WILL DAD COME TO SEE ME ?
One of the lovely features of 28 Shady Grove was its upper and lower bays,
divided into small, square panes, its woodwork white except for the black
ledges. Sergeant Major Watson was delighted when it was allocated to him. It
might be five miles from the barracks, but it was in one of the most
sought-after parts of the town. Quiet, select, with the local church tennis
club directly opposite, it was the ideal asylum from the tensions of
military life and a great improvement on the house behind the garrison’s
walls where he’d brought up his sons for the first decade or so of their
lives.
Hilary Watson, who at forty-one was already almost totally deaf
without her aids, was relieved by the private rear garden, the double,
wrought-iron gates, her discreet neighbours and the nearby, independent
shops, even if she was still burdened by Gerald’s vulgarity. When he turned
the corner into the grove, walking with an appropriate military gait, his
black labrador, Sambo, ran to greet him. Some of the residents felt the dog
was given too much liberty. It roamed from early morning till bedtime, had a
habit of chasing cyclists and fouled the grass verges, regularly mowed by
the council, which set the grove apart from the leafless streets no more
than two miles away.
The Watson’s had two sons, Matthew and Peter. The biblical names
indicated no religious affiliation. Though Hilary enjoyed a nice hymn and a
short sermon, Gerald was a funerals, weddings and christenings churchgoer.
Matthew was a few days shy of his thirteenth birthday when they moved , his
brother almost two years younger. Fortunately, the Secondary Modern was
quarter of a mile away and both were accommodated. Hilary had hoped one of
her children might pass the eleven-plus, but Gerald was dismissive.
“Latin, what’s the use of that? Join up, learn a trade. They’ll be
fine.”
“They may not want to be soldiers.”
“What’s wrong with being a soldier?”
“Nothing, but it’s not for everyone.”
Gerald disagreed: a spell in the army would put some steel into the
youngsters who were growing their hair, spending their pocket money on
Rolling Stones records and causing mayhem in seaside towns on bank
holidays.
Both the boys were sporty. Peter had a particular flair for tennis,
joined the club and played every day he could during the season, winning the
junior singles at fourteen. Matthew preferred rugby, being stockier and
swift. He enjoyed the physical clash and relished sending a member of the
opposition into the changing rooms with a gushing nose or swollen lips.
Terry Rock, head of P.E., gently rebuked him for his surreptitious violence,
but kept him on the team, secretly excusing his misdemeanours because it was
good for boys to release their aggression on the sports field.
Handsome and careful about his grooming, Matthew wasn’t short of
female admirers. Twelve-year-old girls hung around the house. The phone rang
annoyingly frequently and if Hilary got to it first would respond to the
piping: “Is Matthew in?” with an abrupt, “No, he isn’t, and don’t ring
back.” Modelling his look on Billy Fury, Matthew was slow to adjust to the
change brought about by The Beatles. In 1965 he still had his
Brylcreemed quiff and a prefect duck’s arse. The girls weren’t deterred. His
big, brown eyes, the smile that revealed his white, even teeth, his broad
shoulders and his athletic demeanour kept them competitive. Peter, much less
attractive was envious but by sheer cheek hooked Pam Wignall, the beauty of
the year below him and regaled his brother with tales of their snogging
sessions and boasts of having “titted her up” on the King George V playing
field.
The two were indiscreetly foul-mouthed. Teenagers would swear
liberally in one another’s company, boys in particular, but restrained their
tongues in the presence of teachers, parents, vicars, old ladies; but the
Watson brothers imitated their father. His wife would remove or turn down
her hearing aids when she read the paper did a crossword or got on with her
knitting. Taking advantage of her inurement in silence, Gerald would unleash
the language revelled in by soldiers.
“Get on with your knitting, you silly old cunt,” he would say if she
showed curiosity about what he was watching on the television.
The boys sat side by side on the brown, leather sofa and laughed at the
streams of invective, their high spirits turning to play fighting their
father broke up by grabbing them by the ear or the collar, hurling them to
the floor and telling them to calm down or get out of his sight. Usually,
they chose the latter.
It was from him too they absorbed their preferences and prejudices. When
number 23 displayed the only Labour poster in the Grove during the 1964
election he disdained the old man who lived there and who walked to the
bowling green or the library two or three times a week with his pipe in his
mouth and his trilby pulled tight, as a “dirty red who needs his balls
cutting off”. Women on the television were praised or reviled for their
breasts, backsides, waists and faces. “I could screw the arse off her,” he’d
opine, as his sons joined in and their mother, unhearing but suspecting,
frowned in impotent disapproval.
She knew who she was married to and pandered to his desires. Her sole
lover, she assumed all men expected from their wives what she had to
provide. Anything approximating
love had long since evaporated, giving place to the comfort of
respectability and a decent income. Divorce was unthinkable. She had no
income, no skills. Where would she live? What would people think? In any
case, she loved her sons, though they tried her patience and left her
wistful: she’d dreamed they might grow to be qualified, professionals: a
doctor, a solicitor, an accountant. Living close by, they would visit each
week with their charming wives and children. She would be the centre. Gerald
could mow the lawn and clip the hedges. But she found herself excluded. Her
sons favoured their father’s habits and tastes. The best she could do was
encourage them not to join the forces.
One thing Hilary agreed fully with her husband about was the blacks.
It was obvious the world had been made so they lived in their region and the
whites in theirs; but much more importantly it was beyond doubt they were
inferior. The vulgarity which sometimes made her wince, seemed perfectly
appropriate in Gerald when directed at niggers. She wasn’t quite sure if
nigger was the right term for Asians. Should it apply only to Africans and
West Indians? But what did it matter?
She’d never seen a black face in
Salisbury, but since they’d come north, and in recent years, there seemed to
be more and more in town. When a black woman was appointed to teach science
in her sons’ school, she encouraged her husband to complain.
“What good will it do?” he said, slicing his steak.
“They’ll have to take notice of you. They’re our children, and you’re
a Sergeant Major, after all.”
“All these bloody do-gooders. Wilson ruining the country. There’ll be
blacks in the government next. No, the way to deal with ‘em is a good kick
up the arse. Scare the bastards back to where they came from.”
“You can’t do that, Gerald, you’ll get arrested.”
“The police are partial to a bit of nigger-bashing themselves.
Anyway, I’m getting past street fighting. It’s for the young ‘uns to take
care of.”
When Matthew first heard his dad use the term nigger-bashing, it had
instant appeal. The problem was there were no niggers in his suburban,
middle-class school, apart from Mrs Williams, and he could hardly give her a
bashing on the corridor. He had to postpone till he was sixteen and began
haunting the pubs: first of all, The Ship, which served the locality
and was often crowded at the weekend but calm and friendly. It took some
months for him and his mates to graduate to the town pubs, where things
could get rowdy and if you were looking for a scrap, you’d find one.
One Friday, in the Brown Cow, after a week in the truck
factory where he’d begun an apprenticeship as a turner, with his fellow
worker Ron Hodgson, he glanced from his station at the bar to see a West
Indian come through the door. He was a big man, barrel-chested, easy in his
movements, who weaved through the drinkers, stood next to Matthew and
ordered his pint of bitter. Though he was three inches taller, four stones
heavier and maybe ten years older, he was an opportunity. There were two of
them. He hadn’t broached with Ron the question of nigger-bashing, but he
assumed he’d be up for it. As the bloke was alone, it was a fair bet he’d
have just one and move on. If he took a quiet route they could jump him,
give him a good kicking and leave him to bleed. He noticed the drinker was
sporting an expensive watch. How did a nigger come by a thing like that?
Must’ve pinched it. Well, tit-for-tat.
As he’d expected, the big man drank his glass and headed for the
door.
“Come on,” said Matthew, draining his last mouthful.
“What?”
“The nigger.”
Ron followed him into the street where they spotted their prey
turning into Spavin’s Yard, an alley which connected the busy thoroughfare
to a quieter lane where two pubs and a Chinese takeaway nestled.
“Quick,” said Matthew and set off at sprint.
The two hared along the narrow, cobbled way, side by side, Matthew hoping
for surprise, but the clack of his heels made the lone drinker turn, and in
a single movement swing a heavy
right hook which caught his attacker on the chin, immediately following with
a left jab full on Ron’s nose. Matthew stumbled, fell on his left wrist,
tried to pick himself up quickly,
but his potential victim buried his right boot in his ribs, leaving him
sprawling and groaning while Ron, his nose
a river in spate, retreated like Napoleon at Waterloo and took refuge
in the pub. Lifting him from the ground by his tie, which he wrapped around
his huge fist, pushing him against the wall, his forearm across his throat,
the victor stared intently into Matthew’s face.
“Let me get a good look at you,” he said. “I know you now. You stay
away from me. Understand?”
Intent on proving his toughness even in humiliating defeat, Matthew refused
to answer. The forearm, with a strength he couldn’t have imagined, pressed
against his Adam’s apple.
“Understand? If you don’t, I can give you a little help.”
Matthew nodded.
“Huh. Think you’re superior, do you? Thought you’d have a bit of fun
beating up a blackie, eh? You’re an ignorant bit o’ nothing, man. You’d
better pick your pubs carefully.”
With that he shoved his captive to the ground and went on his way, slowly,
calmly, adding to the white supremacist’s humiliation and anger.
Matthew and Ron walked the mile and a half home, the latter holding
his soaked red handkerchief to his swelling, the former rubbing his ribs and
his chin, trying to move his jaw and finding it sharply painful.
“That was a fucking good idea,” said Ron, nasally.
“He was lucky. I was about to pounce. If I’d got my arm round his
neck, he was done for.”
Having borne the full force of the man’s weaker arm, Ron was convinced he
would have trounced them if they’d whacked him with cricket bats. The next
time Matthew suggested a town pub crawl, he said he was going fishing.
The Brown Cow became off limits. Once or twice, with rugby
pals , Matthew walked past on a Friday night, paused and tried to see
through the window who was inside. He told himself he wasn’t scared, it was
a matter of strategy, but his heart accelerated at the thought of
encountering his avenger.
The Boar’s Head was a reputed a good place for a pick-up. It
was packed. They had to squeeze to the bar. The pints of Double Diamond
were watery, headless and tasted of chemicals; but there were girls in
mini-skirts and hot pants: secretaries, clerks, shop assistants,
hairdressers, receptionists, lasses who had left school at fifteen or
sixteen and whose best hope in life was a lad who could get a trade and earn
enough for a decent house, a holiday every summer and a couple of kids.
Matthew caught the eye of a five-foot-two blonde with hair down to her
backside. She lit a Number 6, the dry filter between her heavy, pink
lips.
“I’m in there,” he said to his mates.
“Give her one for me,” said Jacko, the fly-half with a reputation for
seduction.
Fortunately, the route to her house led through Parry’s Park. He knew
the nooks.
“Take the short cut, eh?” he said.
“Which way’s that?” she said, tilting her chin upward and fixing him
askance.
“The park. Not scared o’ the dark, are you?”
“What have I got to be scared of?”
“The bogeyman.”
“Is that you?”
“What d’you think?”
“I think you’ve got a cheek.”
“You’re no wallflower yourself.”
They had to pass through a part of the town with a heavy Asian
population. Made up of terraced streets which had once housed the indigenous
working-class when such a designation made sense: mill workers, turners,
fitters, joiners, plumbers, railway workers: union members, decently paid
and united in a pride in their work and fighting their own corner; it was
changing as the invited population sought houses they could afford and
security in living together. The mills had closed, the factories laid off
large numbers, a mail order firm now employed hundreds who had once acquired
difficult skills. There had been an exodus to the periphery and the suburbs.
Matthew avoided the area which he associated with dirt, corruption
and incest. It was well-known the Pakis lived on top of one another, ate cat
food, never washed, and interbred. Simply walking the streets gave him a
sense of being unclean, as if the air carried infection. The Cricketers’
Arms, once a lively pub, was now shabby and rebuffed. The Pakis didn’t
like their beer like a good Englishman, proof of their effeminacy and
inadequacy. They’d left it behind by fifty yards when a skinny, Asian boy of
seventeen or so appeared round the corner.
“Aye, aye,” said Matthew.
“What?” said his companion.
“Out on his own, the cocky little bastard.”
“Why shouldn’t he be on his own?”
“’Cos he’s a Paki and they’re only good for bashin’.”
“Don’t be stupid.”
The boy, sensing Matthew’s intent from twenty yards, skipped across
the road.
“Hey, Paki, come ‘ere.”
At a sprint the lad scooted down a side street. Matthew went after him at
his best athletic pace.
“What’re you doin’?” called the girl.
The street rose steeply, suddenly, slowing the panting boy who forced
himself on without a backward glance. Matthew’s thighs burned and hurt more
than on the rugby field. Once close enough, he reached out his right
hand, grabbed the collar of his victim’s jacket and pulled him off his feet.
The youngster kicked, flailed and shouted:
“Get off me ! Get off ! Help !”
Matthew punched down onto the bridge of his nose, heard the crack and saw
the blood gush. The thought of Paki blood on his clothes disgusted him, but
he couldn’t hold himself back from his grim pleasure in violence, began
punching the kid in the face with rapid jabs, till he felt him go limp, let
him go and stood back to admire his work. A noise made him turn to his
right. Two Asian men were coming down the hill at a gallop. Excited and
exhausted Matthew, for a second contemplating facing them down, set off at a
pelt. He didn’t know his pursuers, more moved by compassion than vengeance,
had stopped to attend to the casualty. Once on the park, protected by the
darkness, panting, sweating, dizzy with his own madness, he stopped and
realised he was on his own. Where had she gone?
In the bathroom, he found his Liberty and Co shirt spattered
with blood. Would it wash out? But how could he explain it to his mother? In
the morning, he buried it in the dustbin. Combing his hair in the mirror,
getting ready to meet his mates in the Cock and Bottle, he rehearsed
what he’d say to them. On the way to the bus, he imagined them joining him.
Next time they’d be five or six. They’d take on any number. Next time,
they’d kill one of the dirty bastards.
The following few months granted plenty of sport. The customary gang
was himself, Jacko, Shovel, Spike, Eddie and Scratch. Mostly, they went
after Asians, especially those who were not well-built. On one occasion they
encountered a karate kid who gave Matthew a kick in the solar plexus which
put him in bed for two days, but by careful selection they usually
triumphed.
It happened, one Saturday, Peter decided to tag along. He wore
skintight, ice-blue jeans and a black leather jacket he’d bought second-hand
on the market. He thought himself slick and attractive as well as tough. On
his mind were girls. In the dusty scout hut behind the Methodist church
whose service he had to attend to be able to play table tennis, snooker and
chat to the lasses, he’d had no luck. Pauline Clegg let him snog her round
the back but his hand on her breast brought a quick rebuttal. In town, with
Matt and his mates, there’d be girls with a bit of experience. His brother
had the looks and he had the cheek. He was high on expectation.
Matthew, Shovel and Spike were keyed up for easy feminine conquests
too, but their principal aim was violence. For Matt, the ideal evening would
be five or six pints, beating up a couple of Pakis and taking a legless girl
somewhere quiet. But reality seldom rose to his expectations. In The
Green Dragon, they encountered a group of five West Indians. Matt’s
heart skipped as he slyly scanned the faces. One was no more than five feet
five, but the other four were big men, six feet or more and hefty.
“What about going after the shrimp?” whispered Spike.
“If he leaves on his own,” said Matthew, not wanting to reveal his
cowardice.
Peter introduced himself to a
trio of giddy girls on bar stools, their skirts barely covering their
crossed thighs.
“Want a ciggie?” said the brunette.
“Don’t smoke,” he said. “Bad for your chest.”
“Nothing wrong with her chest,” said her red-lipsticked mate.
“No, get your stethoscope between those,” said the third and they
laughed, high and carefree, the boring working week behind them and the
release of booze and recklessness their defence against Monday.
The younger brother would have stayed till closing time, one chance in three
being good odds.
“Pete, come on.”
“Eh?”
“White Bull. Say goodbye to your friends.”
They drank thirstily. In the Bull, Shovel challenged an old
guy with a rattling cough and a Capstan untipped in his mouth to
twice round and two tops.
“Ten bob on it,” said the pensioner.
“You’re on.”
Captain of The Ship’s team, Shovel thought his victory would
pay for his beer, but his opponent didn’t miss a dart.
“You’ve done that before,” said Shovel as he handed over the pink
note.
“Once or twice.”
Drinking-up time found them resigned.
“Let’s jump in a taxi,”said Spike.
At the rank, Peter was eager to talk to a pair tottering on high
heels.
“Hey,” said Shovel, his hand on Matthew’s arm, “look at this.”
A cab pulled in driven by a young Asian. It slowed gently and stopped
before the quartet.
“Take us to Dobson Lane, mate?”
“Dobson Lane,” said the driver dubiously.
“Aye,” said Shovel, Nash’s Farm, down the far end.”
A message crackled over the intercom. The driver surveyed them suspiciously
for a few seconds and nodded.
Dobson’s Lane was five miles out of town and far from their homes.
“How are we…” began Peter as he settled on the black leather between
his brother and Spike, but his sibling’s hand closed over his mouth.
Unlit, winding between verges and hedges, the lane accommodated five houses.
A fox flashed across the headlights, an owl batted through the darkness.
“This one?” said the driver, slowing before the gate of the third
dwelling, a huge farmhouse, two hundred yards distant.
“No, no, right to the end, mate,” said Matthew.
The road ran out at the edge of the marshes and to the right was a
footpath to Nash’s Farm, whose white lights shone comfortingly through the
thick ink of night. They got
out and at once Matthew yanked open the door, grabbed the Asian by his shirt
and hauled him . Spike and Shovel launched in with punches, kicks and
insults. The victim curled himself on the tarmac, his arms cradling his
head. They kicked and kicked. Shovel punched in the kidneys. Out of nowhere
came headlights. A car skidded to a halt. They pulled themselves erect and
stared. Four blokes jumped out.
“What the hell..?” said the first, a tall athlete who ran towards
them fearlessly.
The three followed. Matthew threw the first punch but missed and found
himself in the grip of a greater strength which pinned him and then twisted
his right arm up his back while holding him round the neck painfully
pressing on his Adam’s apple. Spike and Shovel were quickly overcome. Peter,
in panic, made a run for it. In the dark, he could hear footsteps gaining on
him. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, felt the handle in his
grip, pulled it out, pressed the release and turning, the blade in his right
hand, his legs wide, called:
“Get back ! I’ll slit your throat if you come near me.”
“You stupid little berk,” said a calm man’s voice. “Drop that bloody
thing if you know what’s good for you.”
The man, two inches taller, broad and confident stepped into Peter’s space,
at which, losing all sense of where he was or what was happening, he lunged,
felt the knife slip into flesh, withdrew and jabbed again and again.
“Christ, you little bastard,” gasped the man as he fell.
The victim was Steve Nash, son of the old farmer. The other three
were his brother, Dave, and neighbours Colin and Barry Holdcroft. Matthew,
Shovel and Spike were charged with grievous bodily harm and Peter with
second-degree murder.
“Oh, my God,” said Hilary to her husband, her wet hankie dabbing her
eyes, “but for a few months, he’d’ve gone the same way as Allen and Evans.”
“They deserved it,” said Gerald, his eyes fixed on Reginald
Bosanquet.
“How can you say that, Gerald. Your own son might have hung.”
“Well, he hasn’t has he. Maybe he’ll be more careful next time.”
“Next time?”
“Oh, shut up for Christ’s sake, you old bat. I’m watching the news.”
She didn’t alter her opinion about the blacks, but when she visited
her sons, she pleaded.
“Stay away from violence, Matt. Be a good lad when you get out.”
Her elder, no longer sporting a beautifully shaped quiff or a
enviable duck’s arse nodded. She begged her younger.
“Why did you do it, Peter? Why did you have a knife?”
“I don’t know, mum,” he said. “I don’t know. Will dad come to see
me?”