The Boyhood of Burglar Bill

by Allan Ahlberg

  We arrived at GKN’s sports ground. Mr Cork – proudly? stubbornly? – saw no reason to alter his arrangements. The ‘A’ team played the ‘B’ team on the top pitch, the odds and sods were left to their own devices on the bottom. And yet I wonder now, wasn’t he the least bit curious? Did he not take a peep, perhaps, now and then? Notice the odd – sod – flash of skill?

  The bottom pitch was not stuck in its ways. Instead of two teams and one match, we sorted ourselves into four teams and two matches. There was plenty of room, if you didn’t mind long grass and the occasional heavy roller. Spencer had provided himself with a whistle. The first time he blew it, Mr Cork came thundering down the bank and grabbed it off him. Two whistles! It was a recipe for anarchy.

  Spencer, as you will have gathered, was no footballer himself. He’d make up the numbers, if required, otherwise his preferred position was outside outside left. But Spencer had an enquiring mind, took things seriously. If he was the manager he was going to manage.

  Spencer had two books in his possession: a small cash book from his dad’s office in which he made tactical notes (and kept account of who still owed us money), and The Stanley Matthews Football Book. I can picture this book even now. I especially delighted in the sequences of little photographs showing Stanley Matthews and his Blackpool teammate Stanley Mortensen. They demonstrated Matthews’s amazing dribbling skills. Spencer was more interested in moves and positional play, the ‘ball inside the full back’ (except with us there never was a full back), the ‘wall pass’ and so on. His two big ideas, the means by which we were to triumph over St Saviour’s, our next opponents, were (1) that we should pass the ball, and (2) that we should stick to our positions. Team sheets, you see, while they might look official, were pure fiction. Right back, left back, it didn’t mean a thing. The Prosser brothers complained about their positions, disliked being labelled as full backs, but never allowed it to restrict their movements. The main thing was, attackers were attackers, and defenders were attackers. It was an attacking game. On the other hand, an even greater influence was the ball. The ball was a magnet; where it went we went. So in a way we were all defenders… on occasion.

  We had got most of our team together playing Tony Leatherland’s lot. Both the Tommys were missing, of course, and Trevor Darby. His gran had finally died; it was her funeral that afternoon. Spencer’s influence on the game was not great. He refereed, attempting valiantly to be impartial and persuade the players of anything at all. He urged us to pass, run into space, hold our positions. Meanwhile, the fog was thickening. Up on the top pitch the wraith-like figure of Mr Cork flitted here and there, yelling, waving his arm, blasting his whistle. His influence was not great either.

  Suddenly, from nowhere, out of the sulphurous air, Tommy Ice Cream emerged, removed his coat and occupied our goal. He ignored the resident goalie, who gratefully trotted off to take up a more attacking position. Some of the kids gave Tommy sidelong looks. He both fascinated and scared them. He was, or seemed anyway, dangerously unpredictable. If he got the ball in his grasp, they wondered, would he ever let it go? His dark eyebrows met menacingly in the middle of his face. He didn’t look like he could take a joke.

  Eventually, the atmosphere became too impenetrable, too pungent even for Mr Cork. He called it a day, and it was only three o’clock. The office building which overlooked the sports ground shone like a lighthouse. Out on the Birmingham Road, buses, bikes and cars sailed by in ghostly fashion.

  Ronnie, Spencer and I were huddled together outside Milward’s. Ronnie was reading aloud from the paper, the five-line, three-sentence match report on our game with Tividale. My defence-splitting pass, I grieved to hear, got no mention. Mr and Mrs Smith appeared out of the fog, caught briefly in the haze of light from Milward’s window. They had a pram with a baby in it. Mrs Smith greeted me. I felt myself begin to blush and could not look at her. Earlier in the week, despite all protests on my behalf, my mum had dragged me round to see Mrs Smith lying upstairs in her bed with the baby wrapped in a blanket beside her. I was much embarrassed by the whole business. I knew more or less how babies were made. What I couldn’t understand was how Mr and Mrs Smith could bear to walk the streets with the baby, where everybody could see them and know what it was they had been up to.

  The Smiths were swallowed up in the gloom. Mrs Milward rapped sharply on the window and shooed us away. Archie trotted up, sniffed around, trotted off. A huge black car came slowly, silently into view. Solemn men in black suits were visible through the windows. Headlights lit up but did not penetrate the solid air. And there, pale and frowning, like a little lord almost in his unfamiliar suit and collar and tie, was Trevor. The car, and the second car behind it, moved on and disappeared. Trevor in a car, I thought. The first time in his life, perhaps. (It was!) Mrs Milward knocked once more on the glass. A kid on roller skates whizzed by. And we went home.

  10

  Treading the Boilers

  Football boots in those days were massive objects. It’s a wonder to me how our little spindly legs could raise them off the ground, let alone kick anything. The shape of the boot was boot-shaped, not carpet slipper-shaped as it is now. They had rock-hard toe caps, and studs were hammered into their soles like a blacksmith shoeing a horse. (Play football in them? You could have marched out of Russia in them.) To soften this rigid, clog-like footwear you needed dubbin, a kind of brown grease, used also on footballs.

  Footballs in those days were like dumb-bells without the bar in between, or those stone balls you sometimes saw on the top of posh gateways. I have seen boys head a ball and fall backwards into a sitting position, stunned. When a ball was wet it was like a concrete sponge. When it was dry and well dubbined it would skid off your head –remember Prosser’s own goal? – like a baby on a slide.

  And then there was the lace. A football consisted of a stitched leather outside with an inflatable rubber inside. Once you’d blown a ball up, you had to lace it up, a tricky business in itself. No matter how well you did it, the lace stuck out. If you headed the lace, it hurt. The courage – foolhardiness? – of some boys was amazing. They’d head it, it would hurt, and they’d head it again. Footballs made more of an impression on boys’ heads back then than teachers, or Mr Cotterill even.

  It was Thursday evening. A gang of us were sitting out in Joey Skidmore’s yard, admiring a litter of puppies and discussing the forthcoming game. The Skidmores’ yard was like an outpost of Dudley Zoo: cats and dogs, hens, chickens, a couple of ducks and God knows how many rabbits. Pigeons too, in their own special loft fixed high up on the end wall which was actually the property of the Creda. At other times, in season, you could find tin baths full of fish or frogs, linnets even (caught by Mr Skidmore), suspended in their home-made wooden cages from hooks along the sunlit wash-house wall, singing away. Recently, I happened upon a rent book from those days in a box of my mother’s things. Listed on the back among the ‘Conditions of Tenancy’ I read this:

  5. THE TENANT SHALL NOT

  (a) Erect any sheds or structures of any kind without the proper written consent of the Landlord.

  (b) Keep poultry or pigeons on the premises unless consent has previously been obtained.

  (c) Keep pigs on the premises under any conditions.

  I suspect this rent book was written with the Skidmores in mind. They’d kept a pig too, by the way. But that was in the war.

  Spencer had some coloured chalks, acquired by me and Trevor from Miss Palmer’s chalk box. He had drawn the outline of a pitch on the flagstones and was demonstrating moves.

  ‘See. If you all chase the ball, when you get it there’s nobody to pass to.’

  ‘So?’ said Wyatt.

  ‘But if you –’ Spencer drew a little stick-man Wyatt on the left wing – ‘stop out there –’

  ‘Like y’did for that goal,’ said Arthur.

  ‘And somebody,’ said I, ‘passes to you.’

  ‘You get a clear run,’ Spencer said.

  ‘And score,’
said Wyatt.

  Tommy Pye was present but silent, absorbed in petting one of the puppies. I picked up one myself, its eyes tightly shut, twitching paws, bulging belly smooth as an egg.

  Tommy said, ‘How much?’

  ‘For one of these?’ Joey held his puppy high in the air and kissed its nose. ‘It’s a pedigree, y’know Pure boxer spaniel.’

  ‘How much?’ said Tommy.

  ‘Well… a fiver,’ said Joey.

  ‘Five quid!’ cried Wyatt and me and Tommy together.

  ‘All right, five bob, then.’

  ‘I ain’t got five bob.’

  ‘Ask your mummy,’ Joey said. ‘Ask y’daddy Ask y’gran.’

  Tommy was silent.

  ‘You can have two for seven-and-six,’ said Joey.

  A cat sauntered in and sat on Spencer’s pitch. A smell of ironing drifted sweetly out from the Skidmores’ open kitchen window, the clatter of teacups, Mrs Skidmore singing. Pigeons cooing up in the loft. Late-evening light piling up in the sheltered yard.

  ‘Tell y’what,’ said Joey. ‘If we win tomorrow, I’ll give y’one.’

  ‘Which one?’ Tommy’s face was a picture.

  ‘The one you’re holdin’.’

  Silence for a while. Then, ‘I love ’im,’ Tommy said.

  ‘’Er,’ said Joey.

  Mrs Skidmore stepped out into the yard, pink-faced and stretching her arms above her head. She spotted Spencer’s accordion case by the door.

  ‘Hey Spence – give us a tune!’

  Spencer rarely played in public and not that often in private, but had once performed one of his pieces at Mrs Skidmore’s request. She was a music lover.

  Spencer looked startled. ‘Oh, blow it!’ He grabbed his accordion, apologized to Mrs Skidmore and bolted across the yard. He had forgotten his lesson again. Soon after, Tommy Pye made his reluctant departure, having previously asked Joey at least half a dozen times if he meant it, if he really meant it, if he really really meant it.

  This left me, Joey, Wyatt, Arthur and an ark full of animals. Malcolm Prosser arrived, out of breath, with a bag of chips and bad tidings. Patrick had bust his foot.

  ‘Which one?’ said Arthur.

  ‘Left ’un,’ Malcolm said.

  ‘So?’ said Wyatt, acknowledging that all Patrick ever used his left leg for was standing on.

  Patrick, it turned out, had been one of a gang of boys – organized by Amos – who under the cover of fog and darkness had last night revisited Danks’s. Treading the boilers involved a dozen or so boys getting inside a boiler and walking in unison, causing it to roll. For some boys, notably Amos, this was an addictive experience. Danks’s manufactured boilers of all sizes, used in ships and so on. They stored them in a nearby field. The story goes that the first time boys ever worked this trick, the watchman had a heart attack. There was this huge red-oxided cylinder rolling off all by itself in the moonlight.

  Anyway, this time poor old Patrick had got his toes in the way and now had half his leg in plaster. Malcolm was carrying his brother’s freshly laundered shirt. The discussion of who should play in Patrick’s place began. Spencer would fill in, if we were desperate. Trevor’s cousin could be approached or maybe one of the Cubs; they’d been knocked out.

  ‘Bet y’can’t play for two teams, though,’ said Wyatt.

  Trevor himself showed up. He had been off school since Tuesday, had a black armband sewed to his coat. He seemed all right and, of course, nothing was said.

  ‘I know who we should get,’ said Joey.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Albert Pye.’ (Tommy’s brother.)

  ‘Albert Pye – he’s only five!’

  ‘He’s six, actually.’

  ‘Six – he’s a infant!’

  ‘Have you seen him play?’

  ‘A baby!’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  Wyatt drew a baby in a nappy on the pitch. Sadie, the mother of the pups, ambled lazily out of the house. She flopped down in a sunlit patch and pretty soon the pups had sniffed her out. They snuggled and suckled like a row of little sausages beside her. Mr Skidmore came out and removed his bicycle from the wash house. Mrs Skidmore leant in the doorway with a cup of tea. The sound of Mrs Purnell yelling at Mr Purnell drifted in over the wall. Wyatt was doodling on the pitch. A dog in boots was added to the team. Trevor picked up some chalk and joined in. He drew a little stick-girl with triangular skirt and flying pigtails, and gave Wyatt a nudge.

  ‘I know who we should get,’ he said.

  11

  Why Was He Born So Beautiful?

  THE OLDBURY AND DISTRICT

  QUEEN ELIZABETH II CORONATION CUP

  ROUND 2: (QUARTER-FINALS)

  ST SAVIOUR’S R.C. PRIMARY V.

  MALT SHOVEL ROVERS

  VENUE: PERROTT ST. PLAYING FIELD

  DATE: 10 APRIL 1953

  KICK-OFF: 5.30 P.M.

  The Team

  Goalkeeper Thomas Capanelli

  Right back Malcolm Prosser

  Left back Graham Glue

  Right half Trevor Darby

  Centre half Joey Skidmore

  Left half Arthur Toomey

  Outside right Edna May Prosser

  Inside right Me

  Centre forward Ronnie Horsfield

  Inside left Tommy Pye

  Outside left Wyatt

  Manager

  Mr S. Sorrell

  Girls did play football in those days. Not often, but now and then. Not many, but some. Girls did most things, of course: climbed trees, scrumped pears, got into fights. (Never got the cane, though, not from Mr Reynolds anyway.) Alice Bissell, Brenda’s cousin, was on probation for shoplifting. Joan Tripp had climbed into Danks’s on more than one occasion. And there were others.

  Well, we took a vote and between Spencer, ‘Baby’ Pye and Edna May, Edna May got it. I believe that for some of us the rebellious aspect of this choice appealed. We were a team of outlaws after all. Mr Cork would probably explode, pulverize the entire classroom when he heard. Joey, by the way, was ill at ease. Teased relentlessly by Trevor, he eventually abstained. Spencer voted for Edna May, as did Graham, though he doubted her chances of playing.

  ‘They’ll not allow it,’ he said.

  ‘They’ll allow it,’ said Ronnie.

  ∗

  The young man from the Parks and Cemeteries department was worried. He was the same young man who had been at the Tividale match. His name was Mr Ash. He’d worried then about Spencer being the manager, and the size and doubtful age of Tommy Ice Cream. Tommy Ice Cream, in his heavy coat, flat cap and with the hint of a moustache, looked about thirty. Technically, Tommy was still a pupil in the school. In earlier times he had sat in Mrs Belcher’s backward class, playing with Plasticine and reading or not reading baby books. He had stuck this for a while and then one morning kicked his chair over and walked out. Mrs Belcher tried half-heartedly to detain him. Tommy was big even then. He had a temper and felt no pain. So the school let him go and made no great effort to get him back. Thereafter, Tommy roamed the streets like a gypsy, watched over by his hobbling or horse-drawn dad, and educated himself.

  Anyway, this time for Match Number Two Tommy had his birth certificate in an envelope in his pocket. As for Edna May, there she was, shirt, shorts, socks, boots – smiling and bold.

  Mr Ash, hardly twenty himself, puffed out his cheeks and thought aloud.

  ‘I’m not so sure about this.’

  ‘About what?’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Girls,’ said Mr Ash. ‘This is a competition for boys…’

  ‘It doesn’t say so in the rules… Sir,’ said Spencer. ‘Just under-twelves.’

  ‘I’m under twelve,’ said Edna May.

  ‘Ah yes… the rules,’ said Mr Ash.

  ‘I’m under eleven!’ Edna May said.

  Mr Ash hesitated, opened his mouth to speak, and sighed. He was no match for Spencer and Ronnie, no match for Edna May. To cap it all, reinforcements arrived in the shape of Si
ster MacPherson. Sister MacPherson was the head of St Saviour’s, an impressive bespectacled lady in nun’s habit and football boots. She felt Edna May should absolutely play; girls were a match for any boy; wished she’d thought of it. A ball being kicked about came bouncing towards her. Sister MacPherson swivelled and walloped it back with interest. Yes, any boy, she declared; let her play.

  There was a real crowd this time, a hundred or so. It was an evening match, so some of the dads were there: shy Mr Sorrell, rowdy Mr Skidmore, glum Mr Glue. Mothers, babies, dogs; riotous kids from both schools. A bunch of girls, friends and foes of Edna May. Monica Copper, it pleased (embarrassed) me to see, was among them. A steady trickle of men from the Perrott Arms with pint mugs in their hands. A policeman on his beat. Ice Cream Jack out in the street, looking in through the railings.

  Perrott Street playing field was right in the middle of town. The pitch itself was a beauty, well-grassed and flat with a neat, low, white-painted post and rail running all the way round it, like a picture frame. It enhanced our sense of importance as we finally trotted out. Tommy Pye’s shirt fitted him better now, his mum had altered it, but he still looked like Wee Willie Winkie. Joey’s shirt looked peculiar. In an effort to subdue its colour, he had gone mad with the bleach. The shirt was paler but worn-out, ancient-looking.

  As we lined up for the kick-off, the cry arose from the assembled fathers and other pint-holding experts, ‘Get stuck in!’ And before even we had kicked anything, ‘Get rid of it!’ Urged on by Sister MacPherson, St Saviour’s pursued the ball into every corner of the pitch. Once again we found ourselves on the losing side, 1–0, 2–0. Spencer’s tactics had their drawbacks. Wyatt, with the promise of goal-scoring opportunities, was holding his position on the left wing. Edna May was out on the right. Consequently, in the main mad chase for the ball, we were outnumbered. According to Spencer and Stanley Matthews, positional play was vital. But St Saviour’s with their ‘tactics’ effectively had ten of everything, right backs, left backs, centre forwards. They were everywhere in their hooped old-gold and black shirts, like a swarm of bees.