Shoes for Anthony (2 page)

We gathered round him and stared down. There was no denying it. He'd knacked his leg right up.

‘'Ere, boys,' said Thomas, staring down at his swelling ankle. ‘Don't tell me mam it was the tip, mind. I didn't tell her I was taking the tea tray.'

We all nodded and helped him up. We may have liked a scrape, but we weren't stupid.

‘Born of a scorpion!' said Bopa, folding her arms. ‘Can you even imagine it, Em? Stealing ration books! Three gone in Scott Street alone!'

My mother shook her head. ‘Who'd steal a ration book? It's wicked, Bopa. Wicked.'

‘They may as well knock on doors and tell people to starve! Beryl Morris has been in tears. She's only got half an ounce of kidneys. How do you make that last a fortnight?'

‘Is that how long it's going to take to get replacements?'

‘Well,' said Bopa, reaching for the kettle that was starting to whistle, ‘that's how long Arthur Pryce said it would take. But that's Arthur Pryce. I wouldn't be surprised if Beryl Morris doesn't see another lump of meat for a month.'

‘We'll have to help her out. I can ask Alwyn to catch her some rabbits.'

‘I've given her two eggs. They're appetite suppressants. Pass me the pot. I'll get it warmed.'

Bopa, our immediate neighbour, was an irascible widow. She kept a clean flagstone and a keen eye on everyone else. She had brown hair, flecked with grey, cut short and hidden under a blue checked headscarf. Her face had a rough quality to it, like a pumice stone, her features sharp and pointed. Some boys reckoned she was directly descended from that dinosaur that can fly – a pterodactyl, it's called. Mam wouldn't hear chat like that in her earshot, mind. Disrespectful, she said.

‘I hope you're listening, Anthony!' Bopa barked. ‘Keep your whistle clean. Do something wrong and bad things happen! Mark my words. There was a boy from Blaencwm, doing the rounds for the milkie, turned out he was pocketing half the pennies. Guess what happened to him, Anthony?'

I shrugged. ‘Don't know,' I mumbled.

‘He got polio and died, that's what.'

‘Bopa!' protested Mam. ‘Stealing doesn't cause polio!'

‘Bad things happen!' she cried, raising a finger into the air. ‘Bad. Things. Happen! Young boys round here would do well to remember it.' She palmed the side of the teapot. ‘That's warm enough. Let's get the tea in.'

Bopa came round at 11.00 a.m. on the dot every single day. She'd bang on the adjoining wall to signal her imminent arrival and in she would come, morning chores completed, ready to update my mother on every scandal and bowel movement troubling anyone in Scott Street.

‘I think it's his liver,' she said, blowing into her cup. ‘He's got that bilious look to him. Mind you, he's not eaten a vegetable since 1937. “Margaret,” I said, “Margaret, you've got to put a carrot in a pie. Trick him into it.” He picks leeks out of cawl, Em. The very thought! I think it's traitorous wasting food when there's a war on. Hitler wants us to starve. He's doing his job for him.'

My mother nodded silently and cupped her tea between her hands.

‘You're a bit filthy, aren't you?' said Bopa, her beams turning towards me. ‘I mean, I know you're a mucky lot, but if I didn't know you were a boy, I'd be chucking you on the compost.'

‘Yes,' said Mam, turning towards me. ‘You're in a proper muck. Have you been sliding down that spoil tip again? You better not have had my tray.'

Her eyes darted towards the place on the counter where she kept her tea trays. I said nothing. I'd snuck it back in and wiped it clean using the inside of my jumper.

‘Dr Mitchell's round at Anne Evans'. Don't know why yet. Thought I'd pop over after seeing you. Don't like to intrude. He'll be snaffling up any cake that's going. He's a card, ain't he? I swear he can smell a cake from half a mile away. He's like those pigs that can sniff out treats.'

‘A truffle pig,' I said, picking dirt out from under my fingernails.

‘That's it. A truffle pig. But for sponge. Clever lad, your Anthony, ain't he?'

Mam nodded and shot me a small smile. ‘He's always got his nose in that encyclopaedia of his. He loves reading that.'

‘Dr Mitchell's seeing Thomas. He's bust his leg up again,' I said.

Bopa raised an eyebrow. ‘Look out, Em. Your boy's on the button. Bust his leg, has he? How he do that, then?'

‘Don't know,' I said, staring intently at my nails. I slightly wished I hadn't said anything.

‘Didn't he only just finish breaking his leg?' I could feel her eyes boring into me.

‘Hmmm,' I mumbled.

‘He did,' Bopa rolled on. ‘Well. Good job Anne hasn't sent that wheelchair off to salvage, innit? He'll be needing that again. How did he do it? Didn't catch it.' She took a long slurp of her tea.

I blew out my cheeks a little and pulled my bottom lip tight. It was an unspoken rule if you were a Scott Street boy: You didn't tell. ‘Running or something,' I murmured.

‘Running or something,' said Bopa, with a sharp nod. ‘It's this war, Em. They're running wild. Feral. He'll have been up to no good. If I had a shilling for every time a Scott Street boy said he was doing something when he was doing something entirely different, I'd be living in Cardiff in a house made of Lardy cake. What did I say? Bad things happen!'

I looked up towards the old clock that sat on the back kitchen mantelpiece. It only had one arm, the long hour one, so as clocks go it wasn't much cop. All the same, I liked to guess what the time was just by looking at its tip. Twenty past eleven, I reckoned.

‘Right, then,' said Bopa, thumping her cup down onto the table. ‘I've got some cloths to wash. I'll pop into Anne Evans'. Let you know what's what. Ta-ra, then. Ta-ra, Anthony.'

‘Ta-ra,' I said, pushing myself up from the table.

‘Ta-ra, Bopa,' said Mam, standing to place the tea things in the sink. ‘See you later.'

But she was already gone.

‘Wash up those cups for me, Ant,' said Mam. ‘Now, then,' she added, wiping her hands on the bottom of her housecoat. ‘Let's think about your father's lunch.'

The tommy box was a battered old thing, the only family relic I think we ever had. It had been handed down from father to eldest son, pitmen all, for three generations, and I knew to be entrusted with it was a responsibility of some significance.

It was sitting, opened and empty, in front of me on the kitchen table. Chin resting on my crossed forearms, I watched as Mam opened the larder door beyond. ‘Your father's forgotten his lunch again. Right, then,' she said, standing with one hand on her hip. ‘What shall he have today?'

She stared at the near-empty shelves. There wasn't a lot to choose from. We never had much, but then, as Mam said, if we'd never had it, we'd never miss it.

‘Lord knows it's hard enough feeding three men at the best of times, let alone with a war on. He can have that trotter,' Mam mumbled, picking up a gelatinous nub from a slippery plate. ‘A slice of bread and … get me some jibbons from the veg box, Ant.' I slid backwards from the table and pulled out two long spring onions from a tangle of muddied home-grown vegetables. I passed them up to Mam, who quickly took her knife to the end of them. Peering into the tommy box, I snuck my forefinger into the trotter jelly.

‘I can see you,' said Mam, slapping my hand away. She tucked the jibbons into the side of the open tin. ‘Did you get that quarter of twist?'

I licked the stolen, meaty smear from the end of my finger and pulled out a small wrap of chewing tobacco from my shorts pocket. ‘Mr Hughes told me to ask you to go in so you can square the bill.'

‘He'll have to wait. I haven't got it. No more going in the shop until I get some wages from the boys. That means no penny chews on tick, Ant. Are you listening?' I nodded. Mam took the roll of tobacco, pressed it into the top, rounded section of the tommy box, then laid a slice of buttered bread over the trotter and onions, the soft seal to my father's lunch.

‘There you go,' she said, pressing down the tin lid. ‘Get that to the pit. And no nicking bits. Quick sharp.'

At the top end of the street, before the houses ended and our mountain began, a gaggle of Scott Street kids were huddled in a tight knot on the pavement. Something was going on. I had time, I reckoned, so I squeezed in. Two matchboxes were being poked with sticks. ‘Give 'em a rattle, man,' said Fez, not looking up. ‘Then we let 'em go.'

I tapped Ade on the shoulder. ‘What's in 'em?'

‘Red Indians. Fez's dad brought some back from the pit to give his mam a scare. Fez got hold of them. Reckon they'll fight.'

I pushed further into the circle and crouched down on my haunches. ‘Let 'em go, Fez. Come on!'

Fez pushed his finger into the middle of one matchbox and eased the drawer open. Two red antennae popped upwards. The girls in the group gave out small, theatrical screams. ‘Don't let it loose, Fez!' wailed one, staring wide-eyed at the tiny, probing feelers.

‘Come on, Fez,' urged Ade, ‘get at it, man!'

‘They'll never stay out,' I said. ‘They only like the dark down the pit.'

‘We'll see,' said Fez, poking both matchboxes fully open.

For a moment, the cockroaches seemed stunned, as if daylight had shocked them rigid, but then, in the blink of an eye, they were scuttling, feelers swathing from left to right. The circle of children burst backwards like a flower exploding into bloom. ‘Stop 'em!' shouted Ade. ‘Make the buggers fight!'

‘Look out!' screamed one of the girls, covering her face with her hands. ‘They eat your eyes!'

The largest Red Indian had scuttled left, but as a defensive plimsoll shot down in its direction, it turned sharply back on itself and headed towards me and Ade. ‘Watch out!' cried Ade, standing up suddenly. ‘They're bloody at it!'

I was momentarily caught off balance and fell sideways onto my elbow. Around me there were more hysterical screams. A sharp tingling sensation coursed down my shin.

‘It's in your boot, Ant!' shouted Ade. ‘Get it off, man!'

Fez grabbed the heel of my wellington and tossed it across the street. Nobody moved.

I looked down at my bare foot. No Red Indian. ‘Where is it?' I said, panting.

‘It'll still be in there,' said Ade, gesturing towards the discarded wellington as if it were an unexploded bomb. ‘Go get it.'

‘Where's the other one?' I said, scrabbling upwards.

‘Over there by the drain,' said Fez. ‘Do you want my stick to pick up your wellie?' He held out a whittled branch.

I shook my head.

My wellington was resting at an angle against the kerb. I hopped over towards it and peered into the opening.

‘Flick it, Ant,' encouraged Ade. ‘Pick it up. Flick it out.'

‘I don't know how to do it.' I said, my cheeks reddening.

‘Oh,
duw
, he can't do it,' murmured Fez. ‘You do it, Ade. You don't mind a Red Indian.'

‘Move aside,' said Ade, crossing the street towards me. ‘And give me that.'

He took my father's tommy box in his left hand. Bending down, he took the heel of my wellington, banged it sharp on the kerb and upturned it. The cockroach fell out. Slam went the tommy box. A crunch. A grind. A peek. He looked over to the others. ‘I killed it,' he announced.

A cheer went up and everyone ran over to stare down at the pulpy mess smeared across the bottom of my father's tommy box. ‘There you go,' said Ade, handing it back to me. ‘That's how you finish a Red Indian.'

I took my wellington and pulled it back on. Ade was having his back slapped, the hero of the hour. I stared down at the splattered innards smeared across the tin box's bottom. Father wouldn't want that for his lunch.

‘Wanna try and catch the other one, Ant?' said Ade, beaming.

‘Can't. Got to take this for Father.'

He nudged his head upwards. ‘Ta-ra, then.'

‘Ta-ra.'

Nobody watched me go and I turned away, slightly embarrassed. I looked down at the mess of splintered legs and yellow gore. I couldn't wipe it clean with my jumper sleeve so I'd wait until I'd crossed the black tinder track that served as the marker between street and mountain. I'd clean it in the brook.

Beyond the tinder track was a stream that tumbled down between the hillside crevasses and veered left, away from the top of the village. Dropping down over a thick tussock, I splashed into the cold waters. The depth was deceptive, and water cascaded over the rim of my wellingtons. I leapt backwards but it was too late. My feet were soaked. No matter. I was used to it.

This part of the stream was always clean. The river changed as it passed the colliery, picking up coal dust and clinkers, a black bubbling mass that drifted onwards, but here it was still as the mountain intended: clear, crisp.

I bent down and scooped some water onto the bottom of the tommy box, but the innards proved sticky and stubborn. I reached into the water for one of the flat pieces of flint that covered the riverbed and, wiping it first on the leg of my shorts, scraped off the remains of the cockroach. Such a squashed mess. A small surge of annoyance flushed through me and I tossed the mucky flint downstream.

The Tydraw Colliery was situated in a narrow part of the valley between our mountain, Pen Pych, and her sister, Graig-Y-Ddelw. If the wind was blowing towards you, you could taste it coming: a thick, deep tang of black stuff that stuck to the back of your throat. I hopped over a rail track where a few empty drams were sitting idle, and made my way, between grey stone buildings and corrugated iron structures, towards two large pithead wheels. There was a constant beat of shunting coal trucks and grinding cable, and a cloud of steam, the trusted marker for the prevailing wind, billowed low, whipping across the rooftops of the outbuildings. I watched its thick bloom lick across the valley. The wind was coming from the west.