The Boyhood of Burglar Bill

by Allan Ahlberg

  Spencer was the obvious replacement, had to be. But Spencer was absent (accordion lesson), together with Tommy Pye (determined mother), Tommy Ice Cream (not known) and Wyatt (manicure? hairdresser?). The conversation, which needed to be serious, got away from us. Joey brought up Albert Pye again, Tommy’s five-year-old – ‘No, six!’ – baby brother.

  ‘Maybe Albert’s got a baby brother,’ said Trevor.

  ‘Or sister!’ Edna May called out.

  ‘The Smiths’ baby’s pretty good, I heard,’ said I.

  ‘Let’s pick Archie!’ cried Ronnie.

  Archie was under the seat with a revoltingly dirty bone, a gift from an admirer.

  ‘Archie’s a good ’un.’

  ‘Brenda is!’

  ‘Could you pick a dog?’ said Prosser (Malcolm) seriously.

  ‘Why not?’ said Ronnie. ‘There’s nothin’ in the rules against it.’

  ‘There’s nothin’ in the rules against pickin’ a chicken!’ yelled Trevor.

  ‘Or a gorilla,’ said Prosser (Patrick).

  ‘Archie, Archie!’ cried Joey, getting at this point too close to Archie and his beloved bone.

  Archie stiffened and growled.

  ‘That’d be a team,’ cried Trevor. ‘Boys, girls, babies – and a dog.’

  Suddenly, there was Tommy Ice Cream, the rain dripping down off his hat, nose, chin. Once more the conversation veered away. Joey was interested in the mystery of the shirts. It had to be the Toomeys: past history, bloody bandage, they probably pinched the oranges too. There again, Arthur said Rufus had told him they knew nothing about it. He’d cut his hand on a tin-opener, Arthur said. So maybe…

  ‘Tommy?’ said Joey, leaning out into the rain. ‘Got y’jersey on?’

  Tommy lowered his head and peeked inside his coat. ‘Noth.’

  ‘Did y’dad get y’that jersey?’

  ‘Yeth.’ Tommy shuffled uneasily. This was an extended conversation for him.

  ‘Did he, er, get the shirts?’

  Tommy ducked his head again. He well knew what was what. Joey had been down this road before; Ronnie and Wyatt likewise. Even so, I think the question confused him. Maybe he thought we thought his dad ought to have got the shirts. I don’t know. Tommy retreated, nearly colliding with Edna May – a drowned rat! – on one of her circuits. A rumble of thunder rolled in above the boathouse, wind ruffled the already choppy waters of the pond. Archie grabbed up his bone and departed.

  ‘Yeth,’ said Tommy. ‘Noth.’

  THE OLDBURY AND DISTRICT

  QUEEN ELIZABETH II CORONATION CUP

  SEMI-FINAL: MALT SHOVEL ROVERS V.

  ROOD END PRIMARY ‘A’

  VENUE: GKN SPORTS GROUND

  DATE: 16 APRIL 1953

  KICK-OFF: 5.30 P.M.

  The Team

  Goalkeeper Thomas Capanelli

  Right back Malcolm Prosser

  Left back Spencer Sorrell

  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

  On Thursday evening at a quarter to five we took the familiar walk: Rood End Road, Oldbury Road, Birmingham Road to Guest, Keen & Nettlefold’s sports ground. The Boys from the Bottom Pitch all set to play (and marmalize) the boys from the top. We were early; no way we’d be late. Even so a few spectators, dogs and a groundsman were there before us.

  The top pitch was a sight to see, its lines so crisp and white, its grass so green. The rollers and metal drums had been tidied away. Ladies from GKN’s canteen were setting up a refreshment stall in front of the pavilion. The sky was the clearest blue, the air pleasantly warm, and if it ponged a bit, with a plastics factory one side and a glue factory the other, we were used to it. Along the horizon tall factory chimneys puffing away. The Tipton canal beyond the bottom fence, you could see its bridges. A rhythmic thumping and clanging from Crosby’s sheet metal works a hundred yards away.

  We were early; Edna May was earlier, sitting on her bike leaning against the pavilion. Joey was all for having a kick-about, but Spencer urged us to save our energy. Anyway that groundsman – kids with no adult? – had his eye on us. We entered the pavilion, cool and dusty like a chapel, and sat down on its narrow benches. We were, all of us, all of a sudden subdued. Wyatt produced a sandwich, Trevor a bottle of pop. It came home to me then, one more match and we’d be in the final. Sixteen teams – well, fifteen really, Rolfe Street had had a bye in the first round – and now there were only four. Well, three really. Rounds Green had won their semi-final last night down at Perrott Street. Prosser (Patrick) had watched the second half; no great shakes, in his opinion. We’d marmalize ’em.

  It was quiet. Tommy Ice Cream had begun to hum to himself, which he did on occasion. We could hear Amos and the others next door, their clattering boots and voices, Mr Cork’s deep growl. And outside too, a growing hubbub. Mr Ash poked his head round the door, nodded and withdrew. Brenda tapped on the window and Edna May went out to speak to her. Spencer held up the white shirt he’d be wearing and asked for our opinions. Would it do, did we think? Would the ref allow it? Then the door swung open again and in came Mrs Glue, with Graham close behind.

  Mrs Glue was pale and nervous. There again, looking back, it seems to me now we were all pale and nervous, though not any more.

  ‘Gray!’

  ‘Gray!’

  ‘Graham!’

  ‘Gluey!’

  Apart from yelling Graham’s name, leaping around in the confined space, knocking a bench over, spilling Trevor’s pop, little or nothing was said (embarrassment, shyness, on all sides). Mrs Glue took Graham’s shirt out of her shopping bag. Apparently, showing great courage, she had gone back to the house, confronting Mr Glue, to get it. She gave Graham a hugely sloppy kiss – more embarrassment – hugged him and left.

  16

  Come Bloody On

  So Hurrah for the Old Boys of Oldbury,

  Who have built up the fame of our School,

  For they played the game, we must do the same,

  Until all hail the fair name of Oldbury.

  Though the strife of life may be swift and keen,

  Though we may find hard knocks to rule,

  Heed not the praise or blame, carry on and play the game,

  For we are boys (girls) of Oldbury School.

  Oldbury Grammar School Song

  My recollection of these boyhood days is extraordinarily complete, intense and reliable. And yet I know it isn’t – reliable, that is. I have trouble with Wyatt’s other name, can’t picture the front garden of our house at all or remember whether Mrs Moore had a husband or not. Also, take old man Cutler and his bonfires. It seems to me he had one going all the time, summer and winter, rain or shine. But think about it: whatever could he find to burn? Or again, the shirts. It never bothered us that they were almost certainly pinched. But what about our parents? Wouldn’t some of them ask questions? Not in my recollection they didn’t.

  Anyway, back to the match, that semi-final, which, all the same and nevertheless, I remember. It is engraved on my brain. Plug me into a monitor and you could see it all. Even my feet – especially my feet – remember it.

  We stepped out on to the pitch in better spirits than seemed possible half an hour ago. Graham’s return had given us a double lift. We had him back and Spencer back, as manager. The noisy crowd pressed in on every side – pity the poor linesmen – a great gathering of parents, kids and dogs. My Uncle Ike was there (‘C’mon, our Allan!’), accompanying his older brother, my shy and silent father, George Henry. Mr Cork and Mr Reynolds, of course; Mr and Mrs Cotterill. Half of Rounds Green’s team, there to spy on the opposition. Some of the canteen ladies come to see what all the fuss was about. Contrasting tribes of Ackermans (respectable) and Toomeys (not). Babes in arms and pr
ams. Ice Cream Jack.

  First half. It was a game of eleven goals and we scored all eleven – one each. No, not really. I don’t, worse luck, remember that. No, five minutes after the kick-off, following our usual start, it was 2–0 to them: a thumping shot from Tommy Gray and a scrambled, bulldozing effort – the ball ping-ponging around in the goalmouth – from Amos. In each case their tactics were the same: a big boot upfield and a cavalry charge. We were in disarray. It could’ve been three or four. Tommy Ice Cream hurled himself about and blocked or deflected goal-bound shots and headers, from Gray again and Charlie Cotterill. Joey headed off the line. Rutter hit a post.

  Meanwhile, Vincent Loveridge was cool and elegant at centre half, Amos strutted cockily in midfield, Tommy Gray was flying down the wing, and they were all over us. It was a piece of cake, wasn’t it? We were the odds and sods, not even the ‘B’ team. Mr Cork looked smug on the line. Mr Reynolds, his hands wrapped round a mug of tea, was relaxed.

  Lining up for the restart after Amos’s goal, a scowling Ronnie poked me in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘C’mon,’ he said, glaring back at Joey and the others. ‘C’mon. Come bloody on.’

  ‘Language, language,’ said the ref.

  Ronnie glared at him. He pushed the ball to Tommy Pye… and we came on.

  Tommy Pye – what a little angel! – beloved of the crowd in his yet voluminous shirt, marooned as it seemed in the land of giants out there on that enormous pitch – bamboozled Rutter and Charlie Cotterill, got to the byline, whacked a low cross with bewildering power into the goalmouth, where Ronnie arriving late, all four limbs flailing away like a combine harvester, collided with the ball and kneed it like a bullet past Ackerman’s unseeing gaze.

  ‘C’mon, c’mon!’ cried Ronnie, grabbing the ball from the bulging net. And we came again.

  Spirits lifted, we had begun to find our passing game. Arthur and me combined in a couple of push and runs.

  ‘Stop faffin’ about!’ yelled Mr Skidmore.

  Like a human zipper, we zipped past Rutter and Higgs and set Wyatt free on the left. He strode away, hammered a shot against a post and, with Ackerman flat out having dived to make the save, up popped Arthur again to poke it home.

  The crowd was going, there’s no other word for it, wild. Mr Cork was red-faced and yelling, insults mostly, at his own team. Something I haven’t mentioned so far, our offside studies were beginning to pay dividends. Spencer had Joey and the others pushing up; Tommy Gray, especially, was offside pretty well every time he got the ball. Mr Cork, luckily without his cricket stump, was outraged. I suspect he saw this as a form of cheating. His brave, vaulting cavalry brought constantly to a halt by a measly whistle. Our supporters were in good heart. Brenda and her older sisters had acquired a collection of ancient football rattles which they vigorously wielded. The Toomeys – with a rare sighting of Mrs Toomey plus baby, and Mr Toomey minus shirt (just jacket and vest) – were a small, vociferous crowd in themselves. Uncle Ike was advising one and all, but mainly me, on the finer points. ‘Get after ’im, our kid, he couldn’t trap a bag o’ sand!’

  They came back at us; laid siege to our goal and might have scored a couple of times. Suddenly and surprisingly in so congested and fast-moving a scene, there was Amos with the ball on his own not ten yards out. He picked his spot, swung his leg and – whoosh! – in came Tommy Pye – him again, he could do it all – took the ball clean off Amos’s toe. Amos, committed whole-heartedly to his follow-through, followed through and swung himself right off his feet. By the time he was up again, the ball was down the other end in the back of the net. And Prosser (Malcolm) it was – our out-of-position, undisciplined, unwilling (‘I don’t like it at right back’) right back – who scored.

  Half-time. 3–2 to us (unbelievable), five goals gone, six to go. Rufus and Albert produced their lovely hoard of oranges. Albert flourished his evil-looking knife and showed off, for some reason, an air pistol. Mrs Pye went to work on Tommy’s face with her hankie. Ice Cream Jack ventured to join us. Brenda and her rattling sisters. Mrs Glue with a darkly bruised cheek, but looking more cheerful. Out on the pitch a few of the dads were kicking about. Uncle Ike in his green gasworks overalls was dodging around in the penalty area, doffing his cap.

  ‘On me ’ead, Lenny! On me ’ead!’

  I spotted Mr Loveridge, a modest little walnut-faced man gazing up at his tall son. However could the one be the father of the other, you had to wonder. It was like a fairy tale. Vincent surely had been spirited away as a baby. His actual father surely, surely, was a duke.

  Mr and Mrs Cotterill, accompanied by their huge and hairy dog, another Rufus (don’t ask me to explore the similarities), were in a huddle with their son, Charlie. Mrs Cotterill was feeding him crisps. Mr Cotterill was hanging on to Rufus. This dog, it was believed, also got his hair cut by Mr Cotterill. Kids claimed to have seen him late at night sitting up in the chair. Same clippers as he used on us, I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Spencer, meanwhile, had us in a huddle.

  ‘We’re gonna win this,’ said Joey.

  ‘Tommy, throw the ball to Al, if you see him,’ said Spencer.

  ‘If I’m on me own,’ said I.

  ‘Yeth,’ Tommy said.

  ‘Tommy,’ Trevor lowered his voice, ‘sit on Amos.’

  ‘If he falls over,’ Graham said.

  ‘In the goalmouth!’ cried Joey.

  ‘Noth,’ Tommy said, and was that a smile?

  ‘Flatten ’im,’ said Edna May.

  Second half. The first half had been played at a furious pace, the second just got furiouser. It reminds me now of a piece of classical music, by Brahms I think it was. He wrote instructions on the score how to play it: fast – faster – as fast as you can. And then, a little later – faster still! Yes, it was like that. Thirty minutes each way we played, but it felt like thirty seconds. Well, they scored (3–3), a big brave header from Vincent, and scored again (3–4), more skill from Tommy Gray. And we scored (4–4), a Joey header, and they scored (4–5), Rutter, a lucky deflection. And they hit a post and we hit a post, and it was the same post – a near own-goal from Graham. And the clock ticked on, whizzed round, and the sun declined and the sky was an ever darkening shade, lights came on in the nearby office buildings where the cleaners, my mum among them, were hard at work. And the referee looked at his watch. And we were going to lose.

  Edna May, who’d had a solid game, picked up a loose ball and ran through the middle, reached Wyatt with a pass and he was off. Wyatt was difficult to tackle; tall and bony, he ran with a high knee action like a giraffe. Rutter tackled him and bounced off him. Higgs tackled him and missed. Charlie Cotterill tackled him, collided with him more like, and knocked him flying. Now, for a split second, the clock stopped. There was the smallest sliver of silence in the crowd, before the uproar. The players one and all turned their hopes and fears towards the referee.

  ‘Penalty!’

  ∗

  I took the penalties, scored one already, as you may recall, in the Tividale match. Usually I sought to deceive the goalie, send him one way and the ball the other. On this occasion, though…

  Ackerman stood on his line. Disconcertingly, about fifteen members of his extended family stood with him behind the goal and on either side. Worse still, all of them, every single one, had more or less the same face; the same round poppy eyes, the same sad, sweet, amiable expression. There was a dominant gene in there somewhere, I guess. Or God kept coming along stamping the identical design – like a pastry cutter – down on to the Ackerman baby-dough faces. It was like being asked to score against a family photograph, a tribe of goalies, all of whom – worser still – looked so mournful, you hardly had the heart to do it.

  I stepped back. The crowd was hushed again; dogs barked, a baby laughed, Uncle Ike offered last-minute advice. I stepped up and hit the ball with all my might… straight at Ackerman.

  17

  Visible on Mars

  Expectations in stories an
d books are unavoidable, aren’t they? As in life. In life we peer up ahead, down the road, trying to catch a glimpse of what’s in store, wondering. With a book, of course, you can flip the pages, sneak a look. You can tell when you’re near or not near ‘The End’ by the number of pages remaining. You must be expecting now, it’s only natural, for us to win: semi-final, final, cup, the lot. Why else would I write the book, tell the story? Well, as Tommy Ice Cream might have said, ‘Yeth… and noth.’ It’s more complicated than it seems.

  I took the kick, straight at Ackerman. He, meanwhile, hurled himself with all his might out of the way, diving to where he thought the ball would go.

  ‘Goal!’

  The desperate disappointment on the Ackerman family face was huge, visible on Mars. Our team celebrations were huge; no hugging or kissing, though, as previously explained.

  Extra time (5–all). It was another cock-up in the Parks and Cemeteries department. The half-past five kick-off made no allowance for the possibility of extra time, ten minutes each way. We should’ve kicked off at five or five fifteen. Anyway, there we were, lining up once more in the gathering gloom. Matches flared on the touchlines as cigarettes and pipes were lit, traffic blazed on the Birmingham Road, the sky was an ever deeper blue with a line of rusty red and duck-egg green over the Rounds Green hills.

  But we played. Truth is, we were not unused to such conditions. Our games in Albert Park often only stopped when Mr Phipps or the park bell drove us out. On winter evenings we played in the street with just a street lamp for illumination, or car headlight! So, ten minutes each way. I guess by now we must have been slowing down, but it didn’t feel like it. We were steaming like horses and yelling to each other, playing by sound as much as sight, while the crowd groaned and whistled and crept ever further out on to the pitch itself, gazing after the ball. Vincent Loveridge had cut his head scoring that goal and had a plaster over his eyebrow. He looked more debonair than ever, like Errol Flynn, if you have heard of him. Amos was rampaging around in a swarm of swearwords, getting chastised, ‘Language, language’, by the referee.