Still
smarting from Geoff Bray’s mockery, I called for a pass from Paul Parker when
playing football in the playground at break time. Only I didn’t pronounce his name as I’d always pronounced it. ‘Pawl! Pawl!’ I shouted, the southern way. It went unnoticed as I took
the pass from Paul and got on with the game.
‘That’s
good. Who is it?’ asked Mister Brown, looking over my shoulder in the Art
class.
‘The
Virgin Mary,’ I said, adding more powder paint to my palette. I don’t suppose many
Upbury kids painted the Madonna, never mind an eleven year old in an Art exam. But
that was me. Influenced by religion perhaps, but not religiously motivated. My
choice just happened to be compatible with a wish to be grown up and sensible.
I was
quietly proud when the exam results came out. I came top in Art and did well in
most subjects. Knowing just enough about semibreves and minims scraped an
average mark in Music and the avoidance of total disgrace in Science and French
helped me to the respectable position of eighth in the class. With the top
places being dominated by girls, I was pleased to be 1A1’s highest placed boy.
Dad
rarely took an interest in how his boys were doing at school, yet he was always
keen to see our reports. Good ones were set aside with little comment. Bad ones
sparked holy hell, but I had nothing to fear this time and there was no need to
make myself scarce when he came home from work.
Christmas was different now I was a big kid, though I was pleased
to be off school for the holiday. Gone were the days of cadging a
sheet of Mam’s best Basildon Bond to write a note for Father Christmas and send
it up the chimney. Mam had let me in on the big secret the previous year, yet
as wonderful as it had been to stay up late and help wrap presents, the satisfaction
was fleeting and counted for little on Christmas morning when I awoke to the
loss of a magic gone forever. I was still hopeful of a few presents though,
notably a Hotspur annual and a real leather football that I’d been hinting at for
ages.
‘You’ll just have to wait and see,’ said Mam, whenever I raised the
subject. Not the answer I wanted to hear, but it kept me on my toes and as
motivated as my brothers as we followed Dad’s orders on the countdown to
Christmas Day. Between us we did everything we could to help Mam; we ran
errands to the shops and washed up, we hoovered and tidied, and we cleaned the
sticky marks off the woodwork and doors; scrubbing them until they were shining
like a shilling up a sweep’s bum, as Dad was oft to say.
Inevitably, with so much tension and devious goodwill around, something
had to go wrong, and it always seemed to happen as Dad arrived home from work. A
flare up with one of my brothers ended abruptly when Dad appeared in the front
room doorway.
‘Come here you bugger!’
And lo, hours of saintly behaviour were wiped out in an instant as seasons
greetings were extended to the lughole.
Cleaning the ashes from the grate the following morning was a good way of
getting back in good books. As was chucking the ashes in the dustbin and
filling the scuttle at the coal bunker. So was building up a new fire and lighting
it, using a large sheet of newspaper to help draw the fire up the chimney. Sometimes
the paper caught alight and got sucked up the chimney. When that happened, a
quick dash to the window was rewarded with a glimpse of a flaming newspaper
disintegrating over a neighbour’s garden. Once the fire had taken and the fireguard
was back in position, I sat back and shivered till dinnertime, by which time the
ice on the window would be gone. Soon after, it would melt on the outside of
the window as well.
Brothers Dave and Mike quizzed me about Father Christmas. I knew from
their smirking faces they were only looking for some big brotherly confirmation, but I
wasn’t at liberty to say. As it happened they got what they wanted on Christmas
Eve when Mam cut them in on the deal and recruited them for elf duty. As soon
as the little ones were tucked up for the night and Dad had cleared off to the social
club, Mam and her three helpers tiptoed round the house and retrieved bags and packages
from all kinds of hiding places and carried them to the front room. We weren’t
allowed to see what was in the bags Mam set aside, but that didn’t stop me trying to spot something round and ball-shaped.
By the time we’d finished wrapping and sellotaping, and then cleaned up
a mess of paper, packaging and stray nutshells, it was getting late. Needing us
out of the way to complete the job, Mam sent us up the wooden hill with our hot
water bottles.
Christmas came and Christmas went and with it went my hopes of getting a
real football. I got my Hotspur annual though and I savoured the rare occasion
that I was able to write my name in the ‘this book belongs to’ window on the
opening page.
Dad was playing in a football match on Boxing Day morning. Two weeks had
passed since Mam first mentioned Dad’s need to borrow my football socks, and two
weeks of cautious pestering paid off when the big day came and Dad allowed me,
Dave and Mike tag along.
On the touchline of a Civil Service Club pitch on the top road, I looked
on with my brothers as the game kicked off. Dad playing football was a
wonderful surprise. We didn’t even know he liked football. Other than
threatening to clobber us if we didn’t keep quiet while Mam jotted down the football
results to check her pools coupon on Saturdays, he’d never shown the slightest
interest in football. But there he was out on the pitch in a pair of borrowed
boots with his trousers tucked into my red and white football socks.
‘Come on Dad!’
It disappointed me that Dad wasn’t playing in full kit, but on a chilly
morning, few did and he wasn’t alone in wearing a jumper. Shirts wouldn’t have
been a bad idea though, just to give us a clue who was supposed to be kicking
which way.
‘Come on Dad!’
Dad’s team were a goal down in no time… and two goals down soon after.
‘Come on Dad.’
Holding a defensive midfield position, Dad was slow getting to the ball.
The game seemed to be passing him by.
'Come on Dad.'
Thank goodness for Ben, a drinking pal of Dad’s who sometimes called round
to our house. Ben was a good ten years older than Dad, but he looked the part
in his black tracksuit and when he put in a tackle and went on an impressive
dribble, we finally had something to cheer. But for all Ben’s ability, Dad’s
team were constantly under pressure and they soon conceded another goal. In a
one sided first half it seemed the other team were younger, fitter and keener. Dad
hadn’t got into his stride but he’d surely come good in the second half.
Come on
Dad.
Another goal at the wrong end didn’t matter. We’d lost interest in the score;
we just wanted Dad to do something; a tackle, a pass, anything.
Please Dad.
For the entire second half we stood and shivered in the hope that Dad
would give us something to cheer, but it didn’t happen. As soon as the game ended,
Dad was quick to point us in the direction of home and then dash off to the social
club, where a barrel of beer was waiting for the participants of the football
match.
Oh Dad.
