Shoes for Anthony (19 page)

I glanced towards Piotr, who gave me a quick, reassuring wink. Willis seemed an all right sort. He'd be fine.

Old Morris' salvage shop was in Blaencwm, the next village over, past the colliery. Normally, I'd have taken a shortcut over the mountain, but with a large pile of newspapers to carry, it made more sense to stick to the road.

As I walked, I passed girls standing on the pavements, plaiting each other's hair. They paid little attention to me, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. We never played with them and they never played with us. I could see Ade and the boys beyond them, gathering near the bottom end of the street and sorting themselves into teams.

‘Ant!' yelled Fez, waving at me. ‘Catty and Doggy. Come on. We need another player.'

Ade was swiping a metre-long wooden stick through the air, trying to hit a much smaller stick with tapered ends. ‘Getting my eye in,' he said, as everyone laughed when he missed. ‘I got two more goes, mind! Hey, Ant. Stick your paper over b'there. You're in next.'

Catty and Doggy was a Scott Street favourite. ‘Poor man's cricket,' Father used to call it. I dumped the bundle on the flagstones and stood next to Bozo.

‘What's happening with the prisoner, then?' he asked, taking his specs off and folding them into his pocket.

‘He's not a prisoner,' I said, reaching into my wellingtons and pulling my socks up. ‘He's a war hero. Fella from St Athan said so. He's killed masses of Germans and saved loads of people, like.'

‘Smashin',' said Bozo, giving a manly nod.

‘Fella from the RAF is round our house now. They're talking all secret stuff, like. So Mam's sent us up the salvage. Not allowed back for an hour.'

‘Christ, man,' said Ade, blowing his fringe away from his eyes. ‘You should have stayed and listened in. You'd have top secrets and everything. He'are. Have the doggy.' He handed me the stick. ‘I missed every time. Your turn.'

Taking the doggy, the smaller, tapered catty was thrown down in front of me. The object was to strike its end as hard as you could, sending the catty into the air. Then, when it was airborne, you had to hit it as far as possible. I had three attempts and, if I managed to hit it, the distance would be measured with the longer stick. One length of the doggy counted as one run.

‘Come on, Ant,' yelled Ade. ‘Hit the catty!'

I thumped the doggy down onto the tapered end of the catty, but it didn't connect properly and the smaller stick skewed sideways across the street. A groan went up behind me. ‘Second go!' yelled Ade. I ran over and struck downwards again. This time I struck true, and the catty spun up into the air. Pulling my arm back, I swung again at the smaller stick. A sweet, pleasing thwack filled the air and I stood watching as the catty spun away from me.

‘Cracking hit, Ant!' yelled Ade. ‘Get it measured.'

Taking the doggy, I measured out the distance to the landed catty. ‘Four!' I shouted.

‘We're in the lead,' said Ade, hands on hips. ‘You're up, Fez.'

Fez was a decent player, probably the best we had, and with his first go he whacked it down the street. We all ran after it, waiting for him to measure it out. ‘Five!' he yelled.

We played until a mam appeared in a doorway, shouting at us for putting her windows at risk. It was a common complaint and one we always answered by simply running away.

‘If my windows end up broken,' shouted Mrs Evans, shaking her fist at us, ‘I'll have you all in a pie.'

‘Wanna come up the mountain?' said Ade, as we scarpered.

‘Can't,' I said, bending to retrieve my pile of newspapers, ‘gotta get up the salvage.'

Old Morris never seemed to know quite what to do with all the rubbish we dumped on him. I'd been taking him paper and old tins, even an old iron gate, once, for as long as I could remember, and as far as I could tell, it was all still sitting there. In the window, there was a large, faded poster of a soldier, tin hat on, hand cupped about his mouth and shouting, and emblazoned above him, the clarion call, ‘I need your waste paper!' But for what, I don't think any of us would ever know. Father said it was something to do with making matches. Mam tried to work out how they made matches from old newspapers, but gave in saying she ‘couldn't get her head round it'.

Old Morris was the perfect front man for a heap of waste. He had a faded appearance: eyes grey like rainwater and a general dusty demeanour, as if he'd been put in a cupboard and forgotten. Like an old family hand-me-down, everything about him had seen better days. He was sitting, as he always was, towards the back of the shop in a rocking chair, slippers on, pipe in mouth, staring at a chessboard, where he was locked in an eternal struggle with his most fiendish opponent, namely, himself.

‘Who's winning, Mr Morris?' I said, as the bell above me gave a tinkle. It was a standard joke, like a secret password for locals coming into the shop.

‘The good news,' began Old Morris, casting a brief glance in my direction, ‘is that I am winning. The bad news is, I'm up against a better man.' He took his pipe out from his mouth and tapped the end into a blackened saucer. ‘Paper, is it?' he said, pushing himself up from his chair. ‘Stick it in that corner, if you can. You might have to use the ladder.'

He gestured over towards a small mountain of newspapers piled almost up to the ceiling. Bundles of flattened cardboard boxes were dotted about the shop, along with baskets of crushed and rusting tins. There was a smell of neglect, old and musty, a bit like an ancient bookshop, but damper. Leaning up against the wall was the cast-iron gate I'd dragged here a year ago. I pointed towards it. ‘When they coming to take that, then?' I said.

Old Morris shrugged. ‘No idea. Nobody's been to collect anything in months. Not that I've heard they're stopping salvage, mind. To be honest, I think they've forgotten about us. We're not like Cardiff, are we?'

‘Better than Cardiff,' I said, clearing some space to get out the wooden ladder. ‘Got no proper mountain in Cardiff. What's the good of that? Father says he doesn't understand people who want to live on the flat. They've got nothing to look up to. That's what he says.'

Old Morris gave a considered nod. ‘Wise man, your father. Here, hang on. I'll hold the bottom for you.'

I leant the ladder against the column of stacked papers and heaved my bundle under my armpit. Old Morris held on to one side and watched as I climbed upwards. ‘I hear you've got a visitor staying at your house. Village is buzzing with it. Injured, is he? That why we not seen him out and about?'

I heaved the bundle up over my head and shoved it into a space above me. ‘He's got a sprained ankle,' I said, pushing the newspapers towards the wall as best I could. ‘Mam reckons he'll be up tomorrow. He's managed to get downstairs.'

‘Sprained ankle, is it?' said Old Morris, looking over his shoulder. ‘I've got something he can have for that. You all done? Down you come and I'll get it.'

I jumped back onto the floor and watched as Old Morris began rooting through a maelstrom of junk. ‘It's back here somewhere,' he mumbled, bending over.

Teapots with bent spouts, pans with holes in their sides and chewed-up rolls of string came tumbling out onto the shop floor, a flood of wartime flotsam.

‘It's in here, I think,' he said, leaning over and reaching into a battered tea chest. ‘There we go,' he said, pulling out a walking stick. ‘That might help. Good one, too. Can't recall who threw that out. All the same, your visitor's welcome to it.'

He handed me the stick. It was a dark-brown wood, a round tapering length with a handle carved in the shape of a bird. ‘That's right posh, that,' I said, marvelling at it. ‘Shall I get Father to give you some money for it?'

Old Morris shook his head. ‘Don't be daft, boy,' he said. ‘Right and proper we all lend a hand. Besides, I'm glad to get rid of it. It was cluttering the place up.'

I frowned. It was always hard to tell when Old Morris was having a laugh, but as I stared up at him, I saw a glint of something in his eye, and he smiled. ‘Want to help me make my next move?' he said, gesturing back towards his chessboard. ‘I'm up against a devil.'

I peered over. ‘Queen to bishop four,' I said.

Old Morris frowned. ‘Well, I'll be damned,' he said, making the move. ‘Checkmate. Clever lad!'

‘Mam wants me to get her a cob loaf,' I said, making for the door. ‘The baker won't be open long.'

Old Morris nodded and popped his pipe back into the corner of his mouth. ‘Send your mother and father my regards. And I'll see our new friend at chapel this Sunday. Quite the stir, he's caused. Quite the stir.'

The walking stick was too tall for me to walk with a swagger, so I tossed it over my shoulder and ran down the hill from Blaencwm back to the baker's in Tynewydd. The stick was about the same length as a doggy, I reckoned, and I found myself hoping that the game I'd left was still underway. I'd smash that catty for six if I was able to use the walking stick. But the boys were all long gone; tangled up somewhere in our mountain, I expected.

The baker's ovens were so hot you could feel them before you got to the shop. On a cold winter's day, it wasn't unusual for our gang to play right outside, mostly for the warmth but occasionally, at closing-up time, the baker would chuck us stuff that had gone unsold. In summer, you'd avoid it like the plague: it was hellish hot and whenever I was sent by my mother, I'd stand in the doorway, listening to the crickets singing in the rear and breaking into a sweat just waiting for a loaf.

‘What's your mother wanting?' shouted the baker, seeing me standing in the doorway. His face was cherry red, his shirt wet with sweat.

‘Cob loaf, please,' I said, coming forward and handing him my coupon.

He reached for a pile of dusted bread and pulled one from the top. ‘You Emily Jones' boy, ain't you?' he said, eyeing me as he wrapped the bread in some waxy paper.

I nodded.

‘Got that crashed airman staying, still?'

I nodded. ‘He's a Polish war hero,' I said.

‘Here,' he added, wrapping up a few sweet buns. ‘You give your mother those from me. No charge, mind. In fact, she can have the bread 'n' all.'

He handed me the large rectangular packet. The bread inside was still warm, the sugary aroma from the buns heady. Nobody had ever treated us special, but now, because of Piotr, they were. I had the sense of something I'd never felt before: importance. That's what it was. I felt important.

I felt like I mattered.

‘Careful now,' said Mam, holding on to Piotr's elbow. ‘Ant, pass him that.'

I handed him the wooden walking stick and Piotr, taking it, gently lowered his left foot onto the floor. Gingerly, he took a step: a wince, then another step, better.

‘How's that feelin'?' said Mam.

‘Not too bad. Little sore, but actually, feels good to move it. I might even try walk.'

‘Are you sure?' said Mam, frowning. ‘I don't want you overdoing it or you'll be right back at square one.'

‘It'll be good for me. Get out. Get fresh air. Perhaps young Anthony can come with me? Make sure I don't do myself damage?'

I grinned. ‘I can go with him, Mam,' I said. ‘Unless you've got errands you want doing, like?'

Mam shook her head. ‘No,' she said, ‘you go off. I suspect he'll be proud to show you off, Piotr. Just mind you don't be getting him into trouble, Ant.'

‘I won't, Mam. Promise.'

There'd been deep rumbles sounding from beyond the valley road all morning, and, as we came out of the house, a large green wagon slowly made its way up the street towards us. People were coming out from their houses to stare, women were waving and the Scott Street kids, ever atune to the slightest scrap of excitement, were running alongside and cheering.

‘Here they come,' said Mam, folding her arms and leaning against the front doorframe. ‘Bopa!' she yelled. ‘They're here!'

Arthur Pryce was sitting in the front seat looking anxious, and as the wagon came to a stop, he jumped down and stared at a clipboard.

Bopa appeared in her doorway and raised her eyebrows towards Mam. ‘Do you think I'll get a film star, Em?' she shouted. ‘Clark Gable, please, Arthur!'

Arthur Pryce didn't reply; he was blinking rapidly and trailing a forefinger down the list in front of him. His cheeks were burning scarlet and he seemed flustered.

‘Christ, Arthur,' chided Bopa, ‘let's be having you. Who am I getting?'

Arthur raised his head and yelled towards the back of the wagon. ‘Robert Paine! Andrew Janko!'

Bopa's eyes widened. ‘Robert Paine and Andrew Janko. Did you hear that, Em? Two!'

Two American soldiers appeared from within the wagon, both holding kit bags over a shoulder. They looked very young, a little nervous. ‘Wet behind the ears,' Father would call them.

Arthur reached into a satchel slung across his chest and handed them a small booklet each. ‘Wassat, 'en?' asked Bopa, taking one and having a gander. ‘“Instructions for American Servicemen in Britain!”' she read out loud. ‘We'll have a read of that later! Well, come on, you two! Robert Paine and Andrew Janko. Which one's which?'

‘I'm Andrew,' said the taller one.

‘And I'm Robert.'

‘Got any gum, chum?' said Ade, leading a small knot of children who'd gathered behind them.

‘You can ask for gum later,' said Bopa, shooing them away. ‘Let's get 'em in, get 'em settled. Thank you, Arthur. I'll take over from here.'

Arthur gave an awkward nod, went to shake the hands of the Americans but thought better of it, turned and climbed back into the front of the wagon. He consulted his clipboard. ‘Number sixty-seven,' he shouted, and the wagon rolled onwards, the children running after it, like gulls following a trawler.