Chapter Two: You rang, My Lady?
In the words of a song yet to be born, there was
no country, religion, possessions --- or heaven
and hell. Only imagining. Up, up in his tree,
Graham paused life itself.
These were a solution fit only for Graham. No
more punches in the face, just the soft rustle
of leaves. No nightmares or planned escape,
but peace.
In coed y melin, or in English, honey wood
--- now called Jews' wood by the locals ---
Graham sighed and stretched.
Above... summer clouds. Then --- a voice:
his mother calling. Time to eat.
No no no !
Bed after. Shared in a room with three of
his siblings. All snoring, wetting the bed.
Making his mother hate them. All boys.
His sister next door, mendacious.
His nightmares continuing.
The next day --- out down and free ---
then scrambling up to safety. And
so it went on.
Then there were books. Instead of
Sunday school - Tolstoy. Margaret
Mead, his mothers choice.. with
Greek smutty fables. Graham
cared only... to stretch.
Soft dark olive ivy leaves gave birth
to fruit clumps, small, dark, juicy.
Graham knew they were poison.
The elm tree was his guardian.
Finally.... junior school climaxed.
Exams loomed. Graham sent to
mug up. With a private tutor....
and a new friend, also there.
His mother, had pulled strings.
She saw Graham as a genius.
Not yet. But she would make
him one. Ambition grew in
her like the ivy's berries.
As her net closed, Graham's
nightmares warned him off.
A recurring, screaming dream
where a voice behind a bush,
called softly.. coaxed. Again
and again.. Graham neared
the bush - only to find not
his mother - but a hag.
He would - over and over -
run away for dear life.....
and wake up in his bed
drowning in urine and
tears of sweat.
Each word of sharp reproach
from his mother ----- cutting
his soul away.
''More of this - and I'll put
you in a baby's nappy!''
Chapter Three. In For A Treat.
The little jewellers shop in Carmarthen, now Hearts of Gold,
in the middle of one of the High Streets --- King Street ---
had an air of excitement.
''Are you sure,'' asked Aneirin, her husband, shaking his
head, that it's today?''
''How can you keep asking?'' replied Rhiannon, sweetly,
''If I've told you a thousand times. It's due by 10, and
those poor girls will be arriving --- with just their
souls and nothing else to keep them warm.''
Rhiannon tutted as her husband - still worrying - tip
toed into the blue-glazed kitchen to make another
pot of tea. It seemed to him, a small skinny dip
of a man, that the world had gone full on mad,
and he wore a permanently pained look to
suit. He looked at his fob watch --- 6am.
His wife, ...smoothed down her dress, and thought
about what the ladies had spoken of, at chapel
last Sunday, warning: ''Two London girls - and
into their teens! Duw --- you're in for a treat.''
She sipped her tea now, peering out at the cold
early morning, waiting for that London train.
The two girls, Rita and Mary, stared at the strange
land clattering past, hills and sheep, more hills
and more sheep.. and giggled. Each had a
brown worn suitcase above their heads
on the netting, little inside besides a
change of clothes, a tooth brush
and for Mary, her orange Teddy.
''A jewellers shop,'' breathed Rita -- at 14 already
strikingly beautiful, with mounds of delightful
flesh.... secreted under her neat black coat.
She stretched her legs and arms - arching
her back: watching Mary's innocent blue
eyes ...widen.
''We'll be princesses,'' she cooed.
As the train pulled into the station, a young
squaddie on his way to Ireland gave way
to the two, as they squeezed past him.
''Hallo, gorgeous,'' he smirked - at Rita.
She stepped over his feet and smiled.
''Got a big rifle there, she flirted.
''Know how to use it, do you?''
''I know... how to slide it into your guts,''
he whispered. Holding the bayonet
up to her face, and inviting her..
to submit.
Rita ran away .....screaming softly.
There they were, waiting and watching.
By the ticket office door. They stood
now --- looking for their evacuees.
The train doors opened against the hiss
and puff of the slowing steam engine..
It was... 1942.
Chapter Four: Tucked Above the Towy
A 14 year old girl is the epitome of selfishness, but Rita was
there to look after Mary her younger sister --- two years her
junior and the family baby. The jewellery shop was in King
street. Small, but posh, Rita thought, and allowed herself
to be led upstairs to their bedroom.
Mrs Ward said she would bring them their luncheon, in a
minute now.. smiling wistfully at her new London wards.
She busied herself down in her private space - her kitchen,
where all was in its place, cutting thin slices of bread and
corned beef, with just the smallest suggestion... of home
made cake.
Rita could see little out of the attic window, and ached to
see the world outside. ''Mary, dear'', she whispered -- but
Mary was fast asleep still in her travelling clothes, her
small form tucked now, thumb in mouth, and a teddy
held warm and tight.
Mrs Ward knocked carefully, and placed Rita's plate on
the small metallic bench near the window. Love her,
she thought, as the elder girl smiled eagerly yet
raised a delicate finger to her rosebud lips.
Shhh, they both said at once, and broke into smiles.
''Well!'' said Rhiannon later that night, to her husband.
''I do believe those two children will do well here...''
''Better off than in that smokey old London, indeed,''
Aneirin replied, measuring his pipe.... squinting in
the dusk light. ''Perhaps.. you worried too soon.''
Dawn flew in - in stages of curious sounds. A small owl
hooted between silence and insistence. Then several
competing cockerels wrenched the day open. A dog
barked and set off others ...and all the Carmarthen
crows told them - to shut up.
''Breakfast!'' thought Rita, and took the steep, highly
polished wooden stairs down following her nose..
to the kitchen. Mrs Ward started - then relaxed.
''Good sleep for you two?'' she enquired, looking back
at Rita's form in the doorway. ''Yes, thank you, Mrs
Ward...'' She waited for Mrs Ward to reply with an
invitation to call her a more intimate name --- as
would be the case in London's informal way....
but it didn't happen. Mrs Ward didn't see the
look that turned her mouth down.
''There's a nice boiled egg and soldiers for you
and the little dab'', Mrs Ward voiced airily.
''That will be wonderful,'' Rita replied, with a
dazzling smile, which stayed long enough
for Mrs Ward to catch it, as she turned
with the breakfast plates.
''May I call Shirley down?''
''But of course... dear,'' the little Welsh woman
replied. ''You're not prisoners here, are you!''
It was market day, and the town on the river
Towy was abustle with beasts, men..... and
children - surprisingly - also from London.
''We didn't see one of these.. on the train,''
said Mary. ''Let's go and say hello, then'',
Rita countered and walked up to a gang
of boys trying to open a gate to a small
official looking kiosk. They were all in
long shorts, as was the way then ----
and looked at the two sisters with
pretend adult eyes, narrowed.
''Hi,'' said Rita cheerily. ''Where's all the fun,
then?'' The oldest boy stopped wrenching
at the iron gate and spun his eyes over
Rita's body.
''That depends on you,'' he smirked.
Rita called him a name that made
all the boy's companions laugh.
Then she minced away... with
Shirley toddling proudly after.
Into the adult man's world
....of the farmers' market.
Chapter Five: The farmers' Market
Of course, there was a bar... where the cider flowed like a
wolf whistle .....down gullets and into the over-stretched
stomachs of magenta-faced farmers, far into the night.
Rita crawled to the back side of the bright white tent
with the overweaned ambition - of an eager 14-year
old's ego. She opened her legs and scratched her
knickers, knowing this would be appreciated by
the drunken boyos inside... as the tent's flaps
were raised to let in a cooling fresh breeze.
''Look!'' --- whispered an elderly stockman to his young
companion.... who looked. Shocked and drawn to the
rare sight of a young ladies privates being disclosed
the young man sprawled across the gap - then slap!
He heard the struggle - saw the girl hoisted - and
returned to his seat in a quick scuttle. Mrs Ward
appeared ....staring at him with what felt like a
fatal contempt. He lowered his eyes.
Back in King Street, the elderly couple talked on and
off, into the night. Silence, dark and thick ....stained
the girls' room upstairs.
''This girl is just ---- too much,'' Mrs Ward concluded.
''Yes... I believe you know best, dear,'' said Aneirin.
''I propose that we write to the girls parents and tell
them that we can no longer manage the two girls
and that it would be best if we look after Mary
and that - sadly - Rita will have to return to
her address in Woolwich.''
''Woolwich, is now bombed most, dear,'' said Aneirin
gently. ''Because that London government ...hides
its munition factories amongst ordinary people.''
He knew Rhiannonon's views on politics, and held
his breath, waiting, looking at a calender on the
- by now.... dark yellow kitchen wall.
''I cannot help where her parents choose
to live, can I!'' his spouse snapped.
So it was settled. The two girls kissed and hugged
each other and cried. Especially little Mary, who
tried to give her Teddy to Rita as a keepsake,
then shrank back into the cold house on
King Street, Carmarthen.
The London trains were still regular because of the
Ireland connection, and, to Rita, the journey was
short. When her mother met her at Waterloo...
all was forgiven, and her parents both gave
the outraged maiden all the soothing
they could muster.
''Bloody communists - all of those rough
Welsh,'' her mother muttered, grimly.
Her father grinned, as usual. ''I expect they did
their best, so we could forgive them for that,''
he exclaimed, lighting his pipe - then fast-
skipped out ---- onto the porch.
But Rita ...would never forgive the Wards.
Or the Welsh.
Chapter Six: late!
Rita - and the war is over - is 18 now, and asks
her dad if he minds if she goes on a holiday.
Fred, her dad, is a man of wide cracking smiles
who never crosses his wife. It was she, who
got him through his nervous breakdown in
the '30s, when he could easily have been
cold-showered and electric shocked in a
place where professional detachment --
was a useful, scientific sounding way
of dealing with those who had hearts
broken by the mass unemployment
of the inter-war decades.
But Minnie had found him a generous
soul in London with more humanity -
who let him alone to grow a beard
and hair down to his shoulders....
until doctor rest and doctor time
....had let him cure himself.
Minnie then taught Fred to design, cut
and stitch clothes..... until he grew so
good at it that he now subcontracted
to a top Saville Row outlet.
''Of course you can, love'' --- and he
laughed. ''Don't worry about your
mother..'' he winked, ''she'll say
ok to it.'' He was still laughing
as Rita hugged him.
The Isle of Sark had been liberated
from the nazis, and the cliffs soar
was intoxicating .....as the ferry
slowed at the plain wooden
jetty and Rita looked for
the hotel sign.
An unofficial taxi drove her the short
distance... and refused her offer of
money, so she finally turned with
a swirl, into the hotel lobby.
By now, Rita had a figure as voluptuous
as any Hollywood star ---- and the desk
clerk's adams apple wobbled, as his
throat dried ...and contracted.
''Here's your key. Miss....'' he managed
and watched Rita's hips sway, as
she smiled inwardly.
''Boy oh boy,'' she murmered... ''Am I
going to have a real fun time here!''
There he was. On the corner. An Italian
suit and a thin dark moustache. Black
hair slicked back, carefully shod.
Rita swanned towards him then quickly
turned. He caught her arm. ''That was
a great approach,'' he grinned -- his
teeth white as the cigarette held
out to her.
Rita giggled and placed the cigarette
between her lips. ''Fancy a drink?''
Emrys clipped his silvered case
shut and waited. ''You're fast''
- said Rita, tartly.
''Come on. The pub round the corner
does great food - it'll be my treat.''
That night Rita laughed and drank
and ate ....and laughed and drank.
She gasped - as he entered her in
her room, later... her womb throb
suckling madly, feeling his slim
muscles on her, everywhere -
and cried out.
A cigarette - senior service - and
she spoke. ''Well -- you've a way
with you!'' She laughed. Emrys
nodded. Took a drag... blew
smoke from his mouth,
and said softly.. ''I'm
known as a bit of a
ram, where I live.''
Rita was tempted to ask, ''what bit
is that then?'' but dared not break
the magic.
She moved her fingers around him
and pulled him towards her.
''Again,'' she whispered.
Three months later, Emrys got a letter.
Basildon Bond. Perfume. The letter
was from Rita and told him that
she was pregnant.
It was 1946.
Chapter Seven: Sour Apples
They stood and repeated their marriage vows
in a neat office, both in their finery and never
minding the lack of friends, the downpour
outside, the gnawing, aching for release.
Emrys displayed his male show off grin, shook
his shoulders - and took in his prize, knowing
only that he was ''doing the right thing,'' or
better. He would win. He was young. She
was beauty. He would keep her.
His fiance had been told and cried, but did
not cause any trouble. He would not miss
her. Rita stood on one hip, a dark green
velveteen dress, fashionably flounced.
It was a short journey to the room where
Miss Jones begrudged them existence.
Their landlady, a fat, plain, spinster of
dubious age, needed the money, and
cold charity kept - for all occasions.
''Your family don't like me'', Rita moaned.
No gifts, no family, no honeymoon. Just
a meeting of loins.
In a sweep of terraces, covered in soot
from countless coal fires, little Lynne,
their first child, was brought into the
world --- and constantly cried.
''Take her out!'' Miss Jones insisted.
Rita would bow her head, then cut
along towards a small park, with
clouds above... and the click of
her heels below, and a girl in
the pram she hated - for the
shrivelling of her breasts...
and the way her husband
drooled over her.
Emrys worked in a woodyard across town,
his seven years of college apprenticeship
thrown away, as he pulled sacks of saw-
dust to and fro and tolerated a know-it-
all fool as his boss.
The youngsters, though, were a laugh,
and fish and chips and a cold can sat
on the roof during shut-down, were a
constant pool of pleasure, as Spring
caught this part of Wales, with soft
fingers, pushing joy into each day.
They were down for a council house,
but that would take another year, or
more. The new Labour government
was doing its best, despite the US
refusing to help with its dollars...
what to do? Emrys had joined a
union - FTAT - communist run,
and ''winning'' a farthing an
hour, each year.... almost
catching up with prices.
so Emrys paid his dues
but stopped going to
branch meetings.
''All they do is talk - about the moon
and revolution. We need a house.
Come here.'' And so it went on.
Miss Jones in her room.
Listening.
Chapter Eight: Love and Hate
Councillor Stone was a good man --- a very good man.
A Labour party stalwart all his hard life. Risen above
passion, affection, and admiration - to his true glory
in selfless service, his loving imagination fixed now
on a plan, its execution moving deliciously into the
local newspaper, the Argus. Its many eyed search
--- looking for skilled construction workers... and
the odd labourer.
''Good men, who wish to collaborate as comrades
to build a future together, will find a complete
plan explained -- as to how they can build a
new future home for their families, please
attend -- at 6pm this coming Tuesday --
at Gold Tops, 76 Field Street, where
the construction plan will be fully
explained and discussed.''
The notice above, signed by Councillor Stone,
drew Emrys' attention, and he attended well.
He watched Rita fussing at her daughter,
and decided not to tell her ...just yet.
Best wait - to see if this was real.
Tell no-one.
Work at Gabriel Wades slipped by
in a cloud of sawing wood dust.
The room at Gold Tops, was buzzing.
Thirty plus men sat on, as the maps
were distributed. They all knew at
least several others.... respecting
most as workmen or even mates.
The schedule was debated and finely
discussed: 3 years of working their
evenings and weekends.
No money up front. One elderly man
left, shaking his head. Most stayed.
At the finish, 24 stood to take the
plunge, shaking hands and feet
to show willing. Mac Vickery
approached Emrys, with
an enormous grin.
''Em, you young devil! So we're
going to be working together
...at last!''
''It's been a long time since,''
said Emrys... who'd sat at
the same desk with Mac
at the training college..
and knew him as a
sharp thinker.
''That piece of land -- is prime,'' Mac
snorted. ''It would be a sin to pass
this up.'' They parted -- each with
the same joy and quite different
thoughts and dreams.
Mac would go on - to head a large
building firm. It was said that he
would place his wooden cabin
high enough to see the work-
-men coming, and calculate
piecework and hourly pay
before each got to him -
so that their choice.....
meant just the same:
Mac's full profit.
''I wish -- you'd have that much
gumption,'' said Rita, sharply.
Her husband grinned. ''Come,''
he urged, ''and give your old
man a nice cuddle.''
She demurred. ''I'm pregnant.''
Waited. Emrys was ecstatic.
As he held her.. he knew.
She could never escape.
Their son arrived at midnight
on a freezing All Saints Eve,
almost dead.
''Accident prone?'' the doctor who
had saved his stutter into this
world, said sharply to his
fellow practitioner.
''Why, what's it this time?''
Dr Miles asked gently.
''Boiling water - on the little
boy's posterior...'' Silence.
They both knew.
The news came suddenly.
Their council house was
approved - and waiting.
Goodbye to their landlady,
Ms Jones. No handshake.
It was 1950.
Chapter Nine: Innocence and Insensibility
Their time in the council house - passed in sweet space,
bathing naked in an old bath tub outside in the summer,
joining in with the natives - as they played in the semi-
built houses, swinging on scaffolds - and chewing bits
of bitumen like chewing gum, until Rita lost patience
and ordered little Graham to stay away from all those
''horrible rough boys''.
As reward - he was given a large battery driven toy
car with lights, and played happily with it - until
those ''horrible rough boys'' --- ran off with it.
The work went on at nights, on their new house.
As it is and always will be - the carpenters felt
superior, as they could read the house plans.
He didn't notice the whispered comments of those
who saw a 22 year old thinking he... was above
some of the older men, as he always worked
with his friend, Mr Thomas -- whose work
during the day, on the new deisel trains
as a driver, was easy, but Mr Thomas
needed the knowledge Emrys had
and they soon became drinking
mates. Besides - they knew
that Emrys was pally with
Mac Vickery and it would
be foolish - to cross him.
Some labourers left --- unable to take the constant
fatigue and stress, now without trust. There were
mutterings and sly tricks. The men decided that
Emrys' house would be the last to be built, and
left him with a garden filled with rubble and
stones... pushed from the first house to
the 14th house --- Emrys' one.
By the end of the second year, Rita found herself
pregnant again - but had found a few stalwart
female friends - ''aunties'' to Graham and his
sister Lynne who no longer played with him.
He tried to join in with her friends - but their
sisterhood was now fixed, and very dark.
Graham complained to his mother. ''Aw... you
should have been a girl,'' she would say,
again and again. And ignore him.
Graham's birth had been a stuttering mess and
his face - although that of a pretty pixy - was
unbalanced dangerously --- on a body that
made his parents nauseous to see him.
He would have whooping cough, fleas, scabies
and then - shame of shames - rickets - which
led to a twist in one ankle and a leg longer
than the other - which by itself, was fine.
So there he was, a face and a leg... stumbling
about on braces and a special built-up shoe,
not realising... he was an embarrassment,
now without friends... and soon to have
a rival.
He examined his mother's belly, placing
a hand on it, making his mother smile.
'If it's a boy,' he decided vaguely....
'what is to be done?'
His thought patterns grew sneaky.
He crept slowly around the house.
The fetus could feel. Grew.
Chapter Ten: Serious and seriouser
Graham was caught. Holding on to his new rival - now held in
a vice of pretend love. But Rita had seen - him rocking the
baby on softly vulnerable feet... saw his intent turning to
cold murder. She sprang forward, grabbing her new one
---- pushing the assassin away backwards, as he - stiff
with fear - fell on the cold linoleum floor -- with a hot
crack to the back of his head and twisting his neck
to one side, began to retch dark globs. Blood!
The nurse lifted her head ...and explained, softly.
''No need to worry, Mrs Jewel. It's just ---- undigested liver.
You must have worried - but everything is perfectly fine.''
Rita took the two buses back with relief, and hysterical
laughter -- which she snapped shut. The voices in her
that cried out: 'fool! Opening your legs for this!' now
catching fate's humour ..with a welcome discount.
Back to her escape: books. She needed to spread her
mind. Catch hold of wisdom and pride. But the music
kept her madly sane too ----- whirling around her hot
kitchen with new pots and pans -- and Spike Jones
popping the balloon of jazz - letting every past go
-- for rock and roll. She laughed ...over and again.
She would survive - and thrive. Her 3 children
smacked into place.
Emrys' face ..was sore. The black eye and blue jaw
pushing his wife to carefully dab cream on... ''Ow!''
She grinned in the dim evening dusk, queen of
this house and soon the new one. Very nice.
He didn't tell her why, really. ''I was defending your
honour'', he growled. In truth - he'd fallen. Passed
out. Day work then evenings. On and on and on.
She refused to tell him truth, as well. Knew that
internalisation -- the melding of father to son --
had not occurred between Emrys and Graham.
She - was the recipient of that. Graham would be
hers. She would bend him into strange shapes.
Let her ram ....draw his future --- in a vacuum.
That laughter kept bubbling up.
Their second goodbye to an unwanted home
was as sudden as Emrys teeth falling out.
''I still love you...'' Rita lied. Watching carefully.
The new houses -- freshly erected -- were crowded
and bright as they ran in the Summer light to see.
There was no surface on their road. Brisbane
Drive - was an anomaly to the bureaucratic
mind. ''Self-build! Whatever next! We'll all
be out of a job if this keeps up!''
After the debacle at the lightning split oak
where the children danced naked and
were torn away --- away in horror....
by slaps and the horrified hush of
their ...oh so determined to be
respectable parents.... little
Graham, had ran down the
road on his still suspect
legs - and tripped.
The asphalt - had torn into his knee.
Rita refused to spoil the day... with
any more hospital visits recorded.
She dabbed vinegar and a plaster
on the scarlet hole - and sat him
down to watch her darn socks.
''You - should learn how to do this,''
she cooed. Graham had watched
with admiration, as her fingers
clutched and delved prettily.
He loved his mother and would die
for her. Even as she spanked him
with the hairbrush - he would
laugh until tears came. Her
closeness was his womb.
Chapter Eleven: Hits of the 60's
''Gray,'' it was his small friend, Ian approaching,
small ...and carefully quiet. He kept his hands
hidden, and blank was his only expression.
Graham had been invited to his house, once
to a 'Busy Bee' evening. This, was an Enid
Blyton invention, to raise market loyalty.
She wrote almost insane stories, with
the sort of food working-class kids
would stab you for, and spiffing
adventures - and odd, twisted
sexual vignettes -- featuring
Aunts moving ecstatically.
When he met Ian's father, a small mean divorcee
with a thin smile.. strictly arranged under a thin
moustache, Graham felt an immediate, warm
longing for the front door, but sat quietly in
the semi-dark ''living'' room.. wondering
what was going to happen next... with
so few positive variables among the
charted ones.
''Father, may I share some liquorice with my
friend?''
His pater moved to the sideboard - and opened
the top draw - it was packed with liquorice of
all sorts and sizes! Graham perked up as he
watched Ian's dad pick out some liquorice
shoe-laces ......and began whipping them
around Ian's head.
''You vile boy! You disgusting child!'' he hissed,
not stopping his furious assault for a second.
''Go - GO! To your bedroom. NOW!''
Weeks later, Ian sidled up again. ''You know
how --- in The Folk Of The Faraway Tree,
the tree sometimes grows cakes or
sherbet dabs, or....'' he stopped.
Graham waited. School was out for the day,
teatime had passed. He had hours to play.
''Well,'' said Ian with quiet enthusiasm, mixed
with odd, almost bright optimism, ''I think..
if we look in hedges down the lane today,''
he smiled faintly, ''we might find... some
surprise treasure.''
Now - Graham thought he'd heard it all. He'd
speed read Enid Blyton, now he was 12,
smiled at a tree growing cream buns
...and just as quickly --- thrown
it away.
He now read novels and had
recently won a poetry prize.
When he was 8, he couldn't even begin to read.
He'd sat in Miss Thomas' class, in the newly
built local school and felt completely dull.
He couldn't even follow the alphabet,
never mind whole sentences.
Then - a miracle - somehow - someone worked out
- not his father who was threatening at best - and
told him his job for the family was to be picking
all the stones out of the back garden - nor his
mother ---- who used him as a skivvy in the
kitchen, between constantly telling him
he should have been a girl --- he was.....
short-sighted! NHS glasses solved the
problem ------- and he became literate,
beyond most adults - within months.
He looked at Ian. ''Come on, then!''
They wandered down the sloped
lane, deaf to the birds, blind to
the wild strawberries and Ian
stopped. See if there's some
there,'' he whispered.
Graham pushed his hand through the leaves...
and curled his fingers around - money - cash
..so many coins - all silver --- and pushed it
all ...into his pocket.
He found Ian again, a few days later, and they
repeated the procedure. He never saw Ian
again. Perhaps he thought Graham was
selfish ..and mean. He was.
Chapter Twelve: Mr and mismove
Graham had to remove himself - from the mind-tearing
incident at the end of the junior school leaving party
which, dear reader, will be revealed to you shortly.
Graham walked down the dip towards the stream, to where
the boys had burnt the trees in a mad ecstacy, through the
gap in the blue-gloss painted railings -- looked up at the
Narnia-like lamppost with the silvered crown on top
...and beamed inwardly.
'It's still here...' he saw the trees with the rope that
dared the brave to swing over the stream safely,
and noted a few more rusted nails banged in.
He turned straight to the right towards his tree.
The old elm seemed to have been waiting.
For him. He climbed up easily.
Nestling his back where the trunk was bifurcated
Graham settled his breathing ...and stilled. Only
the birds sang, as the stream below shone
in the early evening sun, as it slowly
dipped.. over the clay -coloured
rooftiles on Brisbane Drive.
He started to concentrate on why he'd let such an
insane reputation splintering thing happen, but
his mind wandered into memories.... like the
stream's meaningless meanderings below.
He looked back over all his years at the school...
at Ms Jones, the plump, Welsh, music loving
teacher, whom he'd loved and betrayed
--- before she could hurt him.
Mr Wooton - under whom he'd fallen
from 3rd in the class........ to 34th.
How he'd hated, despised --- and feared
that violent, abusive bastard of a man.
His mother had explained. ''It's because he's a man
- your teacher - and you don't like men because...
of your father.''
Mr Wooton, it's true, was a male teacher. A man
who drilled in - by repetition - the times tables
to 9 year olds.
''Once two is two, two twos are four, three.
Right, times up. That's your homework.
And don't come in tomorrow.... not
knowing it.'' He smiled sweetly
----- at the girls ''We will show
the boys won't we ladies?''
The girls had giggled.
Next day Graham was called to recite the
table --- he hadn't even tried to learn.
''Here!'' Mr Wooton roared. ''Come and find
out what disobedience gets you. Stand
here - now!'' He swiftly lifted Graham's
shorts to expose the white delicate
skin of his inner thigh and caught
Graham by surprise. It stung!
'This is assault,' Graham
swore silently.
Mr Wooton's face was scarlet but the stings didn't
stop coming. Graham twisted away and the
gripping hand left his upper thigh.
His mother examined the marks. ''Mum - it tickles!''
''The man should be shot ---- he's a bully and
shouldn't be in charge of children.''
She held out her arms. ''Come and give your mummy
a nice big kiss!'' Graham obliged. ''May I have some
dates - just a few from the package, I promise.''
''Of course you can, my darling!'' She felt better about
him without the ugly NHS glasses and he'd lost
that awful puppy fat stage. ''Quite good-
looking now, really,' she thought.
Her friend had nearly crossed over a line too far,
when she'd mentioned... how good-looking he
was, now. ''Too pretty though --- he should
have been a girl!'' They'd both snickered.
Her friend was big - raw boned - with a flushed
face and a body language that screamed....
I want nourishment, to any passing male.
He'd - thank God - left Mr Wooton's not so tender
care, moved up to Mr Peter's class and took
to him fondly ...as a role model.
Mr Peters was a young fit male, with a large
black handlebar moustache --- who had a
girlfriend who let him drive her around
in a sexy bright red open top sports
car, with the hood down and her
auburn hair -------- flying.
He encouraged an awed Graham - to join the cricket
and football team and they won the championship
at football ---- mainly.. because their goalie was
Dai Burcher - who went on to play for Wales
at rugby. Graham had thrived - grew strong.
So, no more puppy fat - sun streaked blonde hair.
His mother's pride and joy. His father's hatred.
The Beatles! Graham had 10p a week pocket money.
He wanted their first L.P., and his mum bought it
through ''the club'' - mail order, from Liverpool.
Try as he might, she wouldn't let him open the
cellaphane wrapping --- until he'd paid for it.
''But mam,'' he cried - almost in tears, ''that'll
take weeks! 32 weeks!'' She was unmoved.
Steel.
His brother Alan had a paper round and was
obsessed with money. Graham, not so.
His reading led him to snobbery.. and he could
always find easy money. ''If -- you put money
in a bank,'' he explained to Alan, ''it grows.''
His brother's dark brown clear sighted eyes
grew large. ''I've got thrupence,'' he said.
''Let's go and put it in the bank now!''
They'd dug a hole in the bank and left it
there. The next day, it wasn't there..
'Serves him right,' Graham grinned,
when Alan cried. 'What a fool.'
Graham laughed - and stirred himself.
He left his dear old elm tree and
trudged on up to the house...
having almost forgotten -
about the mind-tearing
incident --- which he
would continue to
puzzle over... for
another week.
Chapter 13: Truth.
It was the end of school party, and it was to be fancy dress.
Graham had fits of exasperation. His brother's cowboy suit
being way too small, he sat and watched his mother wash
her face with a damp tissue. Every movement practiced.
Make up carefully applied, brushes softening, calming
her skin... to perfection. Lashes darkened, shadows
blushed and lips puckered and pressed together.
She was showing off her body, breasts fastened
in wisps..... and her legs forever encased in
nylons so sheer ---- traveling up her long
legs to creamed thighs, to secrets.
She looked from her mirror to her son.
''We could dress you like me,'' she murmured.
''Would you like that?'' Then smiled.
''Come here,'' she cooed, picking clothes from
a drawer filled with soft colours...
Graham loved her so much. Was she inviting him
to share herself fully? He let her caress him in
feminine finery.
He was shivering in her self-hood, as she invited
him to sit next to him.. to look into her mirror.
All her secrets laid out on the bedroom table.
Jars of cream, of soaps and scents.
''Now'', she suggested, as their glistening thighs
touched, and her fingers traced a curve on
the back of his neck, ''let's make you
look beautiful.''
As he tottered up the lane beside their house in her heels,
smothered in a dream, Gareth was entranced --- excited.
He had been accepted.
He opened the classroom door and showed himself off.
In rapid succession -- his classmates laughed - delighted
with Gareth's finishing prank - he smiled - then caught
the teachers' horrified expressions --- Mr Peter's
fear and disgust. The Headmistress's grim
twist, as she ----- ushered him - out.
Graham was back up his tree - his friend.
He hadn't heard a word from his parents.
The long dress with the nipped-in waist,
etc., everything hidden back in place.
He... changed now - scrubbed and
back into shorts, socks, y-fronts
and dappers, leaning back.
Here.. safe within the whispering breath
of countless elm leaves, he didn't have
to think of repercussions, even if he
could, without shaking.
He didn't know.. who had invited that
social worker to visit the house ---
where his father ostentatiously
refused to sit next to him,
his own son.
A psychologist had been recommended. What his mother
had told of how ''the incident'' came about, is unknown,
but his brother Alan... years later said the psychologist
told the family: ''your son.. is intelligent - but insane.''
The old elm tree swayed... the universe circled, and
Graham shook.
Chapter 14: Classes and War
Gareth was warned by his best friend at primary school
as they said goodbye forever at the small green gates.
''Remember! Don't you become a snob!'' Gareth
had walked away... from the little orange/
red-brick walls, into a future filled up
with glowing promises. Every one
soon to be smashed.
This time the long Summer holidays melted too quickly.
He was part of a vast army of working class children
who were to be absorbed into the middle classes by
the new Britain of science and exports, technology
and the media, police, advertising ...and sales.
A Labour government was talking left and building
new-fangled comprehensive schools - preaching
equality ...through economies of scale. Duffryn
was huge ---- its corridors bigger than airport
runways -- thousands of children packed in
and all bright and shiny.
Gareth's school was to be very different.
As old as the oil in a solicitor's smile,
and as violent as rugby.
As he walked the 3 or 4 miles to his grammar school
through the Jews Wood trees where Autumn leaves
were turning subtly to palid and only the holly now
proudly dark green, he scuffed his new shoes and
whirled his new cow leather satchel and groaned
at the thought of his mother's face as she waved
him away to become her success. ''The Herald''
Emrys read - published by the Labour Party -
had been replaced by a Tory Telegraph,
and in his perfect new satchel lurked
....an apple for the teacher.
His uniform - brand new with gabardine trousers
a crisp, starched, brilliant white shirt, and a tie
that choked him as he walked, bit his soul.
The road he now walked down was covered in
solid, middle-class houses, with a smell of
smug moneyed owners... then a shop.
''Can I buy just one'' Graham looked at the long
shelfloads of cigarettes. ''10p,'' the balding
owner replied briskly. Graham handed
over his bus fare home, and lit up.
He pushed his cap back around the
'wrong'' way.... and whistled and
smoked his way down a steep
winding hill, to fate.
The classroom was old with old wood
and the master wore a black gown
and a black mortarboard perched
on his head - shaved at the back
to the red of a turkey's mottle.
Then he noticed the others - all
looking. Their faces exposing
their feelings and thoughts...
Gareth could hear them. Read their thoughts.
'Look what we've got here! --- Little
Lord Fauntleroy!''
He looked down at his brand new orange
leather satchel, moved his right-hand
slowly, carefully to undo the clasps.
Looked back at his classmates and
grinned sideways at them, as his
hand... felt for the apple. Hard
and juicy, with skin rubbed
shiny, dark and blood-red.
His right hand now full, his eye in on
target, the master sitting gentle...
still. Gareth swung back his arm
and the missile smacked into
the near top of his head.
There was a roar from the children
and the master ---- walked out.
''How was school?'' his mother enthused.
''Just an introduction,'' Gareth replied.
''The real stuff starts tomorrow,''
His mother knew better than to cause
a sensitive boy like hers to lose his
....temper. She smiled and passed
his dinner. ''Thanks mum. When
is the new baby due?''
Rita pursed her lips. ''Any day, now.''
She left the kitchen quickly and he
heard the bathroom door go click.
She wouldn't cry - she just wouldn't.
As she sat on the closed lid of the
toilet, a tear, then another, rolled
down her thin sallow tired face.
She hadn't wanted the last one.
Some men - kept their wives
locked up. Rape, was still
legal. A mistress, would
be fine --- and lighten a
woman's worst chore.
But it had to be kept
out of view. Whores
and hypocrites.
Other men just kept their women
pregnant. Five children - on 15
pounds a week. No holidays.
No meals out - or trips. No
washing machine and no
heat - except one grate
for cheap coal.
She would walk over to her friend
tomorrow and borrow something.
She mopped at her face with a damp hanky
and waited for Emrys. God! What a life.
Next chapter due - on April 16th