So then they would try and catch him out.
Ask questions about Shakespeare. About proper books.
***
Although a stevedore (Mum preferred that to ‘docker’)
And landlubbered all his married life
He’d have passed four-square on seamanship.
Because he’d been to sea himself when young
And would often talk, with some regret,
Of how he’d nearly jumped ship in Fremantle.
He loved the solitude of the bush. Its stillness,
And the sky a blueprint for eternity.
‘And the names of the places. Now that’s poetry!’
I picture ourselves in the outback
The nearest library five hundred miles away
Him, married to a girl from Manjimup
Me, trying to make sense of alphabet soup.
The Railings
You came to watch me playing cricket once.
Quite a few of the fathers did.
At ease, outside the pavilion
they would while away a Saturday afternoon.
Joke with the masters, urge on
their flannelled offspring. But not you.
Fielding deep near the boundary
I saw you through the railings.
You were embarrassed when I waved
and moved out of sight down the road.
When it was my turn to bowl though
I knew you’d still be watching.
Third ball, a wicket, and three more followed.
When we came in at the end of the innings
the other dads applauded and joined us for tea.
Of course, you had gone by then. Later,
you said you’d found yourself there by accident.
Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.
***
Speech-days • Prize-givings • School-plays
The Twentyfirst • The Wedding • The Christening
You would find yourself there by accident.
Just passing. Spotted me through the railings.
Squaring Up
When I was thirteen and crimping my first quiff
Dad bought me a pair of boxing-gloves
In the hope that I would aspire to the Noble Art.
But I knew my limitations from the start:
Myopia, cowardice and the will to come second.
But I feigned enthusiasm for his sake.
Straight after tea, every night for a week
We would go a few rounds in the yard.
Sleeves rolled up, collarless and gloveless
He would bob and weave and leave me helpless.
Uppercuts would tap me on the chin
Left hooks muss my hair, haymakers tickle my ear.
Without glasses, only one thing was clear:
The fact that I was hopeless. He had a son
Who couldn’t square up. So we came to blows.
Losing patience, he caught me on the nose.
I bled obligingly. A sop. A sacrifice.
Mum threw in the towel and I quit the ring.
But when the bell goes each birthday I still feel the sting
Not of pain, but of regret. You said sorry
And you were. I didn’t. And I wasn’t.
‘What does your father do?’
At university, how that artful question embarrassed me.
In the common-room, coffee cup balancing on cavalry twills
Some bright spark (usually Sociology) would want an answer.
Shame on me, as feigning lofty disinterest, I would hesitate.
Should I mumble ‘docker’ in the hope of being misheard?
(‘There he goes, a doctor’s son, and every inch the medical man.’)
Or should I pick up the hook and throw it down like a gauntlet?
‘Docker. My dad’s a docker.’ A whistle of corduroy.
How about? ‘He’s a stevedore, from the Spanish “estibador”
Meaning a packer, or loader, as in ship.’ No, sounds too
On the Waterfront, and Dad was no Marlon Brando.
Besides, it’s the handle they want not the etymology.
‘He’s a foreman on the docks.’ A hint of status? Possibly.
A touch of class? Hardly. Better go with the straightforward:
‘He works on the docks in Liverpool,’ which leaves it open.
Crane-driver? Customs and Excise Officer? Canteen manager?
Clerk? Chairman of the Mersey Docks and Harbour Board?
In dreams, I hear him naming the docks he knew and loved.
A mantra of gentle reproach: Gladstone, Hornby, Alexandra,
Langton, Brocklebank, Canada, Huskisson, Sandon, Wellington,
Bramley Moor, Nelson, Salisbury, Trafalgar, Victoria.
Having My Ears Boxed
I am waiting in the corridor
To have my ears boxed.
I am nervous, for Mr O’Hanlon
For the last twenty minutes
I have let my imagination
Run away with itself.
But I am too scared to follow.
Will he use that Swiss Army knife
To slice through cleanly? Bite them off?
Tear carefully along perforated lines?
Tug sharply like loose Elastoplasts?
Acknowledging the crowd’s roar
Will he hold my head aloft
As if it were the FA Cup
And pull the handles? Aagghhrr…
And then the box. Cardboard?
Old cigar-box possibly? Or a pair?
Separate coffins of polished pine.
L and R. ‘Gone to a better place.’
Impatient now, I want to get it
Over with. Roll on four o’clock.
When, hands over where-my-ears-used-to-be
I run the gauntlet of jeering kids.
At six, mother arrives home weary
After a hard day at the breadcrumb factory.
I give her the box. She opens it
And screams something. I say:
‘Pardon?’
Another Brick in the Wall
‘Its like bashing your head against a brick wall,’
said Brother Ryan,
bashing my head against a brick wall.
Sacrifices
I was forever hearing about the sacrifices
My parents made.
Little ones almost daily
Big ones when required.
Having me meant sacrifices. Going without.
And then to cap it all, the Scholarship:
School uniforms, violin lessons,
Elocution, extra tuition.
‘If it’s not one thing it’s another.
I hope you’re worth it.’ But was I?
The dictionary confirmed my doubts:
‘Sacrifice, a ritual killing of a person
or animal with the intention of pleasing a deity.’
Sacrifice. No, I wasn’t worth it.
All that blood for a few O-levels.
Wearing Thin
‘You’ll soon grow into it,’ she would say
When buying a school blazer three sizes too big.
And she was right as mothers usually are.
Syrup of figs. Virol. Cod liver oil.
Within a year I did grow into it
By then, of course, it was threadbare.
Pulling in different directions
My clothes and I never matched.
And in changing-rooms nothing has changed.
I can buy what I like and when
New clothes that are a perfect fit.
Full-length mirror, nervous grin,
It’s me now that’s threadbare, wearing thin.
How to Become a Sixer
Wait until Akela is out of the room
and the noise level begins to rise.
As soon as you hear returning footsteps
&nbs
p; call out in a loud, clear voice:
‘Quiet everybody. We promised to get on
with things in silence. DYB. DYB. DYB. Remember?’
By now the footsteps will have stopped
and the Pack looking to see if you are being serious.
Ignore them, and use the pause
to do something useful, like tying a knot.
Akela will then make stamping noises
and open the door. Everything is shipshape.
Acknowledge the appraising glance
but appear embarrassed, as if you wished
you could bite your tongue off.
Promotion will quickly follow. And disappointment:
Akela in a tent, unfurling his knob.
Dirty Old Bugger. DOB. DOB. DOB.
Maurice
There were no ‘gays’ in those days, only ‘funny’ men.
Enter Mrs Thomas: ‘He’s a bit effeminate
That Maurice. “Funny”, if you ask me.
Bringing his “friend” home on leave
The two of them in bed and her bringing in the tea.
His own mother not knowing. It will end in tears.
What do they call themselves nowadays?
Course, she brought it all on herself. (Queers!
That’s it.) Spoiled from the word go.
Too nesh to play out in the street.
The other boys were rough, and Ho! Ho!
He might be led astray. Him, led astray?
Mind you, it’s none of my business
Live and let live, that’s what I say.
Although, to be honest, if I had my way
I’d put the pair of them on show in the zoo.
I mean, what do they see in each other?
I mean, what do they actually, pardon the expression, do?’
Hard Times
(i)
Each year, in early December
Grandma would oblige
by falling over
and dislocating something
In hospital, on Christmas Day
all the family would visit
Sit round the bed
and gobble up her dinner.
(ii)
To eke out extra money
during the summer holidays
my schoolfriends and I
would go nit-picking
Conditions were terrible
and the pay was poor
But there were perks:
We were allowed to keep the eggs.
(iii)
If we could have afforded a bath
We would have had the best. A fine one.
Iron. Broad as a bed, deep as the ocean.
Standing in wingèd feet, proud as a lion.
And oh, what coal we would have stored in it.
Nuggets, big as babies’ heads, still blinking
In the daylight. Black as wedding-boots,
So polished you could see your face in them.
And oh, what stories we might have told,
Seated round the hearth on winter nights
The fire crackling, the flames leaping,
Amber liquor sparkling in crystal glasses.
Unfortunately, we were too poor to know stories.
Spitting Prohibited
When I was a boy (cue Brass Band)
A notice downstairs on every bus and tram
Said: NO SMOKING, SPITTING PROHIBITED.
Then overnight, or so it seemed, things changed.
The second part was painted over
And the sign said simply: NO SMOKING.
Imagine that first morning, when passengers,
Bleary-eyed, looked up and saw,
By omission, an invitation.
Then did everybody, unrestrained,
Leap up, clear their throats and let rip?
Expectorate to their lungs’ content?
Did drip, dribble, spurt and spatter?
Hawk and croak until the windows were streaming
And the passageways awash?
Transport Committee met and unanimously agreed
That every by-law be clearly stated
And the notice then to read:
NO SMOKING. SPITTING PROHIBITED.
PLEASE REFRAIN FROM URINATING AND DEFECATING,
SOLICITING AND IMPORTUNING.
FORNICATION AND BESTIALITY FORBIDDEN.
ARSON, RAPE AND PILLAGE NOT PERMITTED.
(STRICTLY, NO BRASS BANDS.)
Ee Bah Gum
Spare a thought for your grandmother
who would sit me on her knee
(she had just the one), and tell ee
bah gum stories of days gone by.
‘Ee bah gum, it were reet tough,’
she would say, ‘workin at mill
from dawn until dusk,
and all for a measly ten shillin a week.’
The thought of clogs and cobbled streets
of matchstick men and smoking chimneys
would bring a tear to her eye,
(she had just the one), then, brightening:
‘Mind you, in those days you could buy a nice house,
end-of-terrace for sixpence,
and for a fortnight in Blackpool
you got change out of a farthing.’
Spare a thought for your grandmother
who married well and wanted lots
and lots of children (she had just the one),
and so bequeathed to me, her Lowrys.
A Fine Tooth Comb
When granny was young she was famous for her teeth.
Although, not so much for her teeth
as for the thick golden hair that covered them.
Unusual, even for those days.
But that blonde smile was her crowning glory
and last thing at night, she would gargle
with shampoo before combing her teeth,
or brushing with a pocket-sized Mason & Pearson.
They were the pride of Halifax, and many a lad
came a-calling, until Ted. Love at first sight
they were married the following year.
Then came the war and the long march into night.
As granny grew older her teeth fell out
one by one, and her hair turned grey.
And today, she has but a single tooth
set in a thin curtain of silver.
Alone now, but the nightly ritual continues
as she takes from her dressing-table drawer
‘A present to my one and only girl’
from Ted who went to war and didn’t come home.
Polished rosewood inlaid with pearl:
A fine tooth comb.
Vague Impressions
Ossie Edwards couldn’t punch a hole in a wet echo.
He was no fighter.
And if he wasn’t thicker than two short planks
he wasn’t much brighter.
To compensate, he did impressions.
Impressions of trains, impressions of planes,
of James Cagney and Donald Duck.
As they all sounded the same
his impressions made little impression
on the 3rd year Cosa Nostra
and so he was bullied mercifully.
Then, quite suddenly, Ossie saw the light.
One Monday morning during R.I.
he switched to birdcalls.
Peewits, kestrels, tomtits and kingfishers
he became them all.
Larks and nightingales.
The birdnotes burst from his throat
like a host of golden buckshot.
And as the nearest anyone got to ornithology
was playing football on a debris with a dead pigeon
there could be no argument.
So he was rechristened ‘Percy’
and left alone.
And left alone
he twittered his way happily to 3 ‘O’ levels
and a job in a shipping office.
‘Twas there he met Sylvia
whom he courted and married.
She took an interest in his hobby
and they were soon appearing in local concerts:
‘The Sylvatones – Bird Impressionists’.
The double-act ended however
when Sylvia left him for a widower
who taught her how to sing.
Her love for Perce she realised
never was the real thing,
but, like his impressions, a tuneful imitation.
And that was years ago and still
whenever I pass that way at night
and hear the shrill
yearning hoot of an owl,
I imagine Percy
perched out there in the darkness,
lonely, obsessed.
Calling for his love
to return to the nest.
George and the Dragonfly
Georgie Jennings was spit almighty.
When the golly was good
he could down a dragonfly at 30 feet
and drown a 100 midges with the fallout.
At the drop of a cap
he would outspit lads
years older and twice his size.
Freckled and rather frail
he assumed the quiet dignity
beloved of schoolboy heroes.
But though a legend in his own playtime
Georgie Jennings failed miserably in the classroom