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There's Something Strange Down Brian's Drain
By Robert White
July
17th 1966. What a wonderful date. A catalyst for some of ones
warmest memories. A time for running, jumping and finding those special
places for boys to hide. A time for jokes and dens, bikes and fishing.
Summer break. No school for six weeks and three days.
Did
it ever rain in those days? Maybe it did. One thing for certain. It got
dark. It got very dark.
Des
sat at the polished dining table. You couldn’t tell it was polished,
as it was completely covered with not one, but two layers of protection.
The first, a thick brown felt affair that made your hands itch if you
touched it. The second, a shiny blue and white plastic sheet that
grandma wiped clean of Des’ accidental spills after each meal. In
fact, the only reason Des knew the table was a fine polished article,
was the fact that that there was a Sunday in each week. It was
Grandma’s pride and joy and heaven help anyone who drove the latest
Dinky car along it, no matter how fast you could make it go.
Des
noticed his feet touched the floor as he sat on the matching dining
chair. They hadn’t done that last summer holidays. He had absolutely
no excuse to swing them now and risk damage to the turned polished
mahogany legs.
As
he munched away through his bowl of cereal, the most important meal of
the day and one that was irreversibly connected to him being allowed to
go and play, he studied grandma’s second treasure.
Far
more interesting to his eight and a half years than the table, was the
chiming clock that took centre stage on the ceramic tiled fireplace. The
steady tic toc of the grand timepiece was a constant in his life, as was
the ceremony of winding it.
At
8 a.m. each and every day, grandma would retrieve the long metal key
from the security of the second pot on the left, top shelf of the
dresser, which, Des noted, was still well out of his reach despite his
now non-swinging legs.
Now
the best bit. The face of the clock opened like Aladdin’s cave and the
long key slotted perfectly into a circular hole that nestled just above
the number six. Obviously the reason the clock was wound at eight
o’clock rather than half past. Des had never been allowed to wind the
beast, despite constant pleadings, offers of help in the kitchen, or
assurances of good behaviour well into the next century. Grandma seemed
to be determined to reserve the wondrous task for herself. Des
considered the old lady’s look of self satisfaction to be one of her
few personal pleasures. Definitely not one to be stolen by a boy, when a
man ruled just about everything else in her life. It was one of those
rare occasions when her facial expression actually changed from a barren
scowl. Des thought that the reason for her near permanent joyless
countenance was probably due to the curlers.
For
some inexplicable reason, more than a dozen of the small pink plastic
objects were pinned to her scalp for six days of the week. Grandma was
only released from the torturous instruments on Sundays. Des mused that
the curlers were somehow strangely connected to the removal of the
dining tables protection. Grandma’s hair and the polished surface of
the table were perpetually destined to be seen in tandem.
The
man, Des’ Granddad was long to work. Grandma had already been awake
since five. She had lit the fire, prepared Granddad’s breakfast,
boiled his shaving water and laid out his clothes. Everything had to be
done just right. The same way, at the same time, every day. Heaven help
her, or any other living creature, including Ginger the dog, if things
weren’t just right.
Des
couldn’t be sure if Granddad actually ever spoke more than a grunt to
Grandma other than to give his food orders. He was sure that she loved
Granddad though and that he, in turn, loved Grandma. It was just their
way not to show it that was all.
Des
turned his attention to the back of the cereal packet on the table. He
didn’t know why he tortured himself with reading the brightly coloured
advert. The packet always had some brilliant offer emblazoned across it.
This time it was for a model of Thunderbird One.
A
model spacecraft from the latest programme on the television.
Thunderbirds. International Rescue. The Tracy family on their fantastic
island, full of the best and most futuristic machines, would fly off
each week and win the day. Each and every daring salvation watched
intently by thousands of schoolboy astronauts.
Scott,
the eldest of the Tracy brothers, and Des favourite, piloted Thunderbird
One. The Tracey family was seemingly without a mother, just like Des.
She had probably died of some terrible disease or in a plane crash. They
did have a father though. A father, who had obviously done a great deal
better in life than Des’s errant old man.
Des
sighed deeply. Not at the thought of his lack of parents, but in the
knowledge that Thunderbird One would never be his. It wasn’t even the
2s/6d that the rocket, with ‘real moving parts’ cost. Des had more
than that saved. It was the fact that you had to send in six of the
cereal packet tops with the money to claim the model.
Pure
mathematics. The offer ended in four weeks. Grandma bought one packet
every two weeks. See? Maths. Even if Des ate nothing but cereal for the
next month. He couldn’t do it, even if he snapped crackled and popped
himself stupid, it was a fact of life.
The
final spoon of breakfast away, Des carried his empty dish and teacup
into the tiny kitchen. Grandma was about to commence the weekly wash. It
had to be Tuesday then.
The
back door opened onto the long narrow garden of the terraced house.
Granddad spent most of his spare time out here. If he wasn’t pruning
roses, tying sweet peas or cutting grass, he was in the shed. A glorious
musty place, full of things you just shouldn’t touch. If you had a
Granddad like Des’, you wouldn’t touch either.
Des
pulled his bike from the shed. It was bright yellow. It hadn’t always
been this way. When Granddad appeared with the machine he bought from
“a bloke from work” last year, it was dark green and a full two
sizes too big for Des. Now, with the help of some leftover yellow gloss
paint and Des’ non-swinging legs, it was the fastest and best thing in
Des’ young life. He had spent hours with the cycle turned upside down,
cleaning between the spokes of the wheels until they shone. If he looked
after this bike, he “might get a new one next time.”
Des climbed aboard and with just two pumps of the shining pedals, he was out and into the big wide world. A world that nightmares are made of.
Chapter
2.
Des’
street was much as any other in his area. It rose steeply from a corner
shop and turned into rows of neat garden-fronted terraces. The once
cobbled surface now sported tarmac. Des had watched in awe as workmen
had covered the ancient cobblestones with the black steaming substance.
The men had sweated and strained to finish the task. They shouted to
each other in a funny accent and wore dirty vests. They weren’t that
good, because they then knocked on all the doors in the street and
offered to cover up the householder’s paths, as they had made too much
tar. Granddad had called them ‘tinkers’ and had argued with one of
the men. Des’ once cracked concrete path now matched the rest of the
street though.
The
steep incline meant that Des needed to rise from the saddle of his bike
to reach the top of the brow where it turned sharp left into Gillibrand
Street.
Brian,
Des’ best friend in the entire world, lived in the second house on the
left. It was different to Des’ house. It was a semi-detached, which
meant that Brian was rich. It had a drive and garage, and as Des
freewheeled through the always-open gates, Brian’s Dad was already
polishing his car.
The
tall, muscular man looked up from his task and smiled.
“What
do you think Des?”
The
bottle-green paintwork on the brand new Vauxhall Viva gleamed in the
early morning sun. Brian’s dad rubbed the bonnet with a yellow duster
in large circular motions removing the final traces of white polish.
“Smashing,”
was all Des could think to say. He knew that Brian and his Dad were
going to Blackpool that afternoon and he couldn’t help but feel a tiny
bit jealous of his friend. Having a Dad who actually took holidays and
drove a car was the stuff dreams were made of.
Des
carefully leaned his bike against the gatepost and stepped closer to the
motor vehicle. He knew it was a brand new model as the numberplate had
the letter ‘D’ at the end. It must have cost a million pounds.
Des
wanted to know if Brian’s claims that the car could go a hundred miles
an hour were true. His questions were stopped short by the appearance of
his friend.
Brian
was inching his bike between the car and the wall of the house under the
close scrutiny of his Dad. Des couldn’t imagine the cost to Brian’s
hide should he slip and the handlebars scratch the million pound car.
“Hi
ya,” chirped Brian, revealing tombstone teeth that had recently
replaced smaller, and in Des’ opinion, better fitting ones. In fact
nothing much about Brian did fit. His mum and dad modelled dark hair,
where Brian was as red as a carrot. The shear ferocity of his thatch
gave rise to many a jibe at school. Not only was it very red, but he had
insisted that he be allowed to grow it in the style of his hero Paul
McCartney. This gave him the look of a small child wearing a large
orange crash helmet. He had short, stumpy legs that seldom allowed him
to run faster than a snail with lumbago, yet he was a good two inches
taller than Des. Des presumed that Brian’s legs just hadn’t caught
up with the massive growth rate of his upper torso.
“I’ve
to be back by twelve,” smiled Brian. “I’m going to Blackpool with
me dad.”
Des
nodded in glum resignation of his lot. It seemed a bike ride, followed
by footie on the rec, was all he could look forward to on what was
turning into a glorious summer day.
The
rec, or recreation ground, to give it its full title, was Lancashire
County Council’s idea of heaven for children. In reality it was a
patch of thistle-ridden grass, with three swings and a dilapidated
roundabout. A large scorched area, punctuated with rusty
non-combustibles, marked the spot of last November’s bonfire. Built by
the local kids, it had burned out of control and the fire brigade had
been called to prevent large-scale destruction of the adjoining
property. Des and Brian had lay in bed that night awaiting the terrible
knock on the door from the local Policeman. Both of course would go
straight to jail for building a bonfire that was just too big and
neither could expect any sympathy from their families.
The
boys dismounted from their bikes and pushed them through the gate
leading to the rec. Green metal railings, designed to prevent smaller
children running straight into the road from the grass, surrounded the
whole expanse.
The
railings were a good idea, unless Shultzy and Coxy, the terrors of the
rec caught you. Then the railings were perfect instruments of torture
for the bullies. They were the ideal height to hang a smaller child
onto. Shultzy and Coxy were experts at the trick. On more than one
occasion Des had been left stranded for hours, dangling by his belt
loops, unable to move until a well-meaning grown-up had released him. It
had become essential that one of the boys always scan the horizon for
the two fourteen year old ruffians prior to entering the rec. Miss them
and at best, you would end up with your face rubbed in a thistle, or
your bike thrown in the nettle bed. Retrieving your bike in short
trousers was agony.
Today
the rec was mercifully clear of anyone other than the two great chums.
So, what to play? Des’ hero was Alf Tupper, ‘The Tough of the
Track.’ He was a distance runner in the weekly comic ‘The Victor.’
He was a poor bloke, who always beat the toffs at running, even though
he lived on a diet of fish and chips. Des liked to play running games,
he would be Alf and Brian the toff. Des’ light and gangly frame would
naturally mean constant victory, even if he feigned a broken leg in
mid-race.
Brian,
on the other hand, liked to play wrestling games. His stocky upper body
meant that Des was no match for him when it came to brute strength.
Neither
wanted to play either, so both lay on the wonderful smelling grass and
found pictures in the occasional cloud until boredom forced them to
move.
“I
know,” Brian said. “We’ll flick the swings.”
Des
gave his friend a sideways glance. “You know you can’t do it, you
try all the time. It’s them legs of yours. I think they’re too small
for it.”
Flicking
the swings was great fun for everyone except the parky. You stood on a
swing and pumped with your legs to get moving. Then, at just the right
point in the arc of flight, you stood on one leg, tucked the free foot
under the swing and flicked the swing over your head. The childless
swing then completed a full 360-degree motion. The chains wrapped
themselves around the top support and the swing seat ended up slightly
higher than before. Repeat the operation several times and you had a
swing seat so high that only a giant could sit on it. The poor
park-keeper then had to go and get his ladders in order release the
errant swing whilst swearing profusely at groups of laughing children.
If
you were a champion flicker, like Des, you could get two full rotations
of the swing in one flick. In Des’ whole memory, Brian had never
completed a single rotation.
“I
bet I can do it,” challenged Brian.
“Naw.”
“Bet.”
“How
much?”
Brian
mused, rummaged in his pocket and found a threepenny bit. He held it
between thumb and forefinger and thrust the coin in Des’ face.
“This.”
Well
this was a challenge. Brian may well be going to Blackpool with his Dad
later, but failure at the flick would at least mean Des would be stuffed
full of sweets for the afternoon.
“You’re
on.”
The
two boys climbed aboard the swings. Side by side. Des, supremely
confident, his non-swinging legs powering him effortlessly to the
required height, could already taste his sweets. Brian, brow furrowed in
concentration, slow and lumbering by comparison, struggled with the
contraption.
Within
seconds Des made the perfect flick and he was free of his swing. The
seat shot like a rocket over the bar and bounced wildly as it returned
to rest several inches higher than before.
Brian
saw it all and stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, a sign
of supreme effort on his part. His ginger locks falling in and out of
his face with each swing.
Des was now cross-legged on the
grass, mentally spending his winnings. He did notice that Brian was
higher than normal. In fact, Des couldn’t remember ever seeing Brian
so high.
Brian
flicked.
He
wrenched backward on the chains, flinging the wooden seat high above his
head. The swing catapulted skyward and for the first time in his young
life Brian was a victorious swing flicker.
Des
was in shock. He watched as the swing cleared the bar at amazing speed.
He also noticed a much greater problem. In his triumph Brian had
forgotten the golden rule of swing flicking.
Get
out of the way.
Twelve
pounds of seasoned English oak. Four cast iron fastenings with inch and
a half nuts, all swinging on a pivot and travelling at the velocity of a
Gary Sobers googly.
You
had to get out of the way.
The
expression on Brian’s face didn’t change. The look of triumph was
never wiped from it. Even as the sickening thud of the swing seat
connecting with the back of his head was ringing in Des’ ears,
Brian’s smile remained.
He
just fell. Not a big fall like in the pictures. A strange crumpled sort
of fall. As if someone had removed all the bones from his stumpy legs,
leaving his face as the only support as it slapped the concrete flags.
Des
didn’t move. Des couldn’t move. He saw the blood, more than he had
ever seen. Even when Mary Williams cut off the tip of her finger in art
class, there hadn’t been so much blood. Brian’s legs were twitching.
Des had seen Ginger the dog twitch the same way when he was dreaming.
Maybe Brian was dreaming?
The
flicked swing cast a slow rhythmic shadow over the ever-spreading pool
of blood around Brian’s head making it dark, then bright red. Dark
red, bright red, dark red… More twitching of legs…
Des
heard the shouting. It was the parky. He must be very angry with them
for the flicking he thought. The parky grabbed Brian and turned him
over. He put his fingers in his mouth and to Des’ horror began to kiss
him.
The
kissing stopped and the parky picked Brian up and ran toward the gate of
the rec. Des still couldn’t move. Tears pricked at his eyes. This was
all his fault. Brian wouldn’t be able to go to Blackpool now.
Des
turned slowly. He lay on his bed. Grandma had brought him home.
Brian’s frozen expression of achievement kept flashing before his
eyes. That sound, the thud as the swing smashed into Brian, still rang
in Des’ head.
It
had grown dark outside. For some unexplainable reason Des felt empty,
like being hungry, but different. He didn’t want a Kit-Kat. His body
had no need of chocolate. Crisps were a non-starter too. He needed
Brian.
Either
his thoughts were prayers or God had been listening in, or someone had
worked a magic spell, because, at that moment, Brian positively
sauntered into the bedroom.
Des
didn’t quite know what to say. He thought he was going to cry, but
that wouldn't be right. So, instead he managed the widest grin in the
world.
“Hi
ya,” offered Brian in a slightly lower voice than normal.
“You
OK?” Des knew it was a stupid question. Brian sported a huge bandage
on his head. Blood had seeped through at the back and dried. It made Des
shiver at the thought of the pool the Brian had lost. His friend was
pale and his voice slightly strange, but Des could feel little else than
joy. In fact, other than the obvious, Brian looked pretty good.
Brian
ignored Des’ inane remark and simply gestured him out of his bed.
“Come on I’ve got something to show you.”
Des
checked the clock at his bedside. Half-past seven, Uh-Uh, too late to
go. Granddad would never let him out at this time.
“I’ve
seen yer Granddad,” pre-empted Brian. “It’s OK we’ll only be
five or ten minutes.”
Before Des could even think of an argument or even how, after an obvious hospital visit, Brian had been allowed out so soon, the two chums were out of the door and walking toward Brian’s house.
