‘That’s what you do when someone dies, love, you close the curtains.’
‘Even when it’s light outside?’
‘It’s custom, love. When someone dies, you draw the curtains. It’s a mark of respect.’
I stared at the closed curtains. He was dead. Mr Shackleton. ‘The White Rose’. The Yorkshire champion. Dead. And I started crying.
‘What’s up, love? Has that Boocock lad been hitting you again? I’ll swing for him if he has. I will.’
I blew my nose and shook my head.
‘No, it’s Mr Shackleton, Mum – he’s died.’
She didn’t say anything for a second, she looked shocked.
‘Are you sure? How do you know?’
‘I went to wave to him on my way home from school, you know like I do, and his curtains are closed. He wasn’t there this mornin’ neither, he was poorly, he’d had to go to the doctor’s, the woman next door told me. They never close his curtains, Mum, not even when it’s getting dark. He likes to look out of the window as long as he can.’
I started crying again and my mum put her arm round me.
‘Can we go and pay our respects, Mum, like we did with Mrs Bastow?’
‘’Course we can.’
‘And take some flowers?’
‘’Course.’
The front-room curtains were still closed. I held the flowers while my mum rang the bell. After a couple of minutes the door opened.
‘Hello, Brenda, I’ve just heard about your dad, I’m very sorry.’
My mum nodded at me to give the flowers. I held them out but she didn’t take them.
‘Sorry, Freda, heard what?’
My mum looked at me then at her.
‘That he’s . . . er . . . not well.’
‘Well, he’s got a bit of a cold and he had a slight temperature this morning. Why, had you heard different?’
My mum looked at me again.
‘It’s not my fault, Mum.’
I looked up at Brenda or whatever her name was.
‘Why did you close the curtains?’
‘Y’what?’
‘You closed the curtains and my Auntie Doreen told me that’s what you do to let people know when someone’s died. I thought he’d died!’
If she hadn’t laughed I think I would have started crying again. She laughed her head off, she couldn’t stop laughing. Neither could my Auntie Doreen when my mum was telling her all about it later on.
‘. . . and it turns out, Doreen, they’ve had some compensation money from the insurance, after all this time, and that’s what they’ve spent it on. A television receiver! That’s why the curtains were closed, they were watching it!’
My Auntie Doreen was laughing so much there were tears running down her cheeks.
‘Honest, Doreen, I didn’t know where to put myself. I could have cheerfully brained him.’
‘It wasn’t my fault, how was I supposed to know?’
My Auntie Doreen wiped her eyes and took hold of my hand.
‘I’ve got to tell you, Freda, I’d have thought the same. If I’d gone past at four o’clock in the afternoon, and the curtains were pulled to, I’d have assumed there’d been a bereavement. I would.’
She ruffled my hair and gave me a hug and my mum started laughing. So did I.
‘Well, it’s funny now, Doreen, but I can tell you it wasn’t funny half an hour ago.’
I didn’t see so much of Mr Shackleton after that. Most days when I went past after school the curtains were closed ’cos he was watching his television receiver. One Saturday afternoon when they were open I saw Brenda giving him a drink. She saw me and mouthed, ‘Wait there,’ went out of the room and a couple of seconds later the front door opened.
‘Do you want to come in and watch the television with my dad? There’s a programme just starting, he loves it.’
I went in and Brenda closed the curtains and it was like being at the pictures. I’d never seen television before, not properly. I’ve looked at all the flickering screens in the television shop in town while I’ve been waiting for the bus but you can’t hear anything, you have to guess what they were saying.
We watched this programme called Whirligig, with a funny man with black hair and a puppet called Mr Turnip. It was good. When it finished a voice said, ‘BBC Television is now closing down,’ and Brenda switched it off and we watched this white spot getting smaller and smaller until it disappeared. I didn’t know anybody with a television receiver except Mr Shackleton. It was like a magic box.
‘Hey, wouldn’t it be good, Mr Shackleton, if you could switch it over to another programme like on the wireless?’
Brenda wheeled him over to the window and opened the curtains. The light made me blink.
‘Switch it over! That’ll be the day. It’s a miracle as it is, looking at someone talking to you in your own front room. The wonders of modern science!’
She went into the kitchen to put the kettle on and I sat with Mr Shackleton for a few minutes. He still had The Wrestler magazine on the table across his wheelchair. He pointed at the front cover, gave me the thumbs-up and smiled.
Brenda had said I could go round there and watch the television whenever I liked and I would have done if it hadn’t been for my mum. She didn’t want me to make a nuisance of myself so I didn’t go. I’d wave to Mr Shackleton if the curtains were open when I went past but most times they were drawn to and I stopped going that way, especially after we broke up for Christmas.
‘Oh, that’s very nice, look at this, Doreen.’
My mum showed her a Christmas card that had been dropped through the letterbox.
‘It’s from Brenda Shackleton, she’s invited us round on Christmas Night to watch Television’s Christmas Party with Jimmy Jewell and Ben Warriss, isn’t that nice of her?’
Jimmy Jewell and Ben Warriss! They’re my favourites, I love Jimmy Jewell and Ben Warriss, I always listen to them on the wireless.
‘Am I invited? I love Jimmy Jewell and Ben Warriss.’
‘’Course you are, look what she wrote on the card.’
My Auntie Doreen passed it over and I read it.
‘What is a new lease of life?’
I knew it was something good ’cos my Auntie Doreen smiled at me, same as the next-door neighbour had.
‘It means when you gave him that wrestling magazine you made him very happy.’
She took the Christmas card back and read it again.
‘Hey, Freda, I thought her name was Brenda Jackson?’
‘It was, but after her husband left, she went back to Shackleton. He left about a year after the accident . . .’
My mum mouthed the next bit – but I could tell what she was saying:
‘. . . told her he couldn’t live with a cripple in a wheelchair.’
It was really funny, Television’s Christmas Party. It started at half past seven and finished at nine o’clock. Then we had some Christmas cake and we all had something called sweet sherry but I only had a bit. It tasted like medicine. Mr Shackleton liked it, I held his straw for him and Brenda started crying.
‘I’ll tell you something, Freda, he is good, that lad of yours. Given my dad a new lease of life he has.’
It was a good Christmas.
Holidays over. Back at school. Everybody talking about what they’d got for Christmas. Norbert asked me what my main present was.
‘I got tons of stuff.’
‘So did I, but what was your main present? I got a two-wheeler.’
Yeah, his dad had probably nicked it, he’s always in trouble for thieving. So’s Norbert.
‘It’s a Raleigh three-speed. What did you get?’
I’d wanted a Meccano set but my mum couldn’t afford it. She’d got me a tin of Quality Street, a jumper from the Co-op, some socks, a Beezer annual and I’d got a shirt from my Auntie Doreen.
‘Come on, you must’ve got a main present.’
‘Meccano set. Big one.’
That shut him u
p.
‘Don’t like Meccano.’
And he went off, asking other people what they’d got for Christmas.
About three weeks after we’d gone back it was my turn to be ill. I didn’t get scarlet fever like Tony but on the Sunday night I felt awful. I was hot and cold both at the same time and I could hardly swallow, my throat was so sore. Next morning it was worse and my mum had to stay off work to wait for Dr Jowett to come.
He took the thermometer out of my mouth.
A hundred and three, open wide, say aah . . . again . . . once more . . . Laryngitis.’
He told my mum I had to stay in bed for a few days.
‘I don’t have to go to that Craig House home again do I, the one you sent me to in Morecambe?’
I didn’t want to go there again, Craig House, I hated it.
‘No, no. Plenty of fluids, couple of aspirin every four hours and you’ll probably be back at school by the end of the week. He’s got a mild dose of laryngitis.’
Mild dose! I felt terrible. That first day anyway. On the Tuesday I didn’t feel so bad so my mum was able to go back to work and by the Wednesday I was enjoying myself. I was in my mum’s bed – I always go in her bed when I’m poorly – I had no temperature and my throat hardly hurt at all. I had my comics, my Beezer annual, some grapes and a banana, a bag of pear drops from my Auntie Doreen and a big jug of Robinson’s lemon barley on the bedside table.
‘Now, I’ll be back same time as yesterday to give you your dinner, around half past twelve, all right?’
Yeah, I was all right. Better than school, this. And I had the wireless. I love listening to the wireless when I’m poorly. Specially when I’m feeling better.
‘You’ve got your lemon barley, and your comics and you can listen to the wireless so you won’t get bored and Mrs Carpenter from number twenty-three might pop in, just to check on you, all right?’
My mum plumped up my pillows, kissed me on my forehead and filled my beaker with lemon barley.
‘You’ve got no temperature, that’s a blessing.’
‘My throat’s still a bit sore, though.’
I didn’t want her sending me back to school too soon. Mind you, even if I’d gone, I wasn’t to know that I’d have been back home by dinnertime. Everybody was sent home early that Wednesday, the whole school.
‘Do you want the wireless on?’
‘Please.’
She switched it on, kissed me again and went downstairs.
‘Bye!’
‘Bye, Mum. See you later!’
I heard the front door slam as the wireless warmed up.
‘. . . and now at ten to eight it’s time for Lift Up Your Hearts.’ I’d heard that yesterday. Boring. But I couldn’t be bothered twiddling with the knob. Anyway, there’d be a story later on. I went through my comics. This looked good. The Ox-Bow Incident. A cowboy. Yeah, I’d start with that one, then I’d go on to Radio Fun then Film Fun and then my favourite, Captain Marvel. I always like to leave my favourite till last . . .
I didn’t know where I was for a minute. My Captain Marvel was open on the eiderdown. I must have fallen asleep. What time was it? I hoped I hadn’t missed the story on the wireless. There was just music playing. It wasn’t the usual music like they play on Music While You Work, it was slow and boring. I wondered how long I’d been asleep? I leaned over to look at my mum’s clock. Nearly quarter past eleven. Aw, I had missed the story, it comes on at eleven. I was thirsty. While I was having a drink of my lemon barley the music on the wireless stopped.
‘This is London. It is with great sorrow that we make the following announcement.’
It went all quiet for a second.
‘It was announced from Sandringham at 10.45 today, February 6th 1952, that the King, who retired to rest last night in his usual health, passed peacefully away in his sleep early this morning . . .’
The King was dead. King George had died. I stopped drinking my lemon barley and put the beaker back on the bedside table.
‘. . . The BBC offers profound sympathy to Her Majesty the Queen and the royal family . . .’
I’d only just learned the words to God Save the King. We had to sing it every day at school. What were we going to sing now?
‘. . . The BBC is now closing down for the rest of the day . . .’
Closing down? No wireless?
‘. . . except for the advertised news bulletins and summaries, shipping forecasts and gale warnings . . .’
Shipping forecasts and gale warnings! I wished I hadn’t read all my comics.
‘. . . Further announcements will be made at 11.45, 12 o’clock and 12.15 p.m.’
Then this dreary music came back on. I didn’t know what to do . . . I lay back and stared out of the window . . . It was quite a nice day . . . No it wasn’t, the King had died . . . I didn’t know what to do . . . Yes I did. ’Course I knew what to do. I got out of bed, went downstairs and pulled the curtains to in the front room. Then I came back upstairs, closed the curtains in my mum’s room, got back into bed and lay there listening to the dreary music.
‘Why are all the curtains drawn?’
My mum was back, I could hear her coming up the stairs.
‘In here as well! What’s going on? Why are all the curtains closed?’
She went over to the window and opened one of them.
‘The King’s died.’
‘Y’what?’
‘King George. He’s died.’
‘Oh, don’t start all that again!’
And she opened the other curtain.
‘It was on the wireless, Mum . . .’
His funeral was on a Friday and we all had the day off school to listen to it on the wireless. We were lucky though, my mum, me and my Auntie Doreen, we watched it on the television. Brenda invited us round with a few other people. She closed the curtains and I sat next to Mr Shackleton.
It was boring but it was better than being at school, I suppose. After we’d been watching for a while, I was holding the straw for Mr Shackleton while he was having a drink, when he pushed the cup away and I thought he’d had enough. He took hold of The Wrestler and held it out for me. He probably knew I was bored but it was too dark to read so I whispered to him that it was all right. I thought I was being really quiet but a few people turned round and my mum gave me a dirty look. Mr Shackleton kept pushing the magazine into my hand so I took it. Then he put his mouth towards the straw and I held the cup while he had another drink.
I thought the King’s funeral was never going to finish, I could hardly keep my eyes open. At last it was over and Brenda switched it off while my mum and my Auntie Doreen and the others thanked her and said how wonderful it was and things like that. I watched the white spot disappearing.
‘Thank you, Brenda, that was a wonderful experience . . .’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it, Brenda, just think, you’re in your front room and you’re there at the same time . . .’
‘I can’t get over it, Brenda, wonderful. And that Richard Dimbleby, hasn’t he got a beautiful voice? He brings it all to life, doesn’t he?’
I couldn’t understand what they were all going on about, it wasn’t as good as Whirligig, I’d been bored as anything. So had Mr Shackleton, I think, ’cos he’d fallen asleep. Brenda opened the curtains.
‘Now, who’d like a nice cup of tea? I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘I’ll give you a hand, Brenda.’
‘Me too.’
‘Let me do it.’
His head was lolling on one side and some spit was dribbling out of his mouth but it was when I saw that his eyes were open that I realised and ran into the kitchen and whispered to my mum.
My Auntie Doreen took me home while the others stayed to be with Brenda. We were walking up St Barnabas Street and I looked back. Brenda was closing the front-room curtains.
It wasn’t till I got home that I realised I was still holding The Wrestler.
THE BIRTHDAY PARTY
Reverend Dutton looked at his watch.
‘Ah, half past three!’
He looked over at Keith Hopwood and smiled.
‘I think this is the moment the birthday boy has been waiting for. Am I right, Mr Hopwood?’
Keith blushed and nodded.
‘W-well, it’s not my b-b-birthday till M-M-Monday but m-my dad’s on n-n-nights next w-week so I’m having my p-party today.’
Reverend Dutton nodded, smiled again and looked round the class.
‘Right then, all those of you who are lucky enough to be going to Keith Hopwood’s birthday party, please leave now – quietly.’
That’s what happens when you’re having your party on a school day, you can take in a note from your mum to ask if those who are invited can leave early. The school never says no and it’s great if you’re one of the ones going. You feel really good leaving early, specially on a Friday afternoon when it’s boring scripture with Reverend Dutton. You don’t feel so good when you’re one of the ones left behind.
‘Come on, boys, quick as you can, please, the lesson’s not over for the rest of us.’
And today I wasn’t feeling so good. I couldn’t believe it when Keith had told me I wasn’t invited.
‘But Keith, I’m one of your best friends, you’re always comin’ round to my house, why can’t I come to your party?’
He just shrugged and said his mum had told him he could ask no more than five.
‘Who have you got coming?’
He told me. Boocock and Barraclough? Norbert? Tony? David Holdsworth? I couldn’t believe it. Well, I could believe David Holdsworth, he’s Keith’s best friend, he lives in the same street, just two doors away. And Tony, who’s my best friend, is always invited to birthday parties, everybody likes him. But why Norbert? And why Boocock and Barraclough? They’re always picking on Keith ’cos of his stutter.
‘Boocock and Barraclough! Why are you askin’ them? You don’t even like ’em. They’re always pickin’ on you.’
He hadn’t said anything.
‘You’re scared of them, aren’t you? You just want to keep in with ’em.’
He went a bit red.
The Fib, The Swap, The Trick and Other Stories Page 30
