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| The Cocky Watchman | |
| By Bagheera | ||||||||||||
| 13 September 2006 | ||||||||||||
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Oooopppss!!! I accidentally posted this under "Poetry" instead of Short Stories .... briefly, I'm thinking of entering this for a competition for a magazine. The criteria call for the central character to be a Parks Attendant/Ranger. In Liverpool, oneuponcatime, they were called "Cocky Watchmen" ..... The Cockie Watchman “Leggit: ’ere comes the Cockie!” They weren’t really doing anything wrong, and in all honesty there was no way on earth that the wounded ex-serviceman employed by Liverpool Council as Park Keeper could have caught up with them even if they’d chosen to abscond at a brisk walk rather than at full speed. Nonetheless, they scattered like chaff before an autumnal gale as soon as Tom (who’d been keeping Dixie) bawled out his warning. “Just wait till I tell your parents! I know where yiz all live!” could faintly be heard as his parade-ground roar bounced off the brickwork of the high walls on either side of the back jigger, following the miscreants up the road as they made good their escape. “Think he meant it?” Eddie panted as the gang paused at the end of the alley and looked back to see if they were being pursued (not that it seemed very likely). “Nah: why would he bother? He prob’ly says the same to everyone he chases off when it’s chuckin’ out time!” said Paul, with more confidence than he actually felt. After all, what ten-year-old can hope to understand how an adult mind works? “It’s alright for youse Coggers, Paul!” came a muttered comment from the odd-man-out, Pete, “ ... but I know f’r a fact he’ll have a moan to me Mam after the Service on Sunday, while they have tea ‘n’ biscuits.” Pete’s family were C of E: Paul, Tom and Eddie were RC. Tom looked at each of his fellow fugitives and appeared to give the question some serious thought before shaking his head decisively. “No, I reckon you’ll be okay: but I didn’t know the RSM went to your church?” The Park Warden’s ‘blighty injury’ had not affected the power of his voice, and it was therefore a grudging mark of respect to refer to “The Cockie” as a Regimental Sergeant Major – whether he’d earned the rank or not. In the immediate post-war years, suburban Liverpool appeared to be following Henry the Fifth’s exhortations to “Imitate the action of the tiger” as civilian life returned to something which resembled ‘normal’. One of the local Council’s Job Creation schemes provided not-too-strenuous work for wounded ex-servicemen as Park Wardens, supervising play areas dotted around the city’s residential areas as well as in the parks and gardens. The penetrating voice which ricocheted into silence behind them was that of the current Cockie Watchman, Len. Although a large-framed man he moved with an economy of effort and a degree of stealth which would have astounded many. He stood for a moment in an insignificant suggestion of a shadow, unobserved, assessing the body language of the group of boys, anticipating their intentions before they were fully aware themselves of a conscious decision to return to the playground. Melting back around the corner he re-entered the playground, padlocked the gate from the inside, and retired to “brew up” on the Calor gas ring in his Hut. “What we gonna do, then?” Three pair of eyes swivelled, as usual, to Paul for a decision. He wasn’t the tallest of them, nor even the best footballer/cricketer (depending on the time of year) but for some reason he exuded the confidence which made him a ‘natural leader’. Paul took a few seconds to weigh up the – somewhat limited – available alternatives. There was at least two hours of decent daylight left ..... “We’ll give him a minute or two: he’ll be on his way soon, the pubs are open now! Listen, split up an’ go to knock for Brian, Dom, some of the others, we’ll bunk over the wall and have a game of cricket ....” It was possible to have a half-decent game of cricket in the playground, despite the fixed obstacles of play equipment such as the swings, the slide and the roundabouts. Thanks to an infallible system of Jungle Drums the half-dozen ‘starter group’ of cricketers swelled quickly to a round two dozen, enough for two full teams. This wasn’t really as surprising as it might seem. Liverpool was not yet connected to the National Grid: electricity was a new development, and children of all ages made their own entertainment. Depending on the weather, this would almost always be some sort of outdoor activity. Reading or board games required serious concentration using the gas lighting which was still the norm in every household. For this reason, these activities were seen by and large as a last resort during cloudbursts and other natural disasters. “Rain Stopped Play” was a phrase which was hated just as much by Liverpool’s child population as by cricket commentators. “Ey up, we better scarper: the Cockie’s come back!” With the speed of thought, a score of rear ends disappeared over the nearest convenient wall or fence. Resigning himself to a reprimand (admittedly a deserved one), Paul collected the abandoned bat and the solid rubber ball and stood submissively awaiting the wrath of the RSM. “Left you to carry the can, have they?” Somewhat surprised at the unexpectedly calm way he was being addressed, Paul looked up and grinned self-consciously. “Yes, sir.” “No need to be formal: I’m not likely to be putting a uniform on, ever again.” For some reason, Paul sensed that there were equal portions of relief and regret in these few words. The Cockie seemed to return from a deep, secret, private place. “I know your name: I’ve heard the others shout it often enough! It’s Paul, isn’t it?” Paul nodded. There was the tiniest of awkward moments: then, before he could stop himself he blurted out: ”How long have you been watching ... that is, er, I mean .... ” he stopped, embarrassed, not quite sure how to put his scrambled thoughts into words. Taking a deep breath, he tried again. “I know we’re not s’posed t’ come back after you lock up at six o’clock but there’s nowhere else big enough for a proper pitch, an’ at least we can’t break no windys while we play ‘ere .......... !” Paul’s native Scouse coarsened his voice on the odd occasion (such as now) when he felt himself under duress. Len’s eyes reflected some private amusement: the inadvertent “windys” instead of “windows” had not escaped his attention. “Tonight? I’ve been watching your ‘pickup’ game since you all came back. You probably thought I’d gone down to the pub .... “ Paul’s involuntary start betrayed the accuracy of this guess. Len smiled. “Most nights, you’d probably be right, but something made me stop behind a while tonight, and I’m glad I did.” With a professional soldier’s economy of purpose his gaze flicked from Paul’s eyes to the ball in his hand; the merest of nods indicated that Paul should toss it to him. Len let it roll across his palm and half up his right arm: a twitch of his bicep and the ball took off vertically, spinning viciously as it fell back onto his waiting palm. A split second later it was tucked securely between the second and third fingers in a recognisable wrist-spinner’s grasp. “I’ve been watching you for some time, Paul” Len murmured, hefting the ball as he spoke “ ... and you’re not a bad player! Will you let me toss you a few balls?” Too surprised to speak, Paul nodded dumbly and walked over to defend the chalk target drawn on the wall. Len’s run-up was short, but Paul had already anticipated spin rather than pace. On the other hand, he was surprised to be able to actually hear the ball spinning through the air. Instinctively he knew it would ‘tweak’a long way when it bounced, and he moved to smother the spin. Len nodded his approval. “You spotted that well: and it would have moved a lot further if you’d been playing on grass!” he commented as Paul settled himself for the next delivery. He spotted the “wrong ’un” almost before it left the back of Len’s hand: he was ready, waiting at the pitch of the ball to despatch it high wide and handsome in the direction of mid-on, a safe boundary shot, probably clearing the boundary rope. A dozen or so balls followed, each subtly different. Len appeared to be judging the way in which Paul dealt with them, but offered no comment until a delivery which rose sharply came off the wall showing a smudge of chalk, indicating it had hit the wicket. “Fantastic bowling!” Paul grinned, and added: “Do you play ... or did you ..... ? ” A curious, wistful expression crossed Len’s face and was gone. “I used to ... that is, until .... well, let’s just say I won’t be playing professional cricket any more. Now, tell me: have you ever thought of going for trials? Because I think you’ve got talent. Ask your Mum or your Dad to come and see me tomorrow ..... ” He nodded over in the direction of the green, wooden watchman’s Hut. “ .... and you can tell them I invited them. Lennie Brown, ex-Lancashire and England.”
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