The Boyhood of Burglar Bill (4 page)

7
The Boy Who Looked Like a Yacht

THE OLDBURY AND DISTRICT
QUEEN ELIZABETH II CORONATION CUP

ROUND 1: MALT SHOVEL ROVERS V.
TIVIDALE PRIMARY ‘B’

VENUE: BARNFORD PARK DATE: 4 APRIL 1953

KICK-OFF: 10.30 A.M.

We sat in the changing rooms, a painted wooden shed with splintery benches and coat hooks fixed to the walls. Bars of weak sunlight filtered through the dirty windows, dust danced in the air. Spencer and I distributed the shirts. Tommy Pye was delighted with his, though miles too big and having no number. The others were less pleased, mainly on account of the colours.

‘What’s this? Pink, is it? Purple?’

‘It’s lilac, actually,’ said Spencer.

‘Lilac?’ Joey Skidmore was almost spitting with disgust. ‘
Lilac?
We’ll look like a –’

‘Lilac like a,’ said Ronnie.

‘Look like a, like a load of… bunch of…’

‘Prats?’ said Wyatt.

‘Prats,’ said Joey.

Meanwhile, little Tommy had disappeared into his shirt as though it were a tent.

‘You told us they were Albion colours [blue and white stripes],’ said Graham.

The Parks and Cemeteries man stuck his head round the door.

‘Five minutes, boys,’ he said.

‘They were,’ said Spencer placidly. ‘There was an accident.’

A face, Edna May’s, smiled briefly in at a window,
prompting a couple of trouserless boys to scuttle out of sight.

‘In the wash house,’ Spencer said.

Trevor was twirling around now, holding his shirt out like a dance frock.

‘Accident?’ cried Joey. ‘It’s a bloody pantomime!’

The moaning continued but was eventually overtaken by the sense of occasion we all felt. To step out there, lilac shirts or not, into that watery morning light, on to that proper pitch with its fresh white lines, goalposts, nets! The grass, in truth, could have done with a trim – send for Mr Cotterill – but the excitement, the peculiar mixture of shyness and showing off; I could hardly think straight.

The game kicked off. Ten minutes later we were 3–0 down. A wild rush by their entire team into our penalty area produced the first, and, building cleverly on this success, the second likewise. The third goal involved the Prosser twins and a high corner. Both of them went for it. Unluckily, Malcolm, who could head a ball, was beaten to it by Patrick, who couldn’t. It skimmed the top of his head and flew into the goal.

The crowd was going wild, all twenty of them.
Edna May was there with a friend. Mrs Glue. My mum, frowning as ever, with Dinah tugging at her lead. Albert and Rufus Toomey arrived late and were lounging now behind the Tividale goal, blowing smoke from their cigarettes towards the goalie. A cluster of Tividale supporters waving scarves and such stood at the halfway line.

Now it was our turn. First goal, a wild rush by all of us into
their
penalty area; second, an almost intentional back-heel from Ronnie, and the third, a prodigious dribble from Tommy Pye. Tommy Pye was the instant darling of the crowd, even as he ran on to the pitch. The mothers, Tividale’s included, ‘Ooe’d’ and ‘Ah’d’ whenever he touched the ball and protested loudly if he was tackled. Anyway, Tommy picked up a rebound – the ball in games like this spent half its life ricocheting around – and headed for the goal. In that billowing shirt of his he looked like a small yacht. On he went, left foot, right foot, dropping his shoulder, feinting this way and that – oh yes, he had it all. None of the Tividale kids could stop him, nor could he stop himself, but ended up in the back of the net, ball, goalie and all.

The game continued with more goals in the second half and some heroics from Tommy Ice Cream. He really was a big boy for his age. He
didn’t move around much, but stuck out his arms and legs and the ball often as not just hit him. He was impervious to pain and had a goal kick like a siege gun.

With only minutes remaining, the score was 7–all. Tommy Ice Cream had blocked a shot with his knees. Advancing through the horde of Tividale centre forwards, he prepared to explode a kick upfield. At that moment I was out on the touchline tying a bootlace. I called for the ball. Tommy, surprisingly alert and willing, threw it to me. I embarked on a dribble of my own. With most of the opposition behind me, I approached the halfway line, beat one tackle, beat another, resisted a shove in the back from a muscly little boy and lifted my gaze towards the goal. Wyatt then came steaming up on my left. Hardly knowing what I did, I drifted right, took the defender with me and
passed the ball
to Wyatt. The surprise, to me, of this action caused me to stop stone dead. I watched as Wyatt, in his bony angular fashion, galloped on towards the goal and with a carefree swing of his leg hammered the ball high across the Tividale goalie’s outstretched arms, hands, fingers – and into the net.

It was a transforming moment. On top of all the predictable feelings, those I shared with the
others – exhilaration, joy – there was this extra, mysterious, still-to-be-worked-out pleasure. I had
made
a goal. Yes – and it was the winner.

8
Receivers of Stolen Goods

The walk home from Barnford Park, down that ordinary hill, past those nothing-in-particular houses, gates and gardens, those matter-of-fact post boxes, phone boxes, telegraph poles, privet hedges, sweet wrappers, chip papers, fag ends, matchsticks, all the endless paraphernalia of life… was magical. We talked in one great tangled skein or snowball of words that rolled on down the hill with us inside it, while our faces glowed with the other, the inexpressible, wordless stuff.

JOEY
That was never a penalty! (
Joey had upended their centre forward and the divot of turf he was stood on
.)

GRAHAM
Right!

RONNIE
Did y’see that back-heel?

WYATT
Did y’see… (
Wyatt forgets what he intended to say
.)

TOMMY PYE
Their lot had oranges. We should have oranges.

RONNIE
Ask ‘Mr Sorrell’ then.

ARTHUR
I can get oranges.

GRAHAM
Did y’see –

PATRICK
I’m better as a forward really. I don’t like it at left back.

JOEY
Well y’scored (
that ‘skid-off-his-head’ own goal
) anyway.

MALCOLM
I
don’t like it at right back.

TREVOR
Look, Joey, here’s Edna May. You love her.

JOEY
No, I don’t.

TREVOR
You said –

JOEY
No, I never!

SPENCER
We should let Tommy Ice Cream take the free kicks, y’know.

RONNIE
Yeah – he’d blast ’em.

JOEY
Smash ’em!

RONNIE
Annihilate ’em!

JOEY
Tommy, Tommy!
(Attempts to give Tommy Ice Cream, two paces to the rear, a hug. Tommy falls back still further and retreats into his coat
.)

EDNA MAY
(
At the kerb on her bike
) Who y’playin’ next?

JOEY
Who wants to know?

TREVOR
Joey says he loves you.

JOEY
No, I never.

BRENDA
(
Bissell, Edna May’s friend
) She loves him.

EDNA MAY
You
love him.

TREVOR
’E loves ’Er.

(
Exit, laughing, Brenda and Edna May
.)

ME
Did y’see me lay that one on a plate?

WYATT
Did y’see… (
And forgets again
.)

SPENCER
You should tie your laces up more often –

JOEY
It was never a penalty, though.

SPENCER
– there’s space on the wings.

Mrs Sorrell and the Shirts
. It occurs to me I have yet to explain the business with the shirts. Well, that ‘accident’ Spencer spoke of happened like this: Mrs Sorrell washed them. It was a
Monday
, you see, when the shirts were discovered and Monday was washday. Mrs Sorrell was not concerned with where the shirts had come from – Spencer implied that I had something to do with it – but very concerned about
where they might have been
, nicely folded or not. Spencer couldn’t possibly wear (or even handle) something that she herself had not rubbed with soap, pummelled and scrubbed, boiled in the copper, wrung out in the mangle and ironed to perfection. Washday was an institution in that town. Mothers competed to get their sheets and such out flapping on the lines in communal yards or adjacent gardens. Wash houses clattered and rang with their industry. Steam billowed from open windows, smoke rose from chimneys. Never mind football competitions for the kids, how about a
Coronation Washday Cup for the mothers? Mrs Sorrell would have made the final; you could’ve bet on my mum too.

So the shirts were washed. Unfortunately, other stuff found its way into the boiler as well, including a pair of Angela’s school socks (Spencer’s sister). Holly Lodge colours: purple and green. Brand new.

The shirts were also brand new. Interestingly, the maker’s labels had been removed. Where they had come from perplexed us all. Later that same morning on the way to school, Spencer and I met up with Ronnie and Graham Glue. The news was circulated and explanations sought.

‘It’s somebody trying to help us,’ said Graham. ‘A secret supporter.’

‘Why leave ’em on Spencer’s step?’ said I.

‘He’s the manager,’ said Ronnie.

‘Got his name on the form,’ Graham said.

‘Why cut the labels out?’ said I.

‘Are you sure there was no writing on the parcel – no stamps?’ said Graham.

‘Nothing,’ Spencer said. ‘It was never posted.’

‘Somebody –’

‘Secret supporter,’ said Graham.

‘Somebody,’ said I, ‘crept down your entry in the dead of night and –’

‘Why cut the labels out?’ said Ronnie and answered it himself. ‘Nicked.’

The possibility of a shy or secretive benefactor appealed to us.

‘Ice Cream Jack!’ cried Joey, who had joined the walkers. ‘’E’s got money.’

‘Yeah, new jersey for Tommy, new shirts for us,’ said Graham.

‘Why not just hand ’em over?’ said I. ‘Why cut the labels out?’

The possibility that we were the receivers of stolen goods also appealed. Stealing was by no means the worst of crimes in our eyes in those days. Scrumped rock-hard pears from the vicarage, peas in the pod from the allotments, bits and pieces from Milward’s, other kids’ marbles. Not all of us did all of it, but most of us did some of it, and none of us, except Spencer maybe, wholly disapproved. Of course, the advantage of
dyed
stolen goods was plain to everybody. The cops, if they were on the trail at all, would be looking for Albion kit not French night-shirts, as Joey described them.

Just then we encountered Albert and Rufus Toomey. They were squashed into a phone box and up to no good. Rufus rapped on the glass; Arthur was with us now, eating his breakfast: cold
toast. He waved to his brothers. Albert pressed his reddish face to the glass. If you didn’t know him better, you might well have suspected him… of smiling.

Anyway, after the match – our Tividale triumph – and the long walk home down Barnford Hill, there were jobs to do. Helping Mum to make the beds, running errands: bone meal for the hens, dog biscuits for Dinah. I remember those biscuits, bone-shaped some of them, all different colours and sold loose from a barrel. I enjoyed them almost as much as Dinah did, especially the black ones. They were good for my teeth, apparently, and gave me a glossy coat.

I had money to earn too, errands and such to run for Mrs Moore. Mrs Moore was our nearest neighbour, and the first to make us welcome when we moved up from Stone Street. She suffered from a kind of palsy and shook all over. Bravely, in these circumstances, she arrived at our house amid the boxes and piles of furniture with a tray, biscuits and a pot of tea. Mrs Moore was a gentle, trusting soul. She promoted in me a degree of good manners that would have surprised my parents and astounded the school.

In contrast, my mother was explosive. I got
clouted a couple of times while making the beds, accused of eating Dinah’s biscuits – indignantly denied – another clout. At teatime my invisible dad showed up, witnessed the hurling of a failed pie out through the kitchen window into the yard, and departed. He took refuge on his allotment. I retreated to the park with Dinah, and later still in the gathering gloom to the lavatory. By torchlight I harassed in my turn an unoffending spider and read the paper. There was a small rectangular window through which the rising moon was visible. I gazed at the square of newsprint in my hand, but hardly saw it. My thoughts were somewhere else. ‘It’s Ahlberg now, the ball glued to his foot…’

9
The Stanley Matthews
Football Book

On Monday morning in assembly Mr Reynolds talked to the whole school about boys playing on bomb sites, boys trespassing in Messrs Danks’s factory yard and storage areas, nits, Jesus and the Coronation Cup.