Issue No. 11: HAND TO MOUTH

Stephen Starkie and Fred Collins were both bright kids. Stephen was from a middle class household, Fred was from a Council house.

Stephen was marked down as 'different' or 'apart' from the rest of us in a number of respects. We had no uniform in our school, but Stephen's parents insisted on dressing him in polished brogues, nice thick, good quality socks, pressed short trousers, ironed shirts, knotted ties and a black overcoat. Atop this, though, was his trademark, a bright red school cap. The cap apart, it's fair to say that the other kids from middle class homes, as you would expect, were better turned out than the rest of us. Fred Collins, like most of the working class kids, wore generally clean clothes, although not as neat, pressed or co-ordinated as his better off school chums.

The main difference between Stephen and Fred was that Fred was popular but Stephen was not. Stephen's disposition was argumentative and sullen; Fred's was optimistic and cheeky. They became rivals but didn't fight much physically, relying mostly on insults. Stephen was far superior at this game and was always quicker by seconds to land the verbal blows, outwitting, outthinking and outpunching Fred. Whenever I now picture Stephen, it is seeing his face set in a bad-tempered frown, his brows crossly knitted together and his mouth open, ready to spit out some insult. If this had been a long-running boxing match, Fred would have been losing heavily on points and desperate for a lucky knock out punch.

The Ragman's Horse

This arrived one day as we were going home for dinner - in the unlikely form of the ragman's horse. I won't bore you with details of the ragman (or rag & bone man), let's just say that he was a local 'Steptoe' and collected junk as he toured the estate's streets, loudly announcing his presence. Stephen and Fred had been trading insults all morning and, as usual, Stephen was in the ascendancy. The argument continued on through the school gates and out into Park Avenue. Stephen was unstoppable, Fred was in retreat. Then Fred, no doubt driven to the point of desperation, espied the ragman's horse, or rather what it had left behind. In one movement he had (we didn't know how he could!) scooped up a clump of horse dung, spun round and flung it at Stephen. As luck would have it, Stephen was opening his mouth for another tirade and the dung found a hole in one. He choked, spat and then poked out bits of the turd with his fingers. That one act turned the tables irrevocably. Stephen would, forever onwards, be known as 'Gobshite Starkie'.

Mad Alfie

Alfie Agnew was the oddest and most frightening boy I ever met (you have encountered him already in Issue No. 11 in the Burmese jungle).

He looked exactly like a fair-headed 'Dennis the Menace', with his staring eyes, shock of straw-coloured hair and air of single-minded yet warped determination. He wasn't really evil, just plain crackers. He did really bad things because he couldn't help himself. Unfortunately, it appeared that his Mam, Dad and younger sister were equally barmy. All four of them were marked by wild, staring eyes, which were surrounded by deep, dark rings of - what? Sadness? Despair? Hopelessness? Madness?

Alfie was a natural loner, but nevertheless his strangeness acted as a magnet on the other kids, who were drawn to witness his insane acts. I was in his back garden one day. He said that he didn't want to go to school anymore. I said that they would make him and he would have to go, or his parents would be put in prison. (Why I would venture this opinion, aged 8 or 9, is a mystery). He asked if there was a way of not going to school which would avoid this (I'm paraphrasing here). I said only if he was very sick. Thereupon, he knelt down, looked around and then picked up a half brick. Gripping it tightly, he suddenly brought it down full force on the back of his other hand - again and again. He didn't cry out as he mangled his bloody hand, he just looked up, grinned the theatrically wicked Dennis grin, and said 'That'll do it!"

After just two years the Agnews moved away. Neighbours said that they had done a 'moonlight flit', moved home in the middle of the night owing the rent. I never saw Alfie again.

However, there was one good thing that came out of my brief encounter with Alfie and his kin folk. Mam rescued our second cat, Tinker, from them, as the family were cheerfully engaged in the collective act of drowning him and all of his sibling kittens.