The Minxes

Off school till September… lovely!

‘Be good while I’m at work.’

‘Yes Dad.’

‘And help your mam with the little ones. Do you hear?’

‘Yes Dad.’

‘Right, just see that you do.’

When I was in the house I helped all I could, but now that my boundaries extended beyond Twydall, I made the most of it. Paul Parker and me went to Gillingham one Saturday, if only because we could, and because it was something different. We ended up at the top of Canterbury Street, where we turned onto the top road to walk back to Twydall. Somewhere near Nicholls bookshop we bumped into Martyn Hooper, school team goalkeeper and Paul’s 1A2 classmate. Seeing Martyn in his own locale was definitely something different. Different too, was spotting the fearsome Cyril Rye out of school. In awe of the man and his reputation, I froze. As close as I’d ever been to Upbury’s senior maths teacher, I respectfully stopped breathing as his billowing trousers passed by on the way to the Rainham bound bus stop.  

My old granny came to visit. Though Scottish, Granny had settled in Bolton decades earlier and, as always, we were thrilled to see her. And not just because she came laden with goodies like macaroons and coconut ice, and gingerbread men and cinder toffee from Bolton market. Our relations, scattered far and wide, were seldom seen but dear old Granny remained a constant in our lives and we cherished her visits.

On a beautiful summer morning Granny put the baby in the pram for a walk up to Twydall shops. I went along too. A routine trip for a few odds and ends is all it was, and in no time we were heading down to the Royal Engineer on our way home.

‘Ooo-woo!’

Someone was trying to attract another someone’s attention. Unconcerned, I carried on talking to Granny.

‘Ooo-woo!’ (Shrill voices getting louder)

‘Ooo-woo! Gerard! Ooo-woo!’

On hearing my name I turned around….

…and was aghast to see Diane Clark and Shelley Jordan, two girls in my class, laughing and cackling and rushing to catch up. Oh, the embarrassment. What those minxes had in mind I didn’t know and with no wish to find out, I fled.

Abandoning Granny, I gave Minster Road a miss as I bombed it down Goudhurst Road. From there I ran along Beechings Way and didn’t stop running till I turned into Wingham Close. With no way of knowing where those minxes were, I choked on the terrible thought that they might have followed Granny all the way to our front door on Crundale Road. Unsure what to do next; I hung around the alley that led to Crundale Road, where I waited… and waited.

Granny was full of herself when I got home. She’d grasped the wrong end of a very mischievous stick and though she’d told Mam the tale already, she kept going on about it.

‘You should have seen the girls chase him,’ she said with such pride.

A boy can only take so much. Unwilling to listen to it anymore, I made myself scarce.

Next time Granny went to the shops, I stayed home. My brother Dave went instead, a decision he quickly regretted when Granny asked who Swarbrick was.

‘I didn’t know where to put my face,’ Dave said, when he told me about it later. ‘I don’t know who Swarbrick is. I just know what he is.’

I didn’t know the infamous Swarbrick either but thanks to that piece of graffiti the whole estate knew something about him. Brother Mike knew, too. Amidst much sniggering he and Dave told me of other naughty words they’d heard. Since those words were still relatively new to me, it came as a shock to hear them from my brothers and I was quick to lay down the law in big brotherly style. I warned them never to say those words in the house or there’d be a murder. Mine probably, as Dad was sure to think they’d learned them from me.

Footnote: Granny never forgot the girls chasing me. No matter how many times she told the tale over the next twenty three years, she always told it with the same pride. I never had the heart to tell her they were only taking the piss.