BY FIVE O’CLOCK THE FOLLOWING day, just about every bone in my body seemed to ache. As decreed less than twenty-four hours earlier, I had served my penance, completing a full shift for Mr Joe and Zofia. Under their watchful eyes, holes aplenty had been dug, plants watered, vegetation had been moved from one greenhouse to another, and I had played the part of a willing dogsbody to near perfection. I only moaned once throughout the whole day and, even then, the Podbiereskis chose to pretend they had not heard my complaints, which ceased after a few minutes and doused the few flames that had flared from my bonfire of self-pity.
By the time the working day drew to an end, I found, rather surprisingly, that I had enjoyed my first real taste of work – not least, because the Podbiereskis had treated me kindly. I had been dreading my punishment (or “the cleansing of the slate” as Auntie Kathleen described it), but it couldn’t have been more different than the unfriendly experience I had expected. The notion I would be worked like a dog (my understanding of what manual work was all about) wasn’t lost on me; it taught me a lot about myself – particularly the way I perceived and judged so much around me.
As I said my goodbyes and made to leave the main greenhouse, Mr Joe took me to one side. When he was sure we were out of earshot of Zofia, who, I observed, worked as hard as any man I knew, he said: “I hope your punishment has not been too difficult for you? We have tried to make things as interesting as possible, albeit this is a physical job and there aren’t many corners that can be cut. But I have watched you throughout the day, and you have not shirked the jobs you have been asked to do. So, consider any debt fully repaid. We will never speak of the broken glass again, and I will also make sure to tell your aunt what a good worker you have been.”
Mr Joe fell silent. He was waiting for a response. As I remained mute – silenced by my embarrassment at being praised – I could feel him watching me. As he did so, I remained unsure of how I should respond. I really didn’t know whether a ‘thank you’ or another ‘sorry’ was appropriate. Sensing my discomfort and awkwardness, as he had throughout much of the day, Mr Joe took control of the situation: he stretched out his giant right fist – a move that caught me completely off-guard. After waiting a few seconds for me to offer my own, much smaller paw, only for it to stay firmly by my side, he asked: “Have you never shaken the hand of another man, Tony?”
It was a question I could only answer one way. “No,” I replied. “Never.”
Mr Joe simply sighed and shook his head when he heard my response. As I looked at several boxes of tomatoes I had helped to pick, I heard him utter the word “tak” yet again as he once extended his hand a second time. Without hesitation, I accepted his new invitation. I regretted it instantly, as my fingers felt like they were being crushed by the vice-like grip of this kindly man. When he saw my expression, he couldn’t contain himself; laughter – loud and carefree – punctuated the stillness of the early evening. “My goodness, I am so sorry,” he said when he saw I was suffering physical discomfort. “I hope I haven’t hurt you? I just wanted to shake your hand to say ‘thank you’ for your efforts. It’s what men do when there is mutual respect between one another. Today, you have earned my respect. You can now tell your aunt that all is well between us, and when I see her I promise I will do likewise. Hopefully, that may help you get back into her good books. Now, be on your way, have a good evening, and make sure you don’t push any more iron railings through my hedge.”
Still not used to being spoken to so openly, I mumbled a muffled “thank you” and “goodbye” before briskly walking out of the greenhouse and striding purposefully back to number thirteen. As I paced the short distance, I reflected (as much as a twelve-year-old can do) on the many things said to me by Mr Joe and Zofia throughout the last few hours, particularly the importance of having a good work ethos. My mum had often told me I was a “layabout”, and her words went largely ignored by me. But she was right.
Unusually for me, I remained quiet and reflective for much of teatime, steadfastly refusing to be seduced by Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim’s concerted attempts to get me to tell them about the day. Even that evening’s fry- up (several rashers of smoked bacon, a couple of sausages, a runny egg and a portion of chips, the height of which dominated the plate and rivalled K2) couldn’t break me down. For something about the Podbiereskis and their way of living had touched me deep within.
Teatime came and went, and so, too, did the washing up, with Uncle Jim taking command. I picked up the tea towel and ensured crockery and cutlery were returned to their allotted homes all sparkling and clean.
By six-thirty, everything was in order and my aunt and uncle had decided to settle down in front of the telly to watch that evening’s edition of Calendar on Yorkshire TV. They beckoned me to join them, indicating the settee was free. I walked over and sat down, and it was at that moment I was brutally assaulted by the foulest of unnatural smells. My eyes darted from side to side, but it was clear I was the only person to have detected the toxic smell that was about to pollute our air. I looked sideways, and there, by Uncle Jim’s feet, I found the source: Sweep was looking as proud as any dog could be after releasing an odour into the atmosphere as lethal as any nerve agent being developed by Russian, American or British military scientists.
“Oh, my goodness, what in heaven’s name is that?” shrieked Auntie Kathleen, as her senses were suddenly assaulted by the violent methane maelstrom. A look of complete bewilderment was etched on her face as she scanned the room, her eyes desperately seeking out the guilty party before settling on her over-loved and over-fed pooch, whose tail was beating the floor, the way a Zulu warrior thumps his shield on the field of battle. “You are a bad lad,” continued my aunt, once she was convinced of Sweep’s guilt. “That is disgraceful, and it’s certainly not something you do inside the house.” Looking directly at my uncle, she added: “Jim, you’ll have to take him for a walk. He must need the loo. That can be the only reason he smells so bad. So, you need to go. Right now.”
Uncle Jim, who remained immune to the overpowering strength of Sweep’s bodily contribution, looked perplexed and motioned in a way that suggested he was about to protest. But as his lips twitched, and it seemed he might say something, the smell finally reached him and he started to reel and splutter. “What the heck has he been eating?” asked my bewildered uncle in-between coughs as he quickly rose from his chair. Then talking directly to the dog, he added: “You should be holding your head in shame. That is no way to behave inside the home, so let’s get you outside and exercised. Hopefully, the walk will get rid of whatever has caused that godawful stink.”
Within moments, Uncle Jim’s jacket was on, his cap was tilted at a jaunty angle on his forehead, the dog’s collar had been clipped onto the leash, and Sweep was being dragged bodily towards the back door, from where his under-exercised legs would be subjected to an unwelcome bout of exercise. “C’mon,” said Uncle Jim encouragingly, trying his best to coax the mutt out of the house. “You only have yourself to blame. So, let’s get going, and there had better be no slipping of your chain this evening, if you don’t mind.”
The back door made a creaking noise as it was opened and closed, and soon human and canine footsteps could be heard echoing off the Avenue’s tarmac pavement. As they faded away, Auntie Kathleen clapped her hands. “Oh, I nearly died when I caught that smell in my nostrils,” she roared in my direction as she struggled to contain herself. “Wasn’t it disgusting? That animal had better not do one of those again in the near future or I’ll send him on a one-way trip to the vets. You mark my words. Now. As Uncle Jim is going to be out for the next forty minutes, how about you tell me all there is to say about today’s events with Mr Joe and Zofia.”
It wasn’t a question, more an order, and as soon as she had finished speaking, Auntie Kathleen stood up abruptly, went to the telly and switched off Richard Whitely, who was reporting on the latest developments at the Humber Bridge construction site. With the box now silent, and my aunt sitting comfortably once again in her chair, I had no option but to tell her all about my day with the Podbiereskis.
“That’s lovely,” she said after I had recounted my time with Mr Joe and Zofia to her complete satisfaction. “They are lovely people. They have been very understanding. So, I think that is all behind us. Now, what are you going to do this evening, because I doubt whether the TV news or Dad’s Army are your cup of tea?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Perhaps I will go out for a walk and see if the lads around the corner want to do something. There’s bound to be someone out there.”
An approving noise from Auntie Kathleen signalled she was happy with my suggestion, and as she settled down for the evening, she gave me a long, lingering look before saying: “Don’t you be out any longer than nine o’clock, and make sure you stay out of mischief. We need a few days of peace, so your uncle and I don’t jump out of our skins every time there is a knock at the front door.”
Although her words were said kindly, my beloved aunt was giving an implicit instruction: I would be skating on thin ice if I got into any more trouble!
The Avenue was basking in the evening sunshine as I walked up to the junction which joined seamlessly with the Lane. Unknown to me at that moment, I was again being propelled towards another act of unintentional infamy, which didn’t take long to unravel in a way I was not expecting.
Three minutes after leaving number thirteen, and having walked less than two hundred yards, I walked headlong into a fresh bout of trouble, and it all kicked off after I heard a familiar voice bellow: “Hey, Yorkie, where do you think you are going?”
I tensed and looked up. It was the voice of Paul Sidebottom, who was gesticulating animatedly in my direction in a bid to gain my attention. His brother, Ian, was standing next to him, as was Shaun Goadby. None of them looked pleased to see me as they congregated around a Silver Birch tree in the open field that ran along the far side of Inglemire Lane, all the way to the Jacksons meat processing factory. I hadn’t seen this trio since the lemonade bottle incident at Elliott’s a few days earlier. There’s an old saying that ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, however, these particular youths certainly didn’t appear to be pleased to see me as I ambled up the road.
“Got anyone into trouble recently, eh?” baited the older Sidebottom. “I can’t believe you’ve dared to show your face round here after all the grief you caused us the other day. I don’t know if you realise but, somehow, our dad found out about things, and we got a right walloping that night.”
The painful memory seemed to inflame him and Sidebottom, two years my senior, inched forward. His fists were clenched and his face wore a grim expression. After my experiences in Leicestershire, where I was regularly caught up in fights with older boys, I knew what to expect. But before he got close enough to throw his first punch, I tried placating him. “I am sorry it all went wrong,” I said, meaning every word. “I should never have talked you all into it. But I can’t do anything about what has happened. All I can do is say sorry.”
My words fell on deaf ears. Sidebottom continued to edge towards me and judging by his body language he was confident he was going to be successful in the imminent confrontation. He was buoyed by the support shown to him by his brother and neighbour, who called me names that questioned my parentage. Their words stung but strengthened my resolve, and I certainly wasn’t going to wait for him to take charge and beat me. Convinced he would soon throw the first shot, I got my blow in first, my quick righthand jab catching Paul smack in the mouth. He looked shocked and immediately stopped his advance. I could see a large dollop of doubt was now painted onto his features. Having learned that surprise is a great advantage in any fight, I followed up my first strike by landing a harder and quicker punch that caught him in exactly the same spot – smack on the mouth. He rocked back on his heels before suddenly dropping to his knees, where he stayed for several seconds staring at the ground and holding his face. His two sidekicks were caught off-guard and they quickly rallied around their fallen man. As I watched, I thought I detected the sound of Paul Sidebottom crying quietly.
“Are you okay,” asked his concerned brother. There was no response. “Speak to me, Paul,” he pleaded. “Are you alright?”
As I remained in a heightened state of alert, I found myself ready to face the flurry of punches that must surely come, not just from Paul, but possibly Ian and Shaun, too. Yet my fears proved groundless, for it soon became apparent Sidebottom was defeated. His sobs became louder replacing the over-confident growls of moments earlier, while blood started to ooze from his wounded mouth. Anxious glances between Ian and Shaun told me it was time to leave the scene.
“You’re an absolute bastard,” shouted Ian, as I walked away and he put an arm around his brother, leading him towards the family home on the other side of the Lane. “You wait. Our dad will have you for this.”
Panic gripped me as I walked briskly in the opposite direction to my adversaries, turning left into Keswick Gardens. As I ate up the yards, I tried to understand how matters had descended into violence and chaos; and why trouble seemed to stalk me? In the end, as I found myself pacing through the nearby allotments and back into the bottom of the Avenue, it dawned on me that I wasn’t to blame on this particular occasion. As soon as I had been spotted, a confrontation was always going to be the outcome. The resentment that existed over the bottle fiasco was simply too great. A clash was inevitable, it was just a matter of ‘when’ not ‘if’. While this knowledge made me feel slightly better, I also understood life would now be a lot harder while I stayed at Auntie Kathleen’s, as the locals might all want to test themselves against the kid who had downed one of their own.
As I opened the gate to the path that led to number thirteen, my heart sank. Yet another problem was about to descend on my aunt and uncle. I decided I must try and come up with a convincing explanation. Convinced I had done nothing wrong, just defend myself, I made my way into the back garden, perching on the step immediately outside the back door where I mulled over the events of the last half an hour. I had been sitting there for just a few minutes when I became aware of an almighty commotion at the front of the house. Someone was banging loudly on the front door – and, judging by the beating it was taking, I was in no doubt another complaint was about to be lodged, courtesy of Paul Sidebottom’s furious dad.
“Where is he?” demanded an angry Mr Sidebottom, when Uncle Jim eventually opened the front door. “Where is that bloody nephew of yours? If you don’t mind, I would like to have a few choice words with him.”
Caught by surprise, my uncle struggled to speak coherently. “He’s... he’s... he’s not here. Tony’s out,” he replied. “Whatever is the matter? What has he now gone and done?”
The response was immediate and savage.
“What has he done?” I heard Mr Sidebottom shout. “He’s only gone and knocked my son’s two front teeth out in a completely unprovoked attack. There is blood everywhere and a whopping great gap in his mouth. We’re not sure anything can be done to fix things. You can be sure I will be taking things further. You mark my words. I intend to make sure your nephew gets his comeuppance.”
I was taken aback at the revelation my two punches had left such severe damage. And if I was rocked, then it’s little wonder Uncle Jim was rattled by the confrontation. As he got to grips with everything, I heard him call inside to Auntie Kathleen and tell her what was being threatened. It wasn’t long before I heard her soothing voice, as she did all she could to take the level of threat down a notch.
“You can come in and wait, if you like, while Jim goes out and tries to find Tony?” she said to the aggrieved complainant. “Once he is back here, I am sure we can quickly find out what happened and get things sorted. But it is most unlike him to get into trouble of this nature.”
Mr Sidebottom rejected her offer immediately. “Your nephew is trouble,” he said. “What he has done to my son is totally unacceptable. He’s gone up to him and beaten him up. There was no provocation. Nothing. What kind of child does that?”
With his shouts drawing curious looks from neighbours, and his mood darkening, Mr Sidebottom stormed off into the night, leaving a startled Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim to close the front door and return to their chairs on either side of the fireplace. As they did, my aunt turned off the early evening delights of Arthur Lowe, John le Mesurier and Clive Dunn, so that an eerie silence descended on the sitting room. The only noise that could be heard was Joey the budgie chirping in his cage, and even his efforts were half-hearted. Eventually, he too quietened. If the cast of Dad’s Army had been silenced then you knew matters were serious at number thirteen. After a while, I heard their two voices speaking in hushed tones, but I was unable to follow what was being said. Nonetheless, I was certain my name was mud, and I feared there would now be some severe consequences.
The next five minutes passed slowly. I tried to stand and enter the house, but found I couldn’t. I feared what awaited me. Soon I had been waiting in the backyard for half an hour. Inside, the telly had still not been turned on again. Despite my own anxieties, I realised it was time to face the music. As I turned the door handle and walked into the scullery, I was confronted with a deafening silence. It was unnerving. Number thirteen was a house usually filled with happiness, not tension. I tip-toed forward, trying to discover what awaited me, dreading being confronted by my aunt and uncle, people I loved and given more than enough headaches since my arrival. It was a stark fact I hadn’t really pondered until that moment. But as the lightbulb was switched on in my head, the peace that claimed the house was shattered.
“So, Muhammad Ali has returned at last,” shouted Uncle Jim as I continued my stealthy advance. “I know you are in the scullery, Tony, so let’s not pretend you’re not in there. According to one of our neighbours, who has just beaten down our front door and threatened us with all sorts of things, you have just assaulted his son, knocking out his two front teeth in the process. Whatever the reason, that kind of behaviour is totally unacceptable. Whatever are you going to do next, Tony – rob a bank, kill someone, lead a coup? More importantly, your aunt and I would like to know when all this trouble is going to end?”
As I came into their view, I sighed and tried my best to explain what had happened – how events had unfolded and spiralled out of control very quickly. But my words counted for nought. Uncle Jim was simply not in the mood to listen to my protestations.
“By buggery, you seem to be a total, bloody liability,” he raged. “Your poor mum. Does she have to put up with all of this rubbish in Leicestershire? If she does, she’s got my utmost sympathy. You seem to be out of control. If I had my way, you’d be on the receiving end of a damn good hiding right now and we’d then be sending you back home as soon as we bloody well could. But that doesn’t appear to be what will happen. Thank your lucky stars you have got Auntie Kathleen in your corner. For some inexplicable rea- son she seems to believe there is a good reason why all this has happened tonight. In her mind, there is a plausible explanation that sheds some light on how a poor young lad had his teeth knocked out. I just hope for all our sakes, she is right.”
The exertion had an immediate impact on Uncle Jim, bringing on one of his regular coughing fits, which quickly saw him retreat to the downstairs toilet. From here, he spent the next few minutes trying to master the condition that was increasingly being controlled by his craving for Embassy No6 cigarettes. Once I was alone with Auntie Kathleen, I attempted to tell my side of the events. Before I had explained things fully, and with Uncle Jim’s cough providing a percussive background, she held up her hand. She was commanding my absolute silence.
“Enough. Enough. Enough,” she said. “I think it would be a good idea if you went and visited your Auntie Maureen. She’s on her own tonight, as Uncle Archie is working a night shift. Baby Emma will now be in bed, and I promised you would pop over the road and spend some time with her. To be honest, a bit of space between you and your Uncle Jim might be a good thing right now, for he needs to calm down. And he won’t do if you are in the front room all evening. So, can I trust you to walk across the street and spend the night with your aunt without getting into any more scrapes? We can talk about the fight tomorrow, or some other time, ideally when we’ve all regained our senses and calmed down.”
Auntie Kathleen’s suggestion was met with my utmost approval. After quickly washing my hands (Paul Sidebottom’s teeth had left a gash in my right knuckle), I bounded out of the back door and raced over to number sixteen. I rang the doorbell, waited the obligatory three seconds before trying the handle, and, finding the door open, made my way into the house of Campbell, where I found Auntie Maureen soundly asleep, snoring gently on the settee. Mac the dog was curled up at her feet, and his brown eyes sparkled when he saw me.
“Good grief,” exclaimed a surprised Auntie Maureen, as she awoke from her slumber to find I had invaded her sitting room. “I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw you, Tony. I was just dozing after putting Emma up to bed. I hope you haven’t been standing there too long?”
It was a rhetorical question that didn’t need a reply. As I made myself comfortable on a chair next to Mac, my aunt stretched her arms and rubbed her eyes, which returned her to a full state of high alert. Soon the woes of the evening were forgotten as we became involved in an animated conversation about the events that had led up to my clash with Paul Sidebottom.
“You did what?” she said incredulously, her voice laced with disbelief when I told her how I had given him a good hiding. “I can’t believe you knocked out his teeth.”
Auntie Maureen was a rebel and a fighter. She always had been – and her auburn hair was an accurate indicator of her temperament. But despite her strong character, at that precise moment, she genuinely looked shocked by my news. “Isn’t he a lot older than you?” she asked after coming to terms with my revelation. “And you say he was going to hit you, so you made sure you got in your shot first. Is that right?”
I nodded, the motion answering both questions in an instant.
“I see,” she continued. “And his dad was really mad, was he, threatening to throw the kitchen sink at you, Auntie Kathleen and Uncle Jim?”
Again, no words were necessary. My curt nod was all that was required.
“Well, good on you, Tony,” exclaimed my aunt as she tried to stop herself from laughing. “I should really be telling you off, but I can’t see what you did that was so wrong. This lad was going to hit you. The only reason his dad is brassed off is that you got your punches in first, and it’s very embarrassing for a fourteen-year-old to be bashed up by someone who’s a couple of years younger. You have nothing to be worried about, or ashamed of. I am sure Auntie Kathleen realises this, even if she didn’t say so. And Uncle Jim will most certainly come round. He’s just not used to such excitement. You wait until I tell your Uncle Archie. He’ll be as pleased as, er... punch.”
With that, we both descended into howls of laughter. Normality had returned to Brockenhurst Avenue.
When she had composed herself, Auntie Maureen emphasised she was not condoning violence in any shape or form. But her subtle East Yorkshire voice added: “Never start anything, Tony. Just bloody well make sure you are the one who finishes things off. Your mum and I were taught that at an early age. And never apologise to anyone who tries to tell you you’ve done the wrong thing. You haven’t. If people don’t want to get hurt, they shouldn’t pick on you. Plain and simple.”
By the time nine o’clock came around, the traumas of earlier had started to subside. Auntie Maureen had been her usual positive self from the moment I walked into her home, and her encouragement had succeeded in putting a smile back on my face.
“Do you fancy staying here and watching some telly?” she asked as the Hai Karate aftershave advert we were both watching came to a dramatic conclusion. “I think The Professionals is on the box in a moment, and I have got a freshly made chocolate cake in the fridge. As a treat, I’ll get you a slice and we can both settle down and see what excitement awaits Bodie and Doyle this week. You never know, you might even learn how to hit someone without doing them serious damage! And don’t worry, I will call Auntie Kathleen and tell her you’re staying here for a bit longer.”
The comment provoked yet more laughter from us both, albeit my own conscience wouldn't allow me to chuckle as fulsomely as Auntie Maureen.
Although I had only been alive for a few short years, I had been taught from an early age that a slab of cake and a good, pulse-racing TV programme had far-reaching restorative powers. And that evening, the case was proven beyond doubt. So much so, when it was time for me to return to number thirteen, two and a half hours had passed by in the blink of an eye – and my jaw ached after it had been overworked in the extreme.