can picture him now – an awkwardness, as I perfected my matadorial sidestep: moving left, moving left, inside of the foot, outside of the foot – darting right! It was a mystical business, almost zen-like: add youropponent’s speed to yours, steal it from him, so to speak, and you become… a blur. ∗
On the way out, circling the pond, we encountered Mr Skidmore. He was sitting on a folding stool, fishing. Mr Skidmore had all the gear – rods, nets, basket. We peered into his keep net to admire a couple of gudgeon swimming around. He hired us to get him a few worms.
The worm bank was a kind of ancient compost heap, added to from time to time by the park gardeners. A secret, humid place, a tropical bubble, surrounded by rhododendron bushes. It was beloved by boys and fishermen, and home to a particular breed of thin red worm perfect for catching anything from sticklebacks to pike. I’m exaggerating again.
Spencer and I took Mr Skidmore’s worm tin andwent digging. Spencer was in a speculative mood.
‘These worms could’ve dug through from the cemetery, y’know.’
The boundary fence was right behind us.
‘Worms don’t dig.’
‘Burrowed, then. It’s not far.’
‘It is for a worm.’
‘A flea can jump fifteen times its own height.’
‘Put the tin down there.’
I added a handful of worms to the wriggling mass. Spencer took up the tin again and gazed thoughtfully into it.
‘Who’d be a worm?’ he wondered.
At the park gates going out we met Tommy Pye and brother Albert coming in. They had Tommy’s brand-new puppy with them on a lead. The four of us proceeded to play with the puppy, recently christened Ramona, encouraging it to chase us, roll around with us, muck us up with its muddy paws, lick our faces. The plump little thing grew dizzy from all this attention.
Back in the street, Spencer and I explored the phenomenon of prodigies in the Pye family. Tommy, yes, what a player! But Albert, it looked like, was promising to be even better. Moreover, Mrs Pye, we’d heard and could more or less see,was expecting her third. What kind of player would that baby be? Probably got a good kick on him even now.
‘Yeah.’ I grabbed Spencer in a headlock. ‘Better than you and he’s not even born.’
We made our way up Rood End Road to Lavender’s Bread Shop, bought a couple of penny buns, compliments of Mr Skidmore, and sat eating them on the chapel steps. I was reluctant to go home, though I knew I had to. I was steeling myself. We contemplated the scene: people and prams, bikes, motorbikes, buses, the occasional car. Life in those days, I realize now, was the complete set, the perfect jigsaw (though a ‘puzzle’ still, as always). Walking those streets, in that weather at that time, each piece – Archie, old man Cutler, Mrs Milward (anxious face at the window) – was easily familiar to me, as were the fences, front doors, dusty hedges, gutters and drains, even the flagstones themselves, which I go back and walk on now, fifty years later. And puppies (and babies) arrived to claim their places, become familiar in their turn, grow old and die. Organic, that’s what it was, a tangle of lives, like worms in a worm tin.
We went home. As it turned out, Mum was in a reasonable mood. She was standing at the frontdoor with a mop in her hand, talking to Spencer’s mum. Spencer said hallo to my mum, so I said hallo to his. It was a funny thing; Spencer really admired my mum. I think he liked the fact that she could fight all the other mothers with one arm tied behind her. She was a dangerous woman, but would stick up for you when the chips were down. And I liked his. She was a terrible snob, but I noticed how often she spoke well of Spencer, praised him; his accordion playing, his cooking, his overall appearance. On the rare occasion I attempted to dress up and look smart, my mother described me as ‘a bag of shite tied up in the middle’. I sometimes think we should’ve swapped.
In the afternoon
On the way out, circling the pond, we encountered Mr Skidmore. He was sitting on a folding stool, fishing. Mr Skidmore had all the gear – rods, nets, basket. We peered into his keep net to admire a couple of gudgeon swimming around. He hired us to get him a few worms.
The worm bank was a kind of ancient compost heap, added to from time to time by the park gardeners. A secret, humid place, a tropical bubble, surrounded by rhododendron bushes. It was beloved by boys and fishermen, and home to a particular breed of thin red worm perfect for catching anything from sticklebacks to pike. I’m exaggerating again.
Spencer and I took Mr Skidmore’s worm tin andwent digging. Spencer was in a speculative mood.
‘These worms could’ve dug through from the cemetery, y’know.’
The boundary fence was right behind us.
‘Worms don’t dig.’
‘Burrowed, then. It’s not far.’
‘It is for a worm.’
‘A flea can jump fifteen times its own height.’
‘Put the tin down there.’
I added a handful of worms to the wriggling mass. Spencer took up the tin again and gazed thoughtfully into it.
‘Who’d be a worm?’ he wondered.
At the park gates going out we met Tommy Pye and brother Albert coming in. They had Tommy’s brand-new puppy with them on a lead. The four of us proceeded to play with the puppy, recently christened Ramona, encouraging it to chase us, roll around with us, muck us up with its muddy paws, lick our faces. The plump little thing grew dizzy from all this attention.
Back in the street, Spencer and I explored the phenomenon of prodigies in the Pye family. Tommy, yes, what a player! But Albert, it looked like, was promising to be even better. Moreover, Mrs Pye, we’d heard and could more or less see,was expecting her third. What kind of player would that baby be? Probably got a good kick on him even now.
‘Yeah.’ I grabbed Spencer in a headlock. ‘Better than you and he’s not even born.’
We made our way up Rood End Road to Lavender’s Bread Shop, bought a couple of penny buns, compliments of Mr Skidmore, and sat eating them on the chapel steps. I was reluctant to go home, though I knew I had to. I was steeling myself. We contemplated the scene: people and prams, bikes, motorbikes, buses, the occasional car. Life in those days, I realize now, was the complete set, the perfect jigsaw (though a ‘puzzle’ still, as always). Walking those streets, in that weather at that time, each piece – Archie, old man Cutler, Mrs Milward (anxious face at the window) – was easily familiar to me, as were the fences, front doors, dusty hedges, gutters and drains, even the flagstones themselves, which I go back and walk on now, fifty years later. And puppies (and babies) arrived to claim their places, become familiar in their turn, grow old and die. Organic, that’s what it was, a tangle of lives, like worms in a worm tin.
We went home. As it turned out, Mum was in a reasonable mood. She was standing at the frontdoor with a mop in her hand, talking to Spencer’s mum. Spencer said hallo to my mum, so I said hallo to his. It was a funny thing; Spencer really admired my mum. I think he liked the fact that she could fight all the other mothers with one arm tied behind her. She was a dangerous woman, but would stick up for you when the chips were down. And I liked his. She was a terrible snob, but I noticed how often she spoke well of Spencer, praised him; his accordion playing, his cooking, his overall appearance. On the rare occasion I attempted to dress up and look smart, my mother described me as ‘a bag of shite tied up in the middle’. I sometimes think we should’ve swapped.
In the afternoon
Similar Books
