A Likely Tale, Lad

by Mike Pannett

  ‘Start scraping,’ I said. ‘Hurry up! I’m burning.’

  ‘Me too.’ Alan couldn’t wait. A few deft passes with the battered old kitchen knife and the bulk of the offensive image was on the concrete hard standing, a sodden, seething dollop of wrinkled paint and chemicals – on which we promptly knelt as we flicked away the last globules of paint.

  ‘Youch!’ We were both on our feet now, hopping about, waving our hands.

  ‘Water!’ Alan shouted. ‘Quick. It’s eating me!’

  We hopped across towards the house and turned on the outside tap, holding our hands under it, splashing our knees and filling our shoes with icy cold water. As the pain eased we sat down on the back step and studied the red marks that still stung our hands and knees.

  ‘We could be blood brothers,’ I said, inspecting a little spots of clear fluid that had broken out. ‘You got any of this?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Alan was only half listening. He was crouching low, inspecting the hand-me-down bike that had come from his sister, and before her from their cousin Gavin. It had started out life as a boy’s bike, but she’d painted it white and put the pink pony on it. And now it was his. He sat back down beside me and studied his wrist.

  ‘It’s like pus,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to be pus brothers Can you have that?’

  We hosed the bike down, dowsed our hands once more and studied our handiwork.

  ‘That’s better than it was,’ I said.

  ‘Still white, though.’

  Alan had a point – apart from the patch of bare steel where the late-lamented pony used to be.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘we’d better put this stuff away before your Dad gets home.’

  Once that was done we did the blood brother business, pressing the pockmarked backs of our hands together and sealing our friendship.

  I couldn’t help feeling sorry for my mate. It was just his misfortune to get the bike the same week that I took delivery of my Raleigh Chopper. I’d got it for my birthday. It was, without question, the biggest and best present I’d ever had in my life up till then, by a mile. Don’t get me wrong, we always had good birthdays – and decent presents. One year it was a plastic Six Million Dollar Man; another year it was a six-gun that let off percussion caps. There was a cowboy outfit, an Indian version with fringed trousers and a feathered head-dress; there was a space-hopper, and the usual small things like Thunderbirds accessories and, one year, amongst the bigger presents, I remember a set of Klackers that drove everybody nuts.

  Looking back, I can see how clever Mum and Dad were. Your present would almost always be something you wanted. But you had to be careful in the way you went about making it known that you wanted it. Subtle, you might say. You were absolutely not allowed to ask for something directly. That was fatal. As we were once told in Sunday school, ‘Those who ask don’t get, and those who don’t ask don’t want.’ No, if you’d set your heart on some new toy you had to talk about it, casually, over the tea-table, and maybe mention in passing that one of your friends had one – or was getting one for his birthday. However, that particular year all the rules went out of the window. Dad had got a promotion at work, so we were all treated to a special present. And this time we were allowed to ‘make suggestions’. I only had one, and that was the Chopper.

  Of course, when I first wheeled it out onto Park Avenue and rode it up and down, practising wheelies, all the lads came out to admire it. It truly was a thing of beauty. Not that Petra noticed that. Used as she was to chasing any cyclist who happened to pass the house, she automatically started snapping at my ankles until it dawned on her who it was. The bike was orange, with lots of gleaming chrome. It had extended handlebars, a fake leather high-backed seat and a fancy five-speed gear-shift. The front wheel was smaller than the rear one. Cool? You bet it was. All it needed was an engine and it could’ve been a motorbike – and didn’t I know it. It didn’t take long for the other kids to become envious. I suppose they became ashamed of their own bikes, which looked so hopelessly antiquated in comparison. Before long complaints reached our ears that Dad had put all the local parents under pressure. It was true. He had. While I badgered all my friends to go out on rides with me, none of them had anything that could hold a candle to my machine. Suddenly, everybody else’s bike looked shabby, clunky and hopelessly out of date. I had set a trend. Who would follow? Alan did his best, bombarding his parents with requests. But they drove a hard bargain. What was wrong with a proper sturdy bike with good old-fashioned Sturmey-Archer three-speed gearing, they asked him? Like the one his sister had handed on to him. If he really wanted one of these daft new things, well, maybe they’d think about it. But only if he stumped up half the cost.

  ‘But they’re about thirty pounds!’ he complained. ‘That means I’ve got to find… loads of money.’

  ‘Fifteen quid,’ I told him. Arithmetic was never Alan’s best subject.

  ‘That’s a fortune,’ he said, but when he said as much to his parents they simply replied, ‘All the more reason why you have to show willing.’

  While the other kids steered clear of me – or rather of my bike – Alan stood by me. As the summer holidays kicked off, and with his birthday but two weeks away, he agreed to take up my challenge and see how far we could cycle, across the fields and out into the countryside.

  We were hot, and we were miles from home. Not so many miles, I suppose, when I look at the map now, but for a couple of eight-year-olds forty years ago it seemed as though we’d already made an epic journey. We’d taken our bikes all the way through the village of Huntington and out to Strensall, entering what was to us another world altogether. We cycled slowly past the army barracks, stopping to gaze at the dark green trucks and half-tracks through a mesh fence topped with barbed wire. We watched as detachments of men in camouflage outfits marched to and fro across the hot tarmac, their drill-sergeant’s orders echoing off the walls of the residential blocks. Not for the first time we decided we would have careers as soldiers, with uniforms and guns, and artillery practice with real live ammunition out on Strensall common. We’d blow things up and get paid for it. Heaven.

  After standing with our faces pressed to the fence for some time, we remembered how thirsty we were. We made our way to the little shop in the village, pooled what was left of our pocket money and bought a big bottle of dandelion and burdock. That left us with a solitary two-pence piece between us. We shared the drink, taking one glug at a time, then tossed the coin to see who got to drain the last few drops. Then we pedalled on through the woods to the point where the railway line approaches the road. Beyond us lay the common, and the artillery ranges, all covered in heather and dotted with birch trees, between which, we knew, were boggy holes full of moss, frogs and cold water.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, straddling my Chopper and turning it towards the gravelled road that led on to undiscovered places, let’s see how far we can go.’ It was still only mid-afternoon and the sun was high, just a few puffy white clouds blown across an otherwise blue sky by a cooling breeze.

  Alan wasn’t so sure. He was getting saddle-sore already, or so he said. The real problem, of course, was his bike.

  The Scarborough train rattled past, but we hardly even noticed it. If we’d had a few coins left we would’ve put a couple on the line, but all we had was the two pence piece, and for some reason it seemed important to hang onto that.

  Alan was right down in the dumps. ‘Where am I gonna find fifteen quid?’

  For the first time since my birthday I felt guilty about my good fortune. And I felt sorry for my mate. I looked at the road, winding across the common, and thought of the adventures we might have if we got to the other side. Then I looked at Alan, hands in his pockets, kicking stones at the despised hand-me-down bike.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, ‘let’s head for home.’

  We were now pedalling into the breeze, and even for me it was hard work. The truth about the Chopper was, it wasn’t a touring bike. At all. If Alan had stopped to think
about it, he would’ve realised he was better off right now. We stopped by the side of the golf course, under a tree, and took a breather. About fifty yards away, on the other side of a fence, three old fellows in brightly coloured sweaters were waiting their turn to tee off. They were all smoking We watched as the first one bent down to place his ball on a tee. He threw away his cigarette, took a couple of practice swings, said something to his friends, then composed himself.

  ‘How far d’you reckon they can they hit a golf ball?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Oh, miles,’ I said. ‘Sometimes they get a hole in one. Or hit a pigeon. They call that a birdie.’

  The fellow raised his club, gave an almighty swing. He missed the ball completely and swore. Alan sniggered. ‘D’you hear that?’ he said. The guy took another swing, and this time he connected. We heard it, loud and clear. All three of them turned and looked in our direction. At first we didn’t understand. Then there was a loud ‘clunk’ just above us as the ball hit the tree and bounced onto the grass where it came to rest, like an egg on a clean bed of straw.

  ‘Blimey!’ Alan said. ‘That could’ve hit us.’

  He was about to go and pick it up when I grabbed his arm.

  ‘Hang about,’ I said.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just hang about, that’s all.’

  The old gent who’d sliced his shot had his hand to his forehead. He and his mates were all looking our way.

  ‘People pay for golf balls,’ I said. ‘Secondhand ones, I mean. They’re dead valuable. Cost a bomb when they’re new.’

  The golfers were waving at us and shouting.

  ‘What they saying?’ Geoff asked.

  ‘Dunno,’ I said, and waved back.

  ‘Well, why don’t we give him his ball back?’

  ‘’Cos there’s a fence. We aren’t allowed over it. And like I said … you know, finders keepers. This is public property.’

  ‘Yeah, but we could throw it.’

  I didn’t answer. I was watching the golfers. The guy who’d sliced his shot reached into his pocket, placed a new ball on the tee and started again. After they’d all teed off, as they were all walking down the fairway towards the next green, I picked the ball up. ‘Must be worth five pence, I said. Maybe ten.’

  ‘Two bob?’ Alan’s eyes widened as he spoke. We were still getting used to decimal currency that year, trying to work out which sounded more impressive, two shillings or ten pence.

  ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘let’s have a look around. I bet loads of balls get hit over the fence.’

  We must have spent the next hour or so combing the grass between the roadside and the fence. Between us we found a dozen.

  ‘What we gonna do with them?’

  ‘Flog ’em, of course.’

  ‘Who to? It’s got to be grown-ups, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Good point,’ I said. I had a think. ‘Does your Dad play?’

  Alan shook his head. ‘But me uncle does. Maybe we could try him.’

  ‘Yeah, we’ll try your uncle.’

  I looked out over the course. The three old golfers had long since disappeared and the place seemed deserted. I walked over to the fence, ducked down and slid underneath the wire.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, beckoning Alan to follow me. ‘There’ll be loads more in here, in all this long grass. I bet people lose balls all the time.’

  I was right. There were loads. And more loads. By the time we cycled home we each had our pockets filled and the rest of our collection stuffed down our T-shirts, which were firmly tucked inside our trousers.

  Next day we were back, scouring the perimeter of the course, ducking under the fence once more when nobody was looking. We kept it up for a week, by which time there couldn’t have been a lost ball unaccounted for in the entire parish of Strensall – and to tell the truth, if there had been we couldn’t have been bothered. We were confident we had enough. And so, on a Saturday morning we trudged around to Alan’s uncle’s place, each of us lugging a plastic carrier-bag full of balls. His uncle weeded out a few misshapen ones, a couple of cut and dented ones, and took a dozen or so at fifteen pence apiece. From there, flushed with the thrill of making a sale, we cycled over to the golf course and set up shop outside the clubhouse. By the end of the day we’d got a small mountain of loose change and couple of pound notes, giving us a grand total of twenty-eight pounds.

  ‘Wow, that’s fourteen quid each.’ I nudged Alan in the ribs. ‘Fourteen quid!’

  We stood there a few moments, stunned. Neither of us had ever had anything like that much money. We’d never possessed a pound note either, and now we had one each. We felt them, turned them over, examined the pattern, the portrait of the Queen, the signature of the Governor of the Bank of England. Another job I wouldn’t mind – although I soon changed my mind on that. As Alan pointed out, signing pound notes day after day couldn’t be much fun. He shovelled his coins into his trouser pocket, thought for a moment, then started doing some adding up. ‘So this means …’ he began.

  ‘Yeah, fantastic. You only need another pound now and you can get your Chopper.’ He looked at me, and I looked at him. ‘Tell you what,’ I said, ‘You take fifteen and I’ll have the rest.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. We’re blood brothers, aren’t we?’

  Just Hanging About

  ‘You know what they come here for, don’t you?’

  We were sheltering under the lych-gate. Me and Kev, just the two of us. He was carrying a bamboo cane he’d picked up in the churchyard. After a hot afternoon the thunder-clouds had gathered and a few large drops of rain had started to lay the dust. We’d been to the chippy after choir practice, but although we’d eaten our chips and drunk a can of pop we were in no hurry to get home. By this time Mum and Dad had relaxed their rules. I could stay out after tea so long as I got back before dark. We had another half an hour, at least. And if it rained properly, well so what, we’d just get wet.

  ‘Well, do you? Do you know?’

  I pondered Kev’s question. I wanted to tell him I knew the answer, but the fact was I hadn’t a clue what he was getting at. He was a year ahead of me in school – and, if I was to believe all his boasts, about three years ahead in life experience. It was all thanks to that brother of his. Several years older than us and, as Mum once remarked, ‘altogether too forward’.

  ‘Necking. They come here for necking and that,’ Kev said. ‘You know, lads with their girlfriends. Having a snog. Kissy-kissy.’

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ Sometimes I found Kev’s superior attitude a bit insulting. As if I didn’t know what necking was.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘you bring a girl here she has to kiss you. It’s a tradition.’

  When Kev made a statement of fact, you were expected to take it as the Gospel truth – whether you believed it or not.

  ‘But why?’ I said. The place seemed a bit dingy to me, not at all romantic. ‘Why here?’

  He looked up at the timbers, heavy with dust and cobwebs. Reaching up he poked at the remains of a swallow’s nest with the cane and brought down a light shower of pale dry mud.

  ‘It’s traditional, like I said. In the old days, see, girls weren’t allowed to kiss fellows – not till they got married. They never had the back row of the flicks like we do. Or youth clubs, or owt like that. So they came here. To the kissing-gate. Still do, as a matter of fact. Me brother brings all his girlfriends here.’

  He pulled out two more cans of pop and handed me one.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, then asked, ‘You seen them?’

  ‘Sure I have. You can get a ringside seat. Look.’

  He clambered onto the top of the gate, swung his legs up and there he was, perched in the timbers that supported the pitched roof, his feet dangling.

  ‘Come on up,’ he said. ‘You sit here you can spy on people. I do it all the time. Seen all sorts, me. Grab a few stones and get yourself up here.’

  ‘Stones? What do I want them for?’ />
  ‘You’ll see. I got some in my pocket. You need some of your own.’

  I did as he said – you always did what Kev said – and then tried to climb up to where he was. It was harder work than it looked, but I made it – and just in time. As I squirmed my way into position, hunched down with my head touching the rough timbers of the roof, Kev nudged me and pressed a finger to his lips. Footsteps were approaching. We caught sight of an elderly couple, walking arm in arm. The old man was unfurling an umbrella, not that it was raining properly yet. Kev winked at me, took out a stone and held it between his thumb and forefinger. I wondered if they were going to start kissing. It seemed to me they were a bit old for it. Then, as they walked beneath us, Kev dropped his first stone. It didn’t hit them, just pinged off the ground. They half-stopped, looked at it and walked on. He threw another after them, and they stopped again, looked around, and carried on, muttering to each other.

  We waited a few minutes and supped at our cans. Thunder rumbled in the background. We couldn’t tell whether it was coming nearer or not.

  ‘Count to five,’ Kev said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh no, that’s after the lightning and before the thunder. Tells you how many miles away it is.’

  ‘I haven’t seen any lightning, have you?’

  ‘Nah.’ There was a pause. I drained my can and crushed it the way I’d seen Phil do it.

  ‘Sh! Here comes someone.’ Kev was suddenly alert, listening.

  A woman was walking her dog, on a lead. As she passed underneath us, we both dropped a stone. One landed on the ground, the other hit the dog. It barked. The woman told it to shush, and tugged on its lead. As she tried to walk on Kev lobbed another stone. The dog turned and looked right at us, and snarled.

  ‘Oh, don’t be silly George!’ The woman tugged on the leash and dragged the dog away.

  ‘George!’ I couldn’t help laughing. ‘What kind of name’s that?’