaging through my overalls. I walked most of it, but then I caught a taxi. I was worried about being late. My mother installed that in me, an inheritance of worry and fear. That’s some word: ‘fear’, it has to be succumbed to, to feel its weight and obey. She painted a pretty black picture of the future in general — according to her we were going to go bust and wind up in the workhouse, as sure as shit! We lived in the honest belief of our imminent destruction.