The Boyhood of Burglar Bill

by Allan Ahlberg

  On hands and knees we crept up to the Purnells’ fence. Nervous hens clucked nearby. They knew we were there.

  Spencer whispered hoarsely. ‘I don’t like this.’

  I pulled hard on a board.

  ‘I think we should…’

  It wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Let’s go!’

  I tried another. The Bodleys’ baby was still bawling. A car horn sounded in the street. The board creaked horribly and split; half of it came away in my hand. I fell back on to Spencer, who was crouched behind me. Then – bang! – the nearest lavatory door flew open and a dreadful, raving apparition with a torch was on us. I was grabbed, half throttled, dragged to my feet and yelled at.

  ‘That’s my fence, y’little bugger!’

  It was Mrs Purnell. She snatched the stolen board, threw it down and landed me a fearful swipe to the head.

  ‘I’ll teach you!’

  Back I tumbled on to Spencer again. He yelled, I yelled, Mrs Purnell was still yelling, the hens were going mad and a pink-faced Mrs Fogarty was shouting questions from her wash-house window.

  Mrs Purnell hauled me up again. Spencer, she ignored. He could have run but chose to stay.

  ‘I’ll give you bonfires!’

  She was a mighty woman, half as big again as my mother, but, as it turned out, not so tough.

  Mum was there, in her apron and one slipper. ‘Hey!’ She grabbed my arm and pulled me free. Mrs Purnell advanced. Mum stood firm.

  ‘Bloody kids!’

  ‘My kids,’ said Mum, briefly, it seems, adopting Spencer. ‘Hit your own.’

  Unpersuaded, Mrs Purnell tried to wallop me again. ‘Bloody bonfires!’

  I was tucked in behind my mother, with Spencer (shivering) behind me. Mrs Purnell sought to hit us with the broken board.

  ‘Hey!’ Mum grabbed the board and hit her with it.

  Mrs Purnell dropped her torch, staggered back against the fence and – ‘Bloody cow!’ – retreated.

  It was over. Mum shepherded us across the yard. Mrs Purnell’s parting insults were ignored, and Mrs Fogarty’s pleas for information. Spencer came to our house to clean himself up before going home. I could taste blood in my mouth. The stinging pattern of Mrs Purnell’s fingers was visible still as I gazed at myself in the bluebird mirror. Presently, as the pain faded and Spencer left, I began to consider my alibi.

  14

  Mr Cork, Mr Skidmore

  and Mrs Glue

  On Monday morning in assembly Mr Reynolds was so cheerful he looked ready to float away. His smile shone down on us like the sun. We were all his friends at that moment, every one of us, even Amos. (Pear drops all round and no cane.) The ‘A’ team had hammered Tabernacle Street 9–2. This was a doubly satisfying result for Mr Reynolds. The headmaster of Tabernacle Street was Mr Gittings. He and Mr Reynolds had been students together at the same college. Their rivalry was ancient and unceasing. So, well, yippee, hooray and goodbye Tabernacle Street. What’s more, amazingly, other boys from this school and – goodness me! – one girl had also achieved great things. Now to cap it all, they were to play each other – ‘Sh!’ – yes, play each other in the semi-finals.

  The players were invited to stand up and take a bow. A wave of shyness washed over me and my face felt hot. Ronnie looked cool; Edna May was smiling confidently around. Spencer, our ever-modest manager, remained seated. Mr Reynolds, glowing like a lamp, continued to speak for some time, concentrating now on the quality of coaching going on, and indeed that Rood End Primary was justly famous for. Mr Cork was invited to take a bow. It startled me, I recall, to see how even this fierce man was affected by such public praise and the ragged cheers that accompanied it. He flushed and waved his solitary arm like a man bothered with bees.

  Mr Reynolds in this particular assembly made no mention of Jesus or any goings-on in the toilets. All the same, the otherwise happy scene was blighted in the end. Children, when gathered together in any numbers, have a natural instinct for chaos. They can sense the possibility of it, like a dog anticipating a walk. Thus it was that ripples of movement – nudging, elbowing, pinching – arose, accompanied by an expanding hubbub. Mr Reynolds, his smile switched off, was required to quench things.

  While we were on our feet being congratulated, I’d found myself right next to Amos and Vincent Loveridge. It occurred to me, and to the rest of us I’ll bet, to wonder how ever we could beat this lot. (Amos assured me out of the corner of his mouth that they would ‘marmalize’ us.) Look at them: Ackerman, Briggs, Tommy Gray; Amos, broad and solid like a barrel… and Vincent. Vincent Loveridge really was the most admired boy in the school in those days. Captain of football, captain of cricket, captain of tiddlywinks, if we’d had one. He looked like a movie star; all the girls loved him. If I’d been a girl, I’d have loved him. He was a rough boy, though, like the rest of us; lived in a terrace, dad a foundryman. And yet to see him, head held high, wavy light brown hair, blue eyes – you could have stuck a top hat on his head and sent him to Eton.

  But that’s enough of them; forget the opposition. Boy for boy, they might have the better players, but football when you get down to it is a team game, isn’t it? Team spirit and all that. Besides, we had tactics. Since beating St Saviour’s, Spencer had had us practising all kinds of stuff: free kicks, corners, lining up in a wall. Offside as well. Spencer had borrowed a referee’s handbook from the library. Using his chalks in Joey’s yard, he had demonstrated the offside law so effectively that even the Prossers got it. Offside means, you see, that basically if your defence pushes up, their attackers have to retreat, otherwise – offside! It squashes them in. Mr Cork’s idea of tactics was more military than anything. Boot the ball as far as you could and run after it. Up and at ’em. I’m exaggerating perhaps.

  As for the players themselves, our players that is, well, startling improvements were there for all to see.

  (1) Tommy Ice Cream. Tommy was coming out of himself. Often now he’d walk along with us in the street. His conversation was restricted – ‘Yeth’ and ‘Noth’ mainly – but it was an advance on grunting. A couple of times he had been observed to laugh. Spencer had a way with him. Tommy still had bouts of bad temper and stubbornness, taking offence, refusing to let go of the ball, but Spencer could usually calm him down. Tommy’s amazing kicking power, one end of the pitch to the other, was an asset. His throwing too, when you could ever get him to do it.

  (2) Malcolm Prosser. Malcolm, on the other hand, had gone back into himself. He continued to complain about playing right back, missed the company of a brother complaining about playing left back and, I suspect, was peeved to be lining up with a sister who was better than he was.

  (3) Graham Glue. Graham had something of his dad’s gloominess about him. He had a phobia about getting his shorts dirty. But he was a tackler, and quick, and though he didn’t particularly care to pass the ball, could often be persuaded – ‘Bloody pass it’ – to do so.

  (4) Trevor Darby. Another quick tackier. Trevor was a terrier, really Off the pitch forever ferreting around to find out who loved who, on the pitch forever ferreting after the ball. He muttered to himself a good deal under his breath, urging himself on. He had a little sister, Dorothy, who he had trained to drop Dolly Mixtures into his open mouth at half-time while he lay on the ground pretending to be dying. This gave him extra energy, he claimed. Like most of the team, he had a clear bias against any form of passing. The introduction of Edna May on the wing, however, brought about a change of heart. She could get passes off him. Trevor (secretly!) admired Edna May, while loudly proclaiming that Joey loved her.

  (5) Joey Skidmore. Joey was the rock of the team. He held the defence together and, often as not, the attack too. I’ve mentioned before the courage required to head one of those lead-weighted leather balls we played with. Well, Joey was a master at it. He had the courage, that’s the trick, to attack the ball, face up to it, like advancing on a hostile dog or rhino. In these circumstances, apparently – I was no good at it myse
lf – courage was rewarded. It hurt less.

  (6) Arthur Toomey. Talking of huge improvements, Arthur was a good example. For a start he turned out to be naturally two-footed. He could beat his man, he could and would pass the ball, and run into space and pass it again. After me, I’d say, Arthur was the most thoughtful player in the team. He was assuredly the smartest dresser. His kit, when he stepped on to the pitch, was immaculate, in sharp contrast to his normal appearance. He slicked his hair down with a wet comb and combed it again at half-time. He looked like Stanley Matthews or the boy dummy in Haywood’s window.

  (7) Edna May Prosser. The thing about Edna May was, she was a natural. Tommy Pye was a natural, Albert Pye even more of a natural, but that was just football. Edna May was easygoing, relaxed, adventurous – in everything. When she stood up and smiled around in the hall, she wasn’t showing off, or being modest, or pretending to be modest, she was being herself. Natural. Her football skills were limited but effective. She had a good right foot, a keen eye; she could see a pass and was prepared to suffer – tackles, shoulder charges and such – when the need arose. Overall she enjoyed the game and did not flinch.

  (8) Me.

  What I like best, yes most of all

  In my whole life, is kicking a ball.

  Heard it in the Playground (1989)

  That’s me, in a nutshell. I had this bald, mouldy-looking tennis ball which I dribbled with on the way to school till it disappeared down a drain. I even had a ball that I’d made myself out of cut-up rings from an inner tube wrapped round a core of silver-paper sweet wrappers. It was hardly bigger than a golf ball and bounced about, all that rubber, like a live thing. I kicked a ball in the playground, the park, the back yard, the street, the cemetery even, one time. Balls I kicked ended up in other people’s gardens and front rooms, under lorries, floating off down rivers and canals, carried off triumphantly in dogs’ mouths, confiscated by teachers. As far as my contribution to the team went, I had a good engine and could run forever. I was the only one of us who got to enjoy passing, preferred it almost, feinting to run with it, threading it through. I linked things up between attack and defence. Oh yes, and I was the captain.

  (9) Ronnie Horsfield. Ronnie was a puzzle. A player who advised other players without doing all that much himself. A centre forward who didn’t score many. He had a good kick on him and his noisy, confident manner drew defenders towards him, leaving gaps for Wyatt and Tommy Pye to exploit. All the same, how Ronnie ever got to play in the most popular position, being as he was just about the least effective player, is a mystery. As I recall, when we had the vote for who’d be captain, he nearly won that. There again, his confidence had its uses. In the changing rooms and walking out on to the pitch, while some of us might secretly doubt our chances and glance uneasily (admiringly) at the opposition, Ronnie strode forth to victory. The other team could as well go home. Ronnie’s message, like Amos’s, was emphatic: we’ll marmalize ya.

  (10) Tommy Pye. Tommy was our best player and he was only seven, and that’s not the half of it. He was getting better day by day, hour by hour! I’m not exaggerating. He was like a little overnight mushroom sprouting upwards. He had this round chubby face and chubby knees, but give him a ball and he was like a whippet. That’s it, he was a mushroom and a whippet. When Spencer told us stuff, the offside rule, for instance, Tommy took it all in. It was as though Spencer was merely reminding him of things he already knew. Sometimes kids come along who can do things so effortlessly, so instantaneously, it looks like reincarnation. Tommy was one of these. Nor was his size a total disadvantage. His centre of gravity was so low you had little hope of knocking him off the ball. He was like a mushroom, a whippet and one of the lead-weighted dolls you put in a canary’s cage for it to play with. He could come in under the other team’s radar too.

  (11) Wyatt. I’ve been trying to remember Wyatt’s other name. I’m almost certain it was Robert: i.e. Bob. It’s a funny thing about names. Some kids – Amos, Ackerman, Wyatt – were always known to one and all by a single name. Others, Ronnie Horsfield, Vincent Loveridge, got both, and Edna May Prosser all three. Even the teachers followed this rule. I bet even the vicars did: I christen this baby… Amos. Wyatt was a special player too. He had a long, loping stride and a lovely left foot. When he didn’t have the ball, he took his ease out on the wing like someone in the Bandstand Café waiting to be served. When he did have it, he ran. Wyatt had confidence, like Ronnie, though in his case it was more specific. Give him the ball, wait a while and pick it out of the back of the net. He never expected not to score, consequently he’d never pass to you, that would be an admission of failure. Playing on the wing suited him; open spaces from which to run at defences and a touchline full of interesting people to chat with and keep informed about his latest bath or haircut.

  (Secretary/Manager) Spencer Sorrell. Spencer was, I realize now, the rarest of us. His soccer skills were limited but his social skills were immense. The others, me included, were rowdy savages most of the time, pilferers and piddlers-up-walls. Spencer was self-effacing and civilized, like a missionary among us, though he never preached. Spencer was a useful negotiator with the adults. He was, of course, drowned out in team debates about tactics and so on. But when the din died down, often as not the conclusions we reached were his. He was a good friend, as I have said, to Tommy Ice Cream, and a better, best true friend to me. (He could have run, but chose to stay.)

  That day, that Monday, must have been the best of my life so far. I sailed through lessons and playtimes as cheerful as Mr Reynolds. At dinnertime a little kid came up and asked me for my autograph, only Ronnie and Spencer had put him up to it. Mr Cork banged around with his cricket stump in the afternoon, made sarcastic remarks, but in an almost smiling (for him) way. For once he didn’t scare me. Later on Mum was in a good mood, Dad came home early and let me have a go with his fretsaw. We had a practice session in the park. Monica Copper was there to watch.

  Then, Tuesday evening – half-past seven – disaster.

  Spencer, Ronnie and I went round to Graham’s. He had not showed up for training. (Spencer had arranged a practice match against Leatherland’s lot.) When we got there, a smashed plate with the remains of somebody’s dinner – pork chop, gravy, peas – was out in the yard and the back door was open. In the kitchen Mrs Glue was over by the sink, shivering and wiping her eyes with her apron. Graham, white-faced, was beside her. Upstairs a great banging and clattering and shouting and swearing… from Mr Glue.

  We never got the whole story till much later. It turned out Mr Glue was enraged by something his mates at work had told him about Mrs Glue. He had come home and thrown his dinner out the back door. He had also, apparently, hit Mrs Glue and knocked her over. Graham got in between them and his dad hit him as well. Now Mr Glue was upstairs packing a suitcase, for himself or Mrs Glue it wasn’t clear.

  What Mr Glue had heard was that Mrs Glue had been seen in the Blue Gates two nights previously having half a pint of shandy with Mr Skidmore, and that this was not the only occasion the two of them had shared a drink. Mrs Glue said it was the only occasion; she had been waiting to meet her friend, she said. It was Mr Glue’s nature, though, to assume the worst; trust his mates and doubt his wife.

  Well, this was a bad business for the Glue family, but (of course, we thought) a worse business for us. Mr Glue had prevented Graham from coming to training and banned him from playing in the team, altogether, forever. No son of his, he yelled for half the street to hear, was playing around with any ragged-arsed, snotty-nosed, chicken-livered son of Skidmore’s!

  We stood, me, Ronnie, Spencer, transfixed in the kitchen like witnesses at a road accident. Mrs Glue was in shock, Graham’s eyes were brimful of tears, their old cat, Ruby, crouched fur on end like a porcupine under the sink.

  Mr Glue thundered back downstairs and burst into the kitchen empty-handed. ‘And another thing!’ he yelled, advancing on Mrs Glue, who flinched and clutched Graham tightly to her, so tightly, I noticed, th
at his mouth was squashed into a pathetic mournful ‘O’. Mr Glue saw us then. Spencer bravely attempted some polite words; Ronnie for once was at a loss. Mr Glue was having none of it. ‘You lot,’ he said, almost conversationally and wafting his hand. ‘Sod off.’

  15

  The Boys from the Bottom Pitch

  ‘Brenda!

  Brenda could play!

  Pick ’er – she’s a…

  She’s a good ’un!’

  We were in the sheds again, out of the rain again, the wind blowing in off the pockmarked pond. This ‘pond’, by the way, was bigger than you might imagine, a hundred and fifty yards by eighty at least; more of a lake, really. A brook flowed into it at one end and waterfalled out of it the other. There was a substantial island in the middle with trees and nesting ducks and moorhens on it. There was a boathouse (haunted) which hired out rowing boats and canoes. A lone rower was visible now in the grey and drizzly air. Mr Bissell or his brother, probably, the boathouse owners.

  Ronnie, I might add, was permanently be-witched by that island and ever wanted to set foot on it and poke around. It was his Shangri-La. He paddled out in a canoe one time, but got yelled at by one of the Mr Bissells: ‘Come in, number nine!’ Finally, I heard, when he was thirteen or so, he walked over one frozen winter and got marooned for half a day when the ice cracked. I wish I had been there to see it.

  Edna May, oblivious to the weather, was circling the sheds on her bike, offering with each circuit her opinion on team selection.

  ‘Brenda, Brenda!’

  We were discussing Graham’s replacement. He had not come to school today, it was Wednesday evening now, the match was tomorrow. Mr Glue had been seen glaring out of their front-room window, but of Graham and his mother there was no sign.