Billy

Hand-Shaped Bruise

by Enormous on February 8, 2008

‘Why aren’t you at school, Billy?’

I met the cheerful little youngster on the recreation ground this morning. He was on his knees trying to feed chewing gum to Audrey. ‘I don’t think dogs like gum, Billy,’ I told him. I asked again, ‘Why aren’t you at school?’ He ignored me a second time and increased his efforts to get Audrey to accept the sticky substance she was being offered. I persisted in trying to get an answer from him. It wasn’t easy, nor did I succeed entirely. ‘Is the school on holiday today?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Why aren’t you there?’

‘Don’t know.’

To my horror, I noticed that the boy had bruises all over his little arms and what looked like a very recent one around his left eye. I feared the worst.

I despair for the vulnerable and innocent little 8-year-old, I really do. What future is there for him? After a few more years of having to suffer abuse from his parents, the only thing he has to look forward to is becoming a junior member of one of the local gangs of miscreants and abberants, and then on to a spell in prison and the eventual physical abuse of his own children.

Back at the house, a precarious thought struck me as I was emptying my bowels. (I have my most inspiring notions and ideas when I am performing this function.) What popped into my mind was this: Perhaps I can help the child.

But what could I do? Should I contact Social Services? I fear I could only make things worse for him. I toyed with the idea of marching around to his home and confronting his mother and father on their doorstep – but what if I am wrong?

‘I’ll save him,’ I said to Audrey who was watching me from her vantage point beneath the mixing desk in the studio.

But, inevitably, I came to my senses. I felt pathetic and useless. Fastening my trousers, I flushed the toilet – an action which I feel expressed my ridiculous intentions quite eloquently.

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Climbing Trousers

by Enormous on February 3, 2008

‘Billy, come down from there!’ his mother chided him in agonised entreaty. ‘Those are your best trousers!’

‘No they’re not,’ shouted the little boy. He scrambled even higher up the wall. ‘These are my climbing trousers.’

Hearing the querulous squeals of little Billy on the rec’ this morning and watching this anxious woman wringing her hands in maternal dismay reminded me of similar happy altercations with my own mother all those years ago. And when the scruffy youngster made reference to his ‘climbing trousers’, I was immediately transported back to my childhood.

I, too, was provided with a pair of climbing trousers: robust apparel intended specifically for rough and lively play. I loved them. I cannot say the same about my Sunday trousers, however. I hated those – smart and grey and always at risk of becoming accidentally damaged thus resulting in me receiving a clip around the ear from my cruel father.

The ones I hated the most, though, were the trousers that belonged to my school uniform. Urgh. It makes me shudder now in disgust just to think of them: Navy blue, too short, too loose and always at risk of falling down around my ankles at grossly inappropriate moments. They never actually did, but the very fact that they had the dangerous potential to do so made my time at St Edmund’s Junior School much less than the cheerful experience it might otherwise have been.

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While the Westerlies Sigh

by Enormous on January 26, 2008

High winds here in England.

I have just been struggling with Audrey on the recreation ground, holding on to her lead for dear life and trying with all my might to prevent her from becoming airborne.

One of her friends, a little boy named Billy, had to use all his strength to make it over to us, battling against the powerful onslaught of a force ten gale. Breathless, he asked, ‘Can I fly Audrey next?’

‘You ought to get inside,’ I warned him, ‘it’s not safe!’

‘Pardon!?’ he yelled in his little voice.

‘Go home!’ I shouted, but in an instant he was gone, snatched from my presence by the monster gale.

On our return to the house, Audrey and I looked as if we had been held hostage for 90 days in an industrial-sized wind tunnel. ‘It’s a good job the hair police can’t see us, Audrey,’ I told her, ‘or they would arrest us for crimes against fashion.’

‘Indeed – but if it were the eighties, we’d win an award,’ she barked, ironically.

After we’d settled down with a big mug of Earl Grey and a hot buttered crumpet each, I smiled at her and ventured, ‘We do alright, don’t we, kid?’

‘Yes father, we do,’ she said with her eyes, just before we both dozed off.

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