The Boyhood of Burglar Bill

by Allan Ahlberg

  The Frankenstein of Frogs. Ronnie Horsfield was a friend too, but more recent, harder. He had attached himself to us in the last few months. Ronnie was small and wiry and often wore a balaclava. He smelled – pleasantly, in my opinion – of dogs. Two slept in his room. He lived with his gran; his parents were never mentioned.

  There was a huge hand-painted message, I remember, on the end wall of Ronnie’s house:

  WELCOME HOME GEORGE

  with a roughly painted Union Jack above it, and the date: 14 August 1946. So who was George? Ronnie’s dad, perhaps, coming home from the war? The message and the flag were fading year by year. But if he was welcomed home, this George, where was he now?

  What Ronnie was good at was climbing: walls, gates, drainpipes, anything. In the park behind the boathouse there was a pair of trees where it was possible, with some daring and skill, to climb up the one and down the other. Ronnie and I were among the elite who could accomplish this. Yes, Ronnie might look like a sparrow, but his strength/weight ratio was off the scale. He could swing across between those trees one-handed like a chimp.

  But, when all was said and done, the thing about Ronnie Horsfield was, he had a reputation. There were stories and rumours about him. He had no great talent apart from climbing, was not particularly clever or brave, and yet he seemed quite effortlessly to get his own way. Nobody ever bothered him, not even Amos. His reputation was both mysterious and horrible: things he was supposed to have done. He had a level gaze. Even Mr Cork thought twice before banging Ronnie Horsfield’s desk.

  It’s all about perspective and scale. To the adults, except Mrs Milward maybe, we were little boys. Amos was a little boy. But in the playground, or anywhere with his fists up, Amos was a colossus, a terror, the biggest shark in the sea. And Ronnie too: a skinny scrap, a shrimp of a boy, but in our minds at times, if the truth were told, a regular Dr Frankenstein no less. Of frogs.

  A Sad Jelly. My friends, you’ll note, were somewhat odd; I was the normal one. I did a bad thing once, it’s true, and more than once. (‘That’s a nice pencil sharpener, I’ll have that.’) Took Dennis Johnson’s marbles too, burgled his desk one wet playtime, I’m ashamed to say. Sorry, Dennis. Also, I had this talent for making things up. If Spencer taught me cats, I taught him alibis. One time we were fooling around with some matches and he got a burn hole through two thicknesses of sock. He was greatly agitated. What could he tell his mother?

  ‘Tell her… tell her you fell on a lighted cigarette!’ A convincing explanation, I thought. It had worked with my mother.

  There again, what’s normal anyway? What’s odd? That whole town was populated with oddities, as I remember it, broken and damaged people that the doctors had not yet tidied up or locked away. Men with missing arms, dogs with missing legs. Ice Cream Jack had a great black built-up boot on one of his feet. A boy in our class was covered top to toe with livid flaky scabs. Bobby Edwards ran errands for his sister to the shops with a note of what to get, creases of concentration on his face. And he was forty-six. Mrs Moore shook permanently like a sad jelly. Likewise, mysteries and unlikelihoods abounded. Mr Reynolds always offered you a sweet – a Fisherman’s Friend or pear drop – after whacking you with his cane. There was a ghost in the boathouse, a body in the cemetery toilets, a parcel of football shirts conjured up from nowhere on Spencer Sorrell’s step.

  7

  The Boy Who Looked Like a Yacht

  THE OLDBURY AND DISTRICT

  QUEEN ELIZABETH II CORONATION CUP

  ROUND 1: MALT SHOVEL ROVERS V.

  TIVIDALE PRIMARY ‘B’

  VENUE: BARNFORD PARK DATE: 4 APRIL 1953

  KICK-OFF: 10.30 A.M.

  The Team

  Goalkeeper Thomas Capanelli

  Right back Malcolm Prosser

  Left back Patrick Prosser

  Right half Graham Glue

  Centre half Joey Skidmore

  Left half Arthur Toomey

  Outside right Trevor Darby

  Inside right Me

  Centre forward Ronnie Horsfield

  Inside left Tommy Pye

  Outside left Wyatt

  Manager Mr S. Sorrell

  We sat in the changing rooms, a painted wooden shed with splintery benches and coat hooks fixed to the walls. Bars of weak sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, dust danced in the air. Spencer and I distributed the shirts. Tommy Pye was delighted with his, though miles too big and having no number. The others were less pleased, mainly on account of the colours.

  ‘What’s this? Pink, is it? Purple?’

  ‘It’s lilac, actually,’ said Spencer.

  ‘Lilac?’ Joey Skidmore was almost spitting with disgust. ‘Lilac? We’ll look like a –’

  ‘Lilac like a,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Look like a, like a load of… bunch of…’

  ‘Prats?’ said Wyatt.

  ‘Prats,’ said Joey.

  Meanwhile, little Tommy had disappeared into his shirt as though it were a tent.

  ‘You told us they were Albion colours [blue and white stripes],’ said Graham.

  The Parks and Cemeteries man stuck his head round the door.

  ‘Five minutes, boys,’ he said.

  ‘They were,’ said Spencer placidly. ‘There was an accident.’

  A face, Edna May’s, smiled briefly in at a window, prompting a couple of trouserless boys to scuttle out of sight.

  ‘In the wash house,’ Spencer said.

  Trevor was twirling around now, holding his shirt out like a dance frock.

  ‘Accident?’ cried Joey. ‘It’s a bloody pantomime!’

  The moaning continued but was eventually overtaken by the sense of occasion we all felt. To step out there, lilac shirts or not, into that watery morning light, on to that proper pitch with its fresh white lines, goalposts, nets! The grass, in truth, could have done with a trim – send for Mr Cotterill – but the excitement, the peculiar mixture of shyness and showing off; I could hardly think straight.

  The game kicked off. Ten minutes later we were 3–0 down. A wild rush by their entire team into our penalty area produced the first, and, building cleverly on this success, the second likewise. The third goal involved the Prosser twins and a high corner. Both of them went for it. Unluckily, Malcolm, who could head a ball, was beaten to it by Patrick, who couldn’t. It skimmed the top of his head and flew into the goal.

  The crowd was going wild, all twenty of them. Edna May was there with a friend. Mrs Glue. My mum, frowning as ever, with Dinah tugging at her lead. Albert and Rufus Toomey arrived late and were lounging now behind the Tividale goal, blowing smoke from their cigarettes towards the goalie. A cluster of Tividale supporters waving scarves and such stood at the halfway line.

  Now it was our turn. First goal, a wild rush by all of us into their penalty area; second, an almost intentional back-heel from Ronnie, and the third, a prodigious dribble from Tommy Pye. Tommy Pye was the instant darling of the crowd, even as he ran on to the pitch. The mothers, Tividale’s included, ‘Ooe’d’ and ‘Ah’d’ whenever he touched the ball and protested loudly if he was tackled. Anyway, Tommy picked up a rebound – the ball in games like this spent half its life ricocheting around – and headed for the goal. In that billowing shirt of his he looked like a small yacht. On he went, left foot, right foot, dropping his shoulder, feinting this way and that – oh yes, he had it all. None of the Tividale kids could stop him, nor could he stop himself, but ended up in the back of the net, ball, goalie and all.

  The game continued with more goals in the second half and some heroics from Tommy Ice Cream. He really was a big boy for his age. He didn’t move around much, but stuck out his arms and legs and the ball often as not just hit him. He was impervious to pain and had a goal kick like a siege gun.

  With only minutes remaining, the score was 7–all. Tommy Ice Cream had blocked a shot with his knees. Advancing through the horde of Tividale centre forwards, he prepared to explode a kick upfield. At that moment I was out on the touchli
ne tying a bootlace. I called for the ball. Tommy, surprisingly alert and willing, threw it to me. I embarked on a dribble of my own. With most of the opposition behind me, I approached the halfway line, beat one tackle, beat another, resisted a shove in the back from a muscly little boy and lifted my gaze towards the goal. Wyatt then came steaming up on my left. Hardly knowing what I did, I drifted right, took the defender with me and passed the ball to Wyatt. The surprise, to me, of this action caused me to stop stone dead. I watched as Wyatt, in his bony angular fashion, galloped on towards the goal and with a carefree swing of his leg hammered the ball high across the Tividale goalie’s outstretched arms, hands, fingers – and into the net.

  It was a transforming moment. On top of all the predictable feelings, those I shared with the others – exhilaration, joy – there was this extra, mysterious, still-to-be-worked-out pleasure. I had made a goal. Yes – and it was the winner.

  8

  Receivers of Stolen Goods

  The walk home from Barnford Park, down that ordinary hill, past those nothing-in-particular houses, gates and gardens, those matter-of-fact post boxes, phone boxes, telegraph poles, privet hedges, sweet wrappers, chip papers, fag ends, matchsticks, all the endless paraphernalia of life… was magical. We talked in one great tangled skein or snowball of words that rolled on down the hill with us inside it, while our faces glowed with the other, the inexpressible, wordless stuff.

  JOEY That was never a penalty! (Joey had upended their centre forward and the divot of turf he was stood on.)

  GRAHAM Right!

  RONNIE Did y’see that back-heel?

  WYATT Did y’see… (Wyatt forgets what he intended to say.)

  TOMMY PYE Their lot had oranges. We should have oranges.

  RONNIE Ask ‘Mr Sorrell’ then.

  ARTHUR I can get oranges.

  GRAHAM Did y’see –

  PATRICK I’m better as a forward really. I don’t like it at left back.

  JOEY Well y’scored (that ‘skid-off-his-head’ own goal) anyway.

  MALCOLM I don’t like it at right back.

  TREVOR Look, Joey, here’s Edna May. You love her.

  JOEY No, I don’t.

  TREVOR You said –

  JOEY No, I never!

  SPENCER We should let Tommy Ice Cream take the free kicks, y’know.

  RONNIE Yeah – he’d blast ’em.

  JOEY Smash ’em!

  RONNIE Annihilate ’em!

  JOEY Tommy, Tommy! (Attempts to give Tommy Ice Cream, two paces to the rear, a hug. Tommy falls back still further and retreats into his coat.)

  EDNA MAY (At the kerb on her bike) Who y’playin’ next?

  JOEY Who wants to know?

  TREVOR Joey says he loves you.

  JOEY No, I never.

  BRENDA (Bissell, Edna May’s friend) She loves him.

  EDNA MAY You love him.

  TREVOR ’E loves ’Er.

  (Exit, laughing, Brenda and Edna May.)

  ME Did y’see me lay that one on a plate?

  WYATT Did y’see… (And forgets again.)

  SPENCER You should tie your laces up more often –

  JOEY It was never a penalty, though.

  SPENCER – there’s space on the wings.

  Mrs Sorrell and the Shirts. It occurs to me I have yet to explain the business with the shirts. Well, that ‘accident’ Spencer spoke of happened like this: Mrs Sorrell washed them. It was a Monday, you see, when the shirts were discovered and Monday was washday. Mrs Sorrell was not concerned with where the shirts had come from – Spencer implied that I had something to do with it – but very concerned about where they might have been, nicely folded or not. Spencer couldn’t possibly wear (or even handle) something that she herself had not rubbed with soap, pummelled and scrubbed, boiled in the copper, wrung out in the mangle and ironed to perfection. Washday was an institution in that town. Mothers competed to get their sheets and such out flapping on the lines in communal yards or adjacent gardens. Wash houses clattered and rang with their industry. Steam billowed from open windows, smoke rose from chimneys. Never mind football competitions for the kids, how about a Coronation Washday Cup for the mothers? Mrs Sorrell would have made the final; you could’ve bet on my mum too.

  So the shirts were washed. Unfortunately, other stuff found its way into the boiler as well, including a pair of Angela’s school socks (Spencer’s sister). Holly Lodge colours: purple and green. Brand new.

  The shirts were also brand new. Interestingly, the maker’s labels had been removed. Where they had come from perplexed us all. Later that same morning on the way to school, Spencer and I met up with Ronnie and Graham Glue. The news was circulated and explanations sought.

  ‘It’s somebody trying to help us,’ said Graham. ‘A secret supporter.’

  ‘Why leave ’em on Spencer’s step?’ said I.

  ‘He’s the manager,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Got his name on the form,’ Graham said.

  ‘Why cut the labels out?’ said I.

  ‘Are you sure there was no writing on the parcel – no stamps?’ said Graham.

  ‘Nothing,’ Spencer said. ‘It was never posted.’

  ‘Somebody –’

  ‘Secret supporter,’ said Graham.

  ‘Somebody,’ said I, ‘crept down your entry in the dead of night and –’

  ‘Why cut the labels out?’ said Ronnie and answered it himself. ‘Nicked.’

  The possibility of a shy or secretive benefactor appealed to us.

  ‘Ice Cream Jack!’ cried Joey, who had joined the walkers. ‘’E’s got money.’

  ‘Yeah, new jersey for Tommy, new shirts for us,’ said Graham.

  ‘Why not just hand ’em over?’ said I. ‘Why cut the labels out?’

  The possibility that we were the receivers of stolen goods also appealed. Stealing was by no means the worst of crimes in our eyes in those days. Scrumped rock-hard pears from the vicarage, peas in the pod from the allotments, bits and pieces from Milward’s, other kids’ marbles. Not all of us did all of it, but most of us did some of it, and none of us, except Spencer maybe, wholly disapproved. Of course, the advantage of dyed stolen goods was plain to everybody. The cops, if they were on the trail at all, would be looking for Albion kit not French night-shirts, as Joey described them.

  Just then we encountered Albert and Rufus Toomey. They were squashed into a phone box and up to no good. Rufus rapped on the glass; Arthur was with us now, eating his breakfast: cold toast. He waved to his brothers. Albert pressed his reddish face to the glass. If you didn’t know him better, you might well have suspected him… of smiling.

  Anyway, after the match – our Tividale triumph – and the long walk home down Barnford Hill, there were jobs to do. Helping Mum to make the beds, running errands: bone meal for the hens, dog biscuits for Dinah. I remember those biscuits, bone-shaped some of them, all different colours and sold loose from a barrel. I enjoyed them almost as much as Dinah did, especially the black ones. They were good for my teeth, apparently, and gave me a glossy coat.

  I had money to earn too, errands and such to run for Mrs Moore. Mrs Moore was our nearest neighbour, and the first to make us welcome when we moved up from Stone Street. She suffered from a kind of palsy and shook all over. Bravely, in these circumstances, she arrived at our house amid the boxes and piles of furniture with a tray, biscuits and a pot of tea. Mrs Moore was a gentle, trusting soul. She promoted in me a degree of good manners that would have surprised my parents and astounded the school.

  In contrast, my mother was explosive. I got clouted a couple of times while making the beds, accused of eating Dinah’s biscuits – indignantly denied – another clout. At teatime my invisible dad showed up, witnessed the hurling of a failed pie out through the kitchen window into the yard, and departed. He took refuge on his allotment. I retreated to the park with Dinah, and later still in the gathering gloom to the lavatory. By torchlight I harassed in my turn an unoffending spider and read the paper. There was
a small rectangular window through which the rising moon was visible. I gazed at the square of newsprint in my hand, but hardly saw it. My thoughts were somewhere else. ‘It’s Ahlberg now, the ball glued to his foot…’

  9

  The Stanley Matthews

  Football Book

  On Monday morning in assembly Mr Reynolds talked to the whole school about boys playing on bomb sites, boys trespassing in Messrs Danks’s factory yard and storage areas, nits, Jesus and the Coronation Cup.

  A boy named Horace Crumpton had fallen and dislocated his shoulder while fooling around in a derelict house. Mr Reynolds felt sure we could learn a lesson from him. Horace took a bow, embarrassed and pleased with himself, arm in a sling. Other boys, so far unidentified, had been chased out of Danks’s on Saturday night by the watchman. It was Amos and his lot treading the boilers again, but Mr Reynolds was not to know this. He was sick and tired of getting phone calls to his home, he said, and promised retribution.

  On a happier note, Mr Reynolds invited us to bask in the achievements of both our teams in the Coronation Cup. They had done tremendously well. The ‘B’ team had lost narrowly to Rolfe Street, while the ‘A’ team had simply slaughtered the Good Shepherd, 14–3. Three cheers were called for and supplied. No mention of us. Mr Reynolds, Mr Cork and the others had yet to hear of our achievements, though by the end of the day word had spread. Mr Cork, it was reported, took offence. He hammered a few more desks than usual, including his own. He saw it as a comment on the lawless times in which we now lived. If Rood End had needed three teams, or been capable of them, he was the one to say so, not Master Joseph bloomin’ Skidmore or Mr Spencer blinkin’ Sorrell.

  By Wednesday Mr Cork had simmered down (as far as he was likely to). At 1.30 p.m. sixty-six boys trooped out of the school, Amos and Vincent Loveridge leading the way, Mr Cork to the rear. A low and heavy pancake of smog overhung the town. There was no wind. The air was pungent, full of sulphur, soot and worse. The smoke from old man Cutler’s bonfire rose straight up in a white column, adding its contribution, with a smaller offering of bluer smoke from old man Cutler’s pipe.