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| The hero | |
| Written by arablethecrocket | ||||||||
| 09 May 2007 | ||||||||
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this is yet another saga in the daft little lad mode. Now I look back on it I find it hard to beleive but a good part of this is actually true. I must have been a little sod when I was younger. (things haven't changed I have just got older) I suppose to the outside world I don't stand out as a hero. After all I haven't got the square jaw or broad shoulders of a hero. I haven't got the humility of a hero either but the fact is I am a hero. Well at least I am to my mum. I suppose that fact deflates the balloon a little, after all we're all heroes to our mums, but that's only partially true. In the mid fifties there were twenty million children in England. Nineteen million nine hundred and ninety nine thousand nine hundred and ninety nine of them were heroes to their mothers I was a pain in the backside. I was the one who managed to get all three emergency services to the scene after I lost a three penny piece down a grating. The same one who brought a whole school assembly to historical fits of laughter after I broke wind. The only twit to wander the streets of Blackburn with half a haircut, but these were tales from a former life, a life that my mother hoped we would leave behind when we moved to Didcot. We didn't leave them; they arrived, as we arrived on Didcot station on my eighth birthday, or to be more precise they arrived as I arrived. My father had the good sense to go ahead of us and get a job before we sought our way to our new home. He also had the good sense to be working when we landed. With no one to meet us and a small avalanche of bags mother opted for a taxi. My brother strained and dragged the baggage whilst I burst from the station to get a cab just like they did in the films. This wasn't a film this was just sleepy little Didcot, smart, clean, quiet, gentle, forgiving little Didcot. A Didcot were taxis arrived on request not in response to a loud vulgar whistle from a carrot topped little lad with a broad Lancastrian accent. A Didcot, where taxi drivers had names and didn't take kindly to the blanket name of Joe. A Didcot that also had chauffer drivers with a sense of humour, the result of which saw my mother and us two horrible little lads arriving at our tiny cottage in a chauffer driven limousine. We had barely crossed the threshold of Didcot, when my mother was dubbed Lady Florence; she wore the resigned look of one who knew that the pantomime had followed her. I was not a hero that day, nor was I to be a hero for many months to come. I wandered the nether regions somewhere between villain and lunatic, neither of these extremes where to give my mother any real hopes of sanity. In desperation she packed my brother and I off to join the scouts. This proved to be a worse mistake than leaving bad situation alone. Our scout master was a bigger nutcase than I could ever hope to be, and the assistant scout master was even more eccentric. Following a blissful period of madcap and somewhat nefarious activities, I discovered that I was a natural boy scout. Here was an organization that didn't know the meaning of “can't” and was actually interested in the daft things that a potential hero could do. The scout master was a bee keeper and from that day to this I've not met a bee keeper who isn't barmy. Most scout meetings finished with a whole bunch of lads clamoring round several bee hives or simply just talking to the bees. The assistant scout master kept pigs, so on the nights that we missed the bees we finished up talking to the pigs. My mother spent the major part of those months moaning about the amount of mud that could accumulate on two long gangly lads and the extremes of smells that followed us like a shadow. My brother and I spent the major part of those months developing an immunity to pig poo and bee stings; our mother developed immunity to us. The only real leftovers from our childhood in Lancashire came in the form of a ginger tom cat and an uncanny ability to play cricket on any surface in any weather. One I loved to distraction, the other was diametrically the opposite. To make a quirky situation even more quirky the cat didn't like me either, and it made a point of telling every one that it met. We had the only cat in the world that would actually cock its leg to widdle. We had the only cat that would actually seek out its enemy to widdle on him. What was really irritating was that the cat could hold a full blown conversation. It would start each sentence with a meow and end the same way but in between there was a garbled growling that all the old ladies who visited our cottage knew to be speech. All the old ladies just happened to be cat lovers, which exasperated an already fragile peace betwixt one ginger haired boy and one ginger haired cat. As the situation became more fraught so I quite literally wore more battle scars and the cat quite literally wore my boot. One occasion saw me for once actually sitting down and the cat, who had taken exception to my ginger curls, scrambling up the back of the sofa and diving on my head and drawing blood with its claws. My brother was just that little bit too late to stop the attack but he made up for it by drowning the cat with a bucket of water. My mother, my cat adoring mother, my cat can't do anything wrong mother, arrived to a scene of blood pouring from cuts in my head, a soaking wet sofa, a soaking wet son and a cat that was half the size it normally appeared to be. Her reaction was to scoop up the cat in a frantic cosseting and holler all manner of accusations at the two villains of the plot. My dad, who cherished a rare moment of quiet for a spot of sleep on the bed, hated the cat as much as we did. The result was that we spent the rest of the day divided into two camps, mum and cat on one side, dad, boys and fish and chips for tea on the other. In the end I didn't even mind the soaking, the fact that we had inflicted a memorable blow on our adversary was victory enough. The cat's fall from grace was directly as a result of my heroism so in one respect at least he was to be useful. Being what could only be described as hard as nails my brother and I were principle members of the wide game squad that our beloved scoutmaster promoted. We were undisputed captains in his army, the hard men of his front line. Resplendent in red hair, standing just under six foot tall and having a near ape like ability in the trees, we were usually the first to be volunteered for the fray, a position that we loved. Our illustrious leader would seek out opportunities to pit one troop against another in what was to be friendly rivalry. A friendly rivalry that had broken noses and black eyes, torn shirts were almost the order of the day if not actually just expected. Our troop had a bugle boy, and you are no one until you have a bugle boy. The sheer noise and action was fantastic. By far the most surprising thing was that the neighbours actually encouraged us. They claimed that we were just getting our spurs and letting off steam. As a result the bugle was loud the running through fields and scrambling through the trees alike were observed and the winners were hailed as heroes, but that was not how I became a hero to my mum. It was as a result of wide game, but not in the front line, in fact not even in the rear line more the day after the wide game. It had been a very tough day at school, and my mother was by then several months pregnant with my sister. My brother and I had to cook our own tea since mum couldn't get near the stove without being ill, the last time she had morning sickness was after I was born. My dad was still at work in the time between school and scouts so we invented our own cooking. We were fully primed for the game when the time came round. The night was dark and cold just before spring. The moon was casting the perfect shadows for ghostly impersonations and we were the best. We actually wore a jumper with the words the best written on them, and we meant it, we had not learnt humility at this point but that was only a few hours away. The game plan was set the rules or lack of them was pronounced and the bugle called. For an hour our troop rampaged through the lesser ranks and stole battle honours like sweets from a child, the whole countryside was ours. Or so we thought. Like leviathans, our opposite numbers from another troop dwarfed our puny efforts and despite some valiant efforts from my elder brother we suffered our first severe thumping. Admitted the boys who opposed us were senior scouts but that cut no ice with the powers that be, we were big enough for the weaklings, we had to be able to withstand the strong and we failed. I was chased about a mile before my tag was ripped from my arm and my humiliation made complete by suffering a good hiding to boot. Eventually I dragged myself to the beehives and sat in the midst of them knowing that they would at least deter my predators. They weren't to know that they were closed down for the night. At first I sat and cried, and then I sat and talked to the bees. Then I lay down on the straw and talked to the bees, their gentle hum and patient disposition lulled me to sleep and it was some time before I surfaced, bloodied but restored. On the way home I trod on something that for once didn't squelch or slide or stink. In a country district most things you tread on in the dead of night usually come from the rear end of any variety of farmyard animals so it was a surprise when this sensation didn't offer any slither or smell. When I picked up the none farmyard debris I found it was a frog. More to the point it was two frogs, one on top of the other. My then knowledge of the birds and bees was about as keen as King Herod's knowledge of baby sitting. As far as I was concerned I had discovered phenomena, a double frog. This deserved closer inspection, a closer inspection that could only take place in the font of all life, our shed. I put the frog in my coat pocket and made for home. Home was normally a quiet little lane but on this night it was flood lit there were police everywhere, an ambulance stood outside our house and an ominous air pervaded the night. When I opened the door my mother actually screamed. A ten foot tall policeman saved my mother from asking the question by barking “Where the bloody hell have you been?” My dad who was working nights and had just been dragged from his job joined the chorus “Where the bloody hell have you been?” The policeman used several phrases that would be banned in today's vocabulary the gist of which concerned the amount of folk who had been looking for me. My dad used several phrases that would be banned in today's vocabulary the gist of which meant I was about to get a good hiding for loosing some of his pay packet. My brother used several phrases that would be banned in today's vocabulary the gist of which meant get to bed I'll hold them off. I draped my coat over the stair post and broke the record for bottom of stairs to fast asleep. The next morning I woke quietly; I actually washed without a whole tirade of instructions. I was about to sneak out of the house safe in the knowledge that my mother would still be in bed fighting the morning sickness when for a second time in my life I heard my mother scream. It was a truly frantic scream the sort that actually called for help and was not the herald of the wrath that I had expected. It came, not from the bedroom but from the kitchen. My brother, who could sleep for England, was the normal one to respond to such emergencies but I was up and my call had definitely come. I raced to the kitchen to find my mother braced back against the wall, and the cat braced back against her. Their enemy took the form of one of the frogs that had managed to get out of my coat. From its rear end oozed a trail of what turned out to be toad spawn, it dragged itself forward raising its legs as if climbing a gate each time that it moved. My mother was horrified. Born and bred in the confines of Blackburn she was still petrified of cows let alone slimy toads. The cat had no excuse, this was his battlefield, and this should have been his moment of glory. There must have been millions of cats in this country and we had to have the one that was toad phobic. It pressed back into the confines of my mother's legs and joined in the screaming with her. Up to now it had enjoyed the gentle forgiving telling off from my mother when yet again it brought in a trophy bird or mouse. Often it would leave them alive just in order to show mother his prowess has he killed it in front of her. This was his bete noir; this was his foisting on his own petard. Knowing his history and of course my own part in the fiasco I made every effort to imply that the cat was the sole perpetrator of this crime. That yet again he had dragged some innocent trophy to its supposed ritual killing but this time the worm or in this case the toad had turned. My mother was desperate. She appealed to my courage, to my vanity, to my duty. To any one of my newly applied statuses that would get me to move the beast. I did eventually collect the toad but not until I had made a great show of all the new found masculinity that had been afforded me. I even pretended to put it in my pocket without revealing that this was the place from which it had come. I made a great show of the jelly like goo that was already on my coat I managed to display it in such a way that the mess appeared to have been caused by my putting it in rather than it getting out. All this whilst at the same time I franticly searched for the other toad. I crept past my mother and eased my way to the door whilst she pressed her way around the room with her back firmly against the wall and the cat firmly against her legs. As I ducked out of the door I heard what I assume was a sigh of relief from both my mother and the cat. I never did find the other toad, but I did find a reformed mother. A mother that could smile and pour out my cornflakes. One that actually knew where the teapot was. One that looked with disdain on her former ally whilst transferring her erstwhile affections on me. This was all very well on paper but I spent the rest of the day waiting for the bubble to burst. My brother was as shocked as I, when my mother, still with adoring gaze, related the whole episode to my father emphasizing my heroism. The manic events of the evening before had been lost in a maelstrom of admiration. My fortunes had turned on a sixpence, but it was uncomfortable. The cat was not immune to his decline either. He lay by the fire, silent, without the usual menacing stare that would follow me around the room. It even tried to make friends with me but my juvenile triumph had swollen beyond reasoning. When my sister finally appeared two weeks later and a little over two weeks late, the cat packed his bags and moved in with Mrs. Wonson our ancient neighbour. Along with my risen status in life came a decline in my aggression, my brother was seriously worried. I daren't tell him about the good hiding that I had received at the hands of the other troop that night; his protection knew no bounds when it came to looking after each other. In this knowledge the other troop kept silent about my beating as well so I didn't suffer the usual jeering that followed a whipping. It did serve to make me aware of the terror that I inflicted on others in my misuse of my strength as the school report pointed out at one stage. Sanity was restored in the form of the usual insanity when at last the cricket season started. We were forced to wait through a really wet spring before the first game could get under way. Any fears about my lack of aggression were dispelled when with a fire I didn't know I possessed I took six wickets for a loss of only twenty runs. This at very young age. I can't say that I remained a hero, but I can say that I stopped bullying. Impressing my mother had become a very low priority, I now had a sister and they are very much harder to convince.
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