thinking how could we have won, when all the while the bigger, better question was, how could we have lost? Five of us, and Tommy Pye was the best of the best, and Tommy Ice Cream the biggest of the best. They had Vincent the Invincible, Amos, a whirlwind of fearless muscle,Tommy Gray, Rutter, Higgsy. And we had…
‘It was the team,’ said Spencer.
In the afternoon we had craft as usual with Mr Cork. I was useless at craft: 6 out of 20, position in class 44th. Dad’s dexterity had gone south in my case, down into my feet. The boys in Mr Cork’s class (4B) had warned us what to expect. The days of shaking Wyatt’s hand were dead and buried.
‘Ahlberg, penalty king – c’mere.’
Later on, in the warmth of the classroom, the sun shining in through high church-like windows, Mr Cork, with a practised wriggling action, removed his coat. The shirt sleeve of his missing arm was pinned up. The thought of that never-to-be-seen stump fascinated us. And the gone-forever arm. There was a rumour once he had a finger of it still, a souvenir complete with signet ring, pickled in a jar. And how did he tie his shoelaces, we wondered, or carve the Sunday roast?
During afternoon play something happened: the first onslaught of events. Amos had a fight with Phippy. It was a theatrical scene even by our standards. Maurice Phipps, son of the park-keeper, was a mild-mannered, skinny-looking, essentially timid boy who for some reason brought out theworst in Amos. Amos was no bully, he’d fight anybody, but something about Maurice maddened him. Anyway, Amos must’ve been teasing or torturing Maurice, winding him up one way or another, and suddenly he went berserk. His eyes rolled up into his head and, howling like an animal, he hurled himself at his tormentor. Amos struggled to comprehend this attack, swatting at Maurice and throwing punches. But Maurice, in the place he was now in, felt no pain and showed no fear. He was an engine of fists and elbows, knees, feet and, eventually, teeth. He took a lump out of Amos’s ear. In an instant there was blood everywhere, as though that earlobe was some kind of cork in Amos which, when removed, let out just about every drop of blood he had. The encircling crowd of kids, another larger animal, howled too. How awful! How savage! We might’ve stood there unflinching and seen Amos murdered. Only then the teachers arrived, barging their way in, pouring cold water on the crime, dousing the passions. A little kid, from the sight of all that blood, fainted, fell down and cracked his skull, or flattened his nose or something. More blood! Eventually, the pair of them were driven off in Mrs Harris’s car to the hospital. Amos received four stitches and a tetanus injection.
∗
And so to Tugg Street at six o’clock, me with my load of firewood standing outside Starkey’s and Vincent Loveridge approaching. Vincent had been to the hospital too, had the day off from school, stitches for him as well in that cut above his eyebrow. And he came on with his little sister beside him, legs whizzing to keep up. Vincent, the Lord of the School, who never before had even – even slightly – noticed my existence. Came on, drew level, nodded and spoke.
‘How y’doin’?’
I think I made a wry face, indicating my heavy, cumbersome sack, and nodded in return, but said nothing, a mumble maybe. And he went on then, and so did I. And it was the best part.
19
The Worm Bank
Four days to the final.
On Saturday morning I escaped Mum’s timetable of jobs – bed-making, chamberpot-emptying – and disappeared up the park with Spencer. I’d pay for it later, but it was worth it. We set up a goal against the high hedge at the back of the bowling green and practised penalties, free kicks and so on. Spencer was a hopeless goalie, but willing. We did a bit of dribbling, acting out the pages of The Stanley Matthews Football Book , complete with commentary.
There was an uncertainty about Spencer’s movements – I
‘It was the team,’ said Spencer.
In the afternoon we had craft as usual with Mr Cork. I was useless at craft: 6 out of 20, position in class 44th. Dad’s dexterity had gone south in my case, down into my feet. The boys in Mr Cork’s class (4B) had warned us what to expect. The days of shaking Wyatt’s hand were dead and buried.
‘Ahlberg, penalty king – c’mere.’
Later on, in the warmth of the classroom, the sun shining in through high church-like windows, Mr Cork, with a practised wriggling action, removed his coat. The shirt sleeve of his missing arm was pinned up. The thought of that never-to-be-seen stump fascinated us. And the gone-forever arm. There was a rumour once he had a finger of it still, a souvenir complete with signet ring, pickled in a jar. And how did he tie his shoelaces, we wondered, or carve the Sunday roast?
During afternoon play something happened: the first onslaught of events. Amos had a fight with Phippy. It was a theatrical scene even by our standards. Maurice Phipps, son of the park-keeper, was a mild-mannered, skinny-looking, essentially timid boy who for some reason brought out theworst in Amos. Amos was no bully, he’d fight anybody, but something about Maurice maddened him. Anyway, Amos must’ve been teasing or torturing Maurice, winding him up one way or another, and suddenly he went berserk. His eyes rolled up into his head and, howling like an animal, he hurled himself at his tormentor. Amos struggled to comprehend this attack, swatting at Maurice and throwing punches. But Maurice, in the place he was now in, felt no pain and showed no fear. He was an engine of fists and elbows, knees, feet and, eventually, teeth. He took a lump out of Amos’s ear. In an instant there was blood everywhere, as though that earlobe was some kind of cork in Amos which, when removed, let out just about every drop of blood he had. The encircling crowd of kids, another larger animal, howled too. How awful! How savage! We might’ve stood there unflinching and seen Amos murdered. Only then the teachers arrived, barging their way in, pouring cold water on the crime, dousing the passions. A little kid, from the sight of all that blood, fainted, fell down and cracked his skull, or flattened his nose or something. More blood! Eventually, the pair of them were driven off in Mrs Harris’s car to the hospital. Amos received four stitches and a tetanus injection.
∗
And so to Tugg Street at six o’clock, me with my load of firewood standing outside Starkey’s and Vincent Loveridge approaching. Vincent had been to the hospital too, had the day off from school, stitches for him as well in that cut above his eyebrow. And he came on with his little sister beside him, legs whizzing to keep up. Vincent, the Lord of the School, who never before had even – even slightly – noticed my existence. Came on, drew level, nodded and spoke.
‘How y’doin’?’
I think I made a wry face, indicating my heavy, cumbersome sack, and nodded in return, but said nothing, a mumble maybe. And he went on then, and so did I. And it was the best part.
19
The Worm Bank
Four days to the final.
On Saturday morning I escaped Mum’s timetable of jobs – bed-making, chamberpot-emptying – and disappeared up the park with Spencer. I’d pay for it later, but it was worth it. We set up a goal against the high hedge at the back of the bowling green and practised penalties, free kicks and so on. Spencer was a hopeless goalie, but willing. We did a bit of dribbling, acting out the pages of The Stanley Matthews Football Book , complete with commentary.
There was an uncertainty about Spencer’s movements – I
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