by John King
We walk down to the hot-dog van, the men in front of us blocking out the counter they’re so big, but I can hear the bacon sizzling, smell onions frying over the dust of their road building and layers of bitter. The man running the van is even bigger than his customers, dressed in a funny striped apron with a frilly belt, a tiny chef’s hat growing out of his head. He looks a right state, but none of us is taking the piss, calling him Nipple Head or Noddy or anything that’s going to set him off. Everyone’s on their best behaviour, seeing as how a month back this drunk told him he was a big, fat Turkish cunt when he ran out of crisps, ten seconds later the bloke picking his front teeth up out of the gutter. We’re sitting on the wall sipping our tea, minding our own business, and end up with front-row seats as Chef delivers a lesson in manners, better than the Thriller in Manila or the Rumble in the Jungle.
Thing is, Chef’s Greek, and he isn’t too happy being called a Turk, doesn’t seem to know what cunt means. His English is a bit iffy, but he’s learning fast and, anyway, he knows the word Turk. He’s out of the van swinging a pickaxe handle before the pisshead can say Muhammad Ali. There’s blood everywhere, and we’ve learnt that the Greeks and Turks hate each other, that Chef fought the Turks in a war in Cyprus. We get this information off another of his regulars. Chef gets all emotional, says he should have waited until the children had finished their tea and gone home to bed, tells us he’s very sorry. It takes us a minute to realise he’s talking about us, and in the meantime he goes in the van and comes back out with a Mars bar for each of us. We’re not exactly happy being called kids, but keep our mouths shut, eat the Mars bars.
Since he did that bloke, Chef hasn’t had any trouble. There’s stories going along the brick wall where everyone sits eating their hot dogs and bacon sarnies, drinking cocoa and tea, munching crisps and chocolate, that Chef killed three Turks during the war in Cyprus, hacked them to pieces with a sword, cut their arms and legs off, chopped their bollocks off and stuffed them in the dead men’s mouths. The killing is bad enough, but it’s the mutilation that really upsets people. Don’t know if this is true, but nobody’s going to take a chance and get lippy with Chef now. Even the men in front, the sort of full-time knuckle merchants who don’t usually care who they upset, are nice and polite, put their pleases and thank-yous in all the right places, share a joke and some old-fashioned banter with the big Greek in the apron and frilly belt, the butcher of Cyprus.
These men move to one side of the counter and we get to watch Chef as he puts their orders together with a flourish, showing a serious pride in his work, thick fingers working with the same delicate moves as Oliver Hardy. The bacon is nicely crinkled and pushed into buns, topped with thick slices of onion, ketchup and brown sauce added according to the wishes of his customers. Once they’ve got their food, they go over to the wall and sit down, while me, Smiles, Dave and Chris step forward and order four cups of tea. Wouldn’t mind some food, but as usual we’re skint, take our plastic cups and sit on the bricks after Chef’s asked us about school, what we’re learning, what we want to do when we grow up. It’s like slow torture, something the SS do in the films, the speed almost worn off and this Greek nutter putting us in our place.
When we finish our tea we decide to walk back instead of hanging around waiting for something to happen. There’s always the chance that a carload of beautiful girls is going to pick us up and take us home, all spiky hair and PVC miniskirts, safety pins and suspender belts, gagging for sex, but it never seems to happen somehow. Smiles has to be in by twelve anyway.
–Or he turns into a fucking pumpkin, Dave says.
We stroll along talking and taking the piss, like you do, running through the girls who were out tonight, how we’d love to knob every single one of them, except the pigs, or at least finger them, or get inside their bras and stroke their tits, through the material if we have to, or maybe have a snog, or if that’s not on then get a quick kiss on the cheek. Truth is, we’d settle for anything. A smile would be fine, set us up nicely, something to think about till next Friday, building it up, till by Thursday you know you’re going to get your end away. Just watching the girls dance gets you going, and with a couple of cans of lager in your belly you start believing you’re going to end the night pulling something more than your knob.
–See you, lads. I’m going home for a long, slow wank, Dave shouts as he turns off the main road with Chris. That Tracy Mercer won’t know what’s hit the back of her throat tonight. Dirty fucking cow.
I keep walking with Smiles, do a right turn, and we’re almost home when we spot the black outline of a man standing dead still, lurking in the shadows. It makes me jump at first, but then I see it’s the Major. He comes out into the light and salutes, steps forward and produces his wallet with the Joe 90 identity badge. He asks if we’re alright and I tell him things couldn’t be better. He wants to know if we’ve seen anything suspicious. I tell him we haven’t. The Major nods and says that we must keep our eyes peeled at all times, watch out for subversive elements, plus the murderers, rapists and muggers that plague every democratic society. He nods again, moves back into the darkness.
–He’s barmy, says Smiles, when we’re out of range.
I tell him it doesn’t matter if he wanders around at night, he’s not hurting anyone. He’s just a bit simple.
–I suppose so. I’ll see you then.
When I get indoors Mum and Dad are still up, sitting in the living room watching telly. I go in the kitchen looking for something to eat. There’s two fish fingers left from earlier and I shove each one in a slice of bread and add HP, put the kettle on for a cup of tea. I go in the living room and see Mum’s fallen asleep, her head at a funny angle on the back of the couch, an empty box of Quality Street on the floor, wrappers in a pile. Dad is busy watching Dracula sink his teeth into a blonde in a white nightie, doesn’t turn his head till he hears me chewing. Christopher Lee’s eyes are cracked and bloodshot, and I know Peter Cushing is lurking somewhere, with his cross and wooden stake ready, hiding in the shadows, ready to stamp out the evil threatening the local serfs, who are busy getting pissed in the pub.
–Give us a bite, Dad says, smiling when he sees the brown sauce oozing through the white of the bread.
I hand him one of the sandwiches and he sticks half of it straight in his mouth so a blob falls on the carpet.
–Fucking hell.
He scoops it up and pops it in his mouth.
–No harm done. Have a good time, did you?
I tell him it was alright, that they played some decent music for a while, but a lot of rubbish as well.
–Any trouble down there?
I shake my head.
–Good.
Dad goes back to watching the film, and I keep eating, lean back in the chair. It seems funny now, having six weeks off. Usually you’ve only got the weekends, and most Saturdays I work, either that or go to football, so that leaves Sunday, and it’s quiet then with the shops shut and roads empty. And I get pulled into the film, Dracula sitting pretty in his castle, living for ever, drinking to stay alive, hunted by vampire killers who are so stuck-up and boring you want Dracula to get away with his murders. Another blonde virgin starts screaming as the Count moves in and Mum opens her eyes, takes a second to realise where she is, smiles when she sees I’m in. She kisses Dad and goes up to bed, and he stretches out on the sofa, kicking his slippers off.
–Make your poor old dad a cup of tea, will you.
I remember I’ve boiled the kettle and go back in the kitchen, make us one each, take it in the living room and put Dad’s on the carpet, next to his feet.
–What’s that smell? he asks, twitching.
I shrug my shoulders and tell him I don’t know, that it’s probably his socks seeing as he’s just taken off his slippers.
–You cheeky little sod. They were fresh on this morning.
I forgot about the piss down the front of my trousers. I’ve got the tea to drink and sit back down, hurry and finish s
o I can get out of the room. I’m at an angle and he hasn’t noticed the wet patch, that has mostly dried up now. He sniffs his cup of tea, looks around, puts his slippers back on. I’m alright for a bit, till he starts sniffing again, so I yawn and say I’m going to bed. Dad nods, concentrating on the mob of villagers marching towards Dracula’s castle, their burning torches held up in the darkness, looking for revenge.
–Don’t wake your mum or sister up, he says.
I go in the bog and have a piss in the dark, try not to miss the bowl or hit the water. I take off my trousers and have a quick wash, tiptoe along the landing and lie on my bed. It’s hot, and it’s going to be ages till I get to sleep, my head racing. I run through today and wonder if the Major is still out on patrol. I think about the kid getting kicked so hard in the head I could hear the bang and the brain damage it could’ve done, Ali having a knife pulled on him. Best of all I think of the great songs, the thump of the music, imagine myself standing on a stage chugging away at a guitar, beating fuck out of a drum kit, writing my own lyrics and getting someone to sing them to a packed crowd. You never know. The others might take the piss, but it’s good to be alive. Don’t care what anyone says.
After a while I want to sleep, but it won’t come. The downstairs light turns off and Dracula has been spiked in his coffin. I hear Dad’s feet on the stairs, hear the splash of his piss following mine into the bog, and Mum’s a light sleeper so we don’t flush it, unless someone has a shit of course, and the floor creaks as he goes in their bedroom, the click of the door, the mumbling of voices and a long shush from Mum. The walls are thin and you can hear most of what goes on in this house. I cover my head with a pillow, then take it off because I can hardly breathe. There’s no noise. I get up and pull the curtains apart, open the window and lean on the sill, look at the houses and gardens, the street lights and shadows. Everything’s quiet out there as well, now and then the sound of a car.
After a while I lie back down on the bed, sweating into the sheets, play the faces of tonight’s girls through my head, think about Debbie and wonder when I’ll see her again. Tracy Mercer’s mate with the hair was alright, the best girl there. Thing is, you don’t get the dressed-up punk girls round here. Nobody’s got the money for a start, and this isn’t the King’s Road, just a new town full of houses and people instead of shops and clubs. I leave the locals and concentrate on Debbie Harry’s face pinned to the wall, the high cheekbones and blonde hair lit up by a street light, and I imagine her between my legs, lipstick rubbing off on the end of my knob, don’t have enough imagination for the impossible, go back to porno mag memories, the German and Swedish models who set off for Hollywood but took a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in the backstreets of Slough.
DODGEMS
Mum yanks the curtains open and I jump up when she tells me the time, get dressed quick and take the toast she’s burnt, run to the bus stop. I spot the bus rattling down the road and speed up, but the driver sees me and does the same, grinning as he flattens the accelerator. Luckily I beat him to the corner and his smile fades as he’s forced to brake and turn. I jump on and go upstairs, sit at the back in the corner with a view of the passing houses, a line of bedrooms and frosted bathrooms. The conductor hauls his stiff old legs up after me and props his arse against the back of an empty seat. I sort out my coins as he moves the cogs into position, cranks a lever, riding the bumps, the dodgems of life, years of experience making sure he stays on his feet. He rips the ticket across copper teeth and pins it in my hand, peers down the aisle and asks for any more fares. He frowns when nobody answers, smooths the Brylcreemed sides of a greying quiff, scratches a Brillo Pad chin, and goes back down.
Once the conductor’s left I finish the toast tucked in my jacket. Some of these blokes get stroppy if you eat on their bus, think they’re back doing their national service. They love showing off with kids, but leave the older boys and men alone. Maybe it’s the uniform that does it. But the marg has only gone and leaked into the lining of my jacket. Can’t fucking believe it. There’s nothing to wipe away the stain. I take my Harrington off and suck at the red-and-white tartan, spitting fluff on the floor. This old biddy three seats in front turns her head, thinks I’m spewing and looks like she’s going to be sick herself, puke up her boiled egg and soldiers. Don’t know what she’s doing up here anyway. Pensioners usually sit downstairs. I don’t want to upset the woman, so make do with a fuzzy mouth, suffering in silence.
The glass is cold when I press my face on it, looking into the houses, the unmade beds and empty mirrors, Formica wardrobes and football-team posters, dirty washing and plastic guns, a blonde in red stockings kneeling in front of a naked man, head moving, four quick thrusts and she’s gone. I stand up and look out the back window, but the room is three, four, five houses back. The picture sticks in my head. This is just what I need, that old dear lurching back and spotting her first hard-on since the war. I have to forget the blonde, ignore the upright tits and curvy bum, drive her right out of my head. I try and concentrate on something boring, but it’s difficult. It’s another brilliant day, the sun shining so bright that even the pebble-dash seems smooth, while the slate roofs sparkle like they’re lined with silver. The bus stops by the gasworks, a pile of rusty tanks and glistening pipes, the Grand Union Canal by the side, out of sight. Traffic crosses the bridge, lorries pumping out fumes that drift down to the canal and seep into the big banks of nettles, the brambles and brown metal, smoke settling on thick green water. The canal’s covered in scum, cartons and tins stuck solid, billions of tiny green leaves fighting for a place in the sun, soaking up the light, growing and spreading, forgotten. There’s frogs along the canal, big croakers with bulging eyes and thick leathery skin, safe with the brown and dark green leaves.
The lights change and we turn left along the main road, heading towards Uxbridge, picking up speed, the Drill Hall a solid block against the uneven spread of bricks, a centre for the Territorials, past the allotments, green fields on both sides of the dual carriageway, quickly replaced by the pine trees of Black Park, that blonde trying to sneak back in my head. And this is a great ride, the fields and trees easing things, and I’m going back to the same work I did last summer, picking cherries a million times better than the job I’ve jacked in, stacking shelves for 48p an hour for that wanker shop manager Keith Willis. I hate him like nothing else, with his whining voice and favourite workers, the neat suit and royal manners. I’ll have him one day. When I’m older and strong enough. I’ll go banging on his door and drag him round the shop, up and down the aisles for the shelf-stackers and checkout girls, out back with the rubbish and breeding rats. I’ll make sure he gets the smell of broken mustard jars and rat shit, the rotting cabbage and poison pellets, just so he has a sniff of what it’s like being lumbered with the shit jobs, stuck on the bailer crushing cardboard boxes while some cocky fucker takes the piss. I’ll kick his head in. One day.
Suppose I shouldn’t waste time thinking about him now I’ve left, he’s the one stuck in a poxy shop, strutting around like Adolf Hitler. When I left I filled a big bag with aftershave to sell and chocolate to eat, stuffed it out back next to the bins and went back Sunday morning, a bonus for a year of hard graft, but ended up giving most of it away. You can’t make a profit out of your mates. And working in the orchard is another world from the shop. For a start you’re outdoors, and you get paid for what you pick. It’s mostly cherries, but I’ve done apples, and want to have a go at the strawberries. The cherry trees are best. Apples are alright, but you get a lot of maggots. You can be stretching for that big juicy clump at the end of the thinnest branch on the tree, hanging on with your legs and risking a broken neck, doing a good monkey impression, and then when you pick it and bring it back to the trunk you find they’re full of holes. Cherries smell better, taste better, and I end up stuffing my face. It means I don’t earn as much as I should, but it’s a good laugh.
The farmer’s from Wembley originally, has this haystack hair and wears th
ick rubber boots, a shotgun tucked in next to the seat of his tractor. He sees himself as a land-owning country squire now he’s two miles outside the London Borough of Hillingdon. Because he pays you for what you pick, he doesn’t care if you have a slack day and only turn in one box. There’s no aggro. I was getting paid every night last summer so always had a pound or two in my pocket. If I was sensible and had no pride, didn’t mind getting treated like shit and wanted to keep a job past the summer picking, I would have stayed in the shop stacking shelves, but I had to get out. I could try and get in one of the factories on the trading estate, lie about my age or something, regular work sweeping floors, or make tea on a building site, that’s supposed to be good money, but maybe fifteen is too young. The orchard means no questions asked, do what you want when you want, away from the town and the crowds, doing my own thing.
