Magic Granddad  ~ Part 1

On the 11^th June 1986, one month before their eighth birthday, their happy family was torn apart by angry words.   Mum and Dad argued and Dad left in the middle of the night.   The twins were upset, they lay awake listening to mum crying, unable to do anything about it.   Next morning she told them their father would be working away from home for a while, so they would be going to stay with her father, their grandfather.

“When?” they asked.

“At the weekend,” She said.  “Granddad Steve lives in Felton where I lived when I was your age.”

They soon discovered that this would mean changing school.   They were sad about leaving their friends, and their teacher, Mrs Brown. 

“Cheer up,” said Mrs Brown, “You’ll soon have lots of new friends, and a new teacher who you will like as much as you like me, maybe more.”

All their furniture and toys were loaded into a removal van.   The driver said it was called a Luton, but he didn’t know why.   Most of their things were to be stored, but they were each allowed to take a favourite toy with them.   Tina took a beautiful blonde vinyl doll she called ‘Linda blue eyes’ and a small case containing Linda’s changes of clothing.   Jack took a large paint box, pencils, and a drawing pad.

Clutching their treasures they boarded the 127b bus bound for the station.   Jack looked back feeling a little sad, but excitement soon overcame that.   They were, after all, at the start of an adventure.

.-…-.

They left the train at Felton Central Station.   The ticket collector asked for their tickets.   Mum and Jack handed theirs over.

 “I want to keep mine, as a souvenir,” said Tina.

“Don’t be a silly,” said mum “you have to give up your ticket if you want to leave the station.”

The ticket collector smiled, “I always keep a large bag of sweets for passengers who don’t want to part with their tickets; do you object to being bribed?”

Tina soon brightened up and handed over her ticket.   Jack watched with envy, but was soon smiling when the collector offered him one too.

Outside the station, taxis, and cars were parked in neat rows.   There were many different makes and models.  

An elderly grey haired man standing beside an old black car, smiled at them.

“E-S-C-O-R-T,” Jack spelled the name of his car out loud.

“Hi Dad,” mum said, giving the man a hug and a peck on the cheek.

“This is your granddad Steve,” she told them “and, these are your grandchildren Jack and Tina.”

He sat on his heels to be at their level, and put out his arms to welcome them.   The twins looked at him doubtfully.   They had seen his picture in mum and dad’s wedding album, but he didn’t look very much like that now, he was older and crinkled.

When he saw their uncertainty he stood up and opened the back door of his car for them.   They wrinkled their noses in disgust.

“You smoke!”   They said accusingly.

“I also eat, drink and breath,” he said defensively, “but there’s not much I can do about that is there?”

“Dad they’re only children,” said mum.

“And I’m only a Granddad!” he said, with his lower lip a quiver, Tina managed an tentative smile.

“Come along with you, into the car before you catch your death!” he said with a chuckle.   “If you want, you can open the windows to let out the smell of tobacco, and I’ll promise only to smoke my pipe outside in future, will that be OK with you little miss perfect?” he asked.  

Tina considered this gravely, she nodded and, got into the car.   Jack was already seated and unwrapping his sweet.

“Aah!   They eat sweets!” granddad gasped, in horror, they all laughed.

Mum got into the passenger seat beside him.  

“Buckle up everyone,” she called over her shoulder.

“Clink, Click, every trip!” they replied.

.-…-.

“Off we go to 47 Bern Street,” said granddad Steve.    “I have your mum’s favourites for tea; blackcurrant jam and crusty white rolls from Arthur’s bakery in the high street.   We also have ice cream sundaes – banana splits or knickerbocker glory’s for afters,” he announced with enthusiasm.   The twins pulled faces and looked at mum, as if to say, what is he talking about?   Mum smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

“It’s a bit early for tea dad, shouldn’t we have lunch first?”

“Now I wondered if you would ask me that, or just let me surprise you.   I thought maybe we could drop into McDonnigals for cheese burgers, chips and Frostie Cola?   But, that’s only if you two approve, I really wouldn’t want to upset your diets or anything…”

“No, I don’t think they would be very keen on that dad,”  Mum answered, playing along with him.

“Yes, we would!   We would, don’t listen to her granddad, we love burgers!”   They yelled in defence.

“OK…”   said mum, “but only if you promise to try granddad's tea tonight!”

“Were they really your favourites mum?” asked Tina curiously.

“Still are,” she replied a broad smile on her face.   “But, if I’m not mistaken we will all be expected to help prepare the meal.   At least, that’s how it used to be when I was your age.”

“Come on let’s get some burgers before they sell out,” said granddad Steve, pulling into McDonnigals car park.   “Save some for me!” he yelled through the car window.

Mum smiled and shook her head.

‘It’s so nice to see mum smiling again’ Tina thought, warming to her new granddad.

.-...-.

“Its five o’clock granddad,” said Tina tugging at his sleeve “its tea time,” she added smiling sweetly.

“Why so it is,” he replied, shaking his watch.   “Would you like to give me a hand?”

“Oh yes please,” she said.

“Nah, that’s girls stuff,” Jack scoffed.

“Do I look like a girl?” Steve asked stroking his whiskers noisily.   “Come on, and I’ll let you cut the rolls young man, Tina can butter, and mum can spoon on the jam.”

“Mum doesn’t let us play with knives,” said Jack. 

“Girls stuff is it?” Steve asked.

“No-ho!” Jack laughed.

“Your not playing with them your using them as tools, there is a difference.   You stand the roll on end like this, and saw through it carefully like this,” he demonstrated, then handed Jack the bread knife.

“This is the butter knife,” he said placing it in Tina’s hand.

Tina looked to mum for guidance before taking it.   Mum nodded.

“This is the jam spoon he announced; do you think we can trust your mum with it?”

“No!” they yelled with enthusiasm, but he handed the spoon to her anyway.

“Let’s start with two rolls each, now I bought a dozen, so that makes; well I hope you’re better at sums than I am…”

.-…-.

“Can I have another roll please?” asked Jack.

“That will make four, are you sure you’re saving enough room to fit in the ice cream?” Jack nodded, grinning ear to ear.

“Tina, while Jack is eating, maybe you would like to help me rustle us up some ice cream sodas to wash down the rolls?”

“That would be nice,” she said.

“Perhaps then Jack would like to help make the Sundae’s when he’s finished?”

“Don’t you mean Saturdays?” Jack chipped in, with a wink at mum.

“Ignore him granddad Steve, he thinks that’s funny,” said Tina.

Steve half filled four tall glasses with Frostie Cola, then carefully floated a scoop of, vanilla, ice cream on top of each.   It bubbled and frothed, until it completely filled the glass with coffee coloured foam.   Taking a long spoon, he stirred and mashed the mixture, smoothing the ice cream onto the inside walls of the glasses.   Then slowly he drank some of his Cola through the cream, as mum passed a glass each to Jack and Tina, taking the fourth herself.

“Ahhh magnificent!” she exclaimed placing her empty, foam rimmed, glass on the table.

“Finished already - piggy?” asked Jack, rushing to catch up.  

For minutes nobody spoke.   They just sat and watched Steve carefully slit a banana lengthways placing the two halves side by side, on a long narrow dish, with their tips turned in and touching.    He then placed a cherry in the centre, and then opened up an extra large tin of mixed fruit.   He filled the space either side of the cherry with fruit, pouring some of the juice over the banana.   Next, two extra large scoops of ice cream were placed on the ends of the banana’s, without pause, he proceeded to squirt squiggles of raspberry sauce on the top.   Finally he shook sweet coloured sprinkles all over his creation with a flourish.    “Voilla!”  He exclaimed placing it before mum; who was opening a packet of wafers.  “Now it’s your turn Jack,” he said, producing another dish.    Soon a second creation, stood beside the first.

Steve then took a tall wide mouthed glass, and placed two inches of mixed fruit at the bottom, adding a large scoop of ice cream, another layer of fruit, crushed nuts, ice cream, raspberry sauce, sprinkles, and a cherry on the top.   He watched as Jack produced a second, and then asked everyone to choose.

When they had all eaten their fill they just sat in silence, for ages.

“I really do think that was the best ice cream I’ve ever had,” Jack pronounced rubbing his belly ever so gently.

“Would anyone like to help with the washing up?” asked Steve hopefully.

There was no reply.

 “You look tired my loves, the beds won’t arrive until tomorrow at the earliest, so tonight will be an adventure, like camping out?    You will have to use granddad’s old sleeping bags, the same ones we used when I was a girl.”

“Camping, YES!” cried Jack, heading for the stairs.

“What about a kiss for granddad and me?” mum asked.

Tina ran to him and threw her arms about his neck “Goodnight my very best granddad, thank you for a wonderful day.”

“Goodnight Jack,” he said with a wink.   “See you in the morning.”

Jack smiled thinly following mum and Tina up the stairs.

“I’ll give you a hand as soon as these two are tucked up,” said Karen.

Steve began to load the dirty dishes into soapy water.   He had a far off look on his face and a wry little smile on his lips.   He was deep in thought, it was good not to be alone, and he was thinking about what they could get up to tomorrow.   Suddenly his face lit up, he had an idea…

To be continued/...

Adult Literacy  ~  2013

   I had an idea to create stories to be read by an adult with a young person.  These stories are all set in earlier years, so that the adult could relate his/her experiences of that period and explain about things that no longer exist - such as phone cards, film camera's, I love Lucy, and Jodrell Bank Observatory etc.   The adult gets valuable reading experience, and interaction through various activities, whilst the young person gets a history lesson, and a chance to share in new activities with the adult.

 The stories I've written so far are:

The Waxwell Rd Mob, Foxy Burns Bully Bullock,  Hikkaba,  Spark'l, and Magic Granddad. 

I haven't yet posted the last two Novella's, I'll do them next.

Nobody thought my good idea was a viable money spinner.   So, if anybody wants to try the experiment for themselves, feel free...

Len

The Artist’s Model

He knocked on the door.   He was the art dealer, the pariah.

“Do you have anything for me to look at today?”  He asked the artist, glancing at his timepiece; mustn’t be late back at the Gallery,  he thought, Aldo Stanley is due at 3pm.   Just one good sale to him will keep the Gallery solvent for another month.

The Artist was angry.  “All I am to you is a meal ticket!   You’re a leech!   I do all the work, leading a hand to mouth existence.   What you pay me scarcely keeps me in canvas, paint, and brushes.   You sell my work for ten times what you pay me.   Look how you dress, then look at me; you're just a parasite!”

The art dealer protested, “But, I was the one who had faith in you.   I purchased your work and kept it unsold for weeks, months, so you would have enough to live on and to purchase materials.   I kept you working,” the anger stung and wounded him.   He felt hurt and frustrated.  “Do you think for one minute that I would do this for a living if I had your talent?   Why if it were possible I would gladly change places with you in an instant.”

 “If you only knew what my life is like you wouldn’t say that,” the painter replied, wiping a tear from his eye.  “You want to see what I’ve done this week?”   He picked up a still wet canvas.  The smell of turpentine stung the agent’s nostrils.   He held the painting of a nude, a foot from the agents face.   The art dealer took a sharp breath and closed his eyes, an agonised look on his face.

.-...-.

“I can’t even look at it,” cried the painter.   “She is the love of my life,” he pictured her slightly crooked nose, that tiny intake of breath when he held her close enough to smell the perfume on her skin.   His eyes closed as he remembered the finality of that slamming door.

.-...-.

“God!   It’s beautiful, perfect, the best you’ve ever done.   It has everything, the delicacy, sensitivity, the light…   She is your Giaconda!”

“I wish I were dead!” the artist moaned.

“You should be overjoyed…” said the dealer.

“But, she left me, I have nothing,” his red eyes now wet with tears.

“This is the best contemporary work I’ve seen in a decade man, you’ll be famous, you can name your own price, the world will be at your feet.   You could buy yourself half a dozen whores, one for every day of the week!”

“But she’s gone…” he moaned.

   Then suddenly for the first time the dealer saw the three legged stool in the middle of the studio, and the noose hanging from the rafters above it.   He glanced at his timepiece once more, and made a decision.

“Come on man, were going to get drunk and talk of important things like art, friendship, and food.”

  As they sat drinking, he gradually teased the tale from the artist’s lips.

“I found her living on the streets.   She was a skinny rake.   Dirty and unkempt with lank greasy hair.   Her face was filthy and she was sleeping under a threadbare blanket in an alley behind a two star restaurant.   She was living off scraps from the bins that shielded her from the elements.  The wall next to the kitchen ovens, provided her with some warmth...” he paused to empty his tankard.

“More ale,” the dealer yelled.   A bar maid gave them a smile and a refill.

“I was leaving the restaurant a little the worse for drink.   I heard a noise in the alley and went to investigate; as drunks do,” they put their heads together and giggled like kids.   “All I could see were those big brown eyes gazing back at me.”

“Ave yer got any spare cash mista?” she asked hopefully hands held out in supplication.

“I felt sorry for her.   I looked down at that hungry feral little waif and my heart melted.   I put my hand in my pocket, she stood up and I saw something in her bone structure, and replaced the wallet in my pocket.   I picked her up, she weighed nothing, as I carried her home, she didn’t protest,” he stopped, and smiled remembering.   “Her so called boy friend, pimp, had introduced her to hard drugs and prostitution.   We went through a lot of bad times before I got her clean.   Eventually she was able to eat normally.   A few good meals inside her and she began to fill out.  She scrubbed up better than I’d ever imagined.”  

“Weren’t you afraid she might go back to her old ways?”

“Her pimp had beaten her up and dumped her, she would not have survived without me.   She was truly grateful and insisted that she would work to earn her keep.   She kept house and cooked, and became my model.   She told me all about her life on the streets and of her pimp.   He was as dark and handsome as his soul was ugly - he pushed drugs and she was not the only girl he ran,” he reflected in silence.

“More Ale!” yelled the dealer.   They sat silently drinking, and reflecting together.

“Weeks turned to months, life was good.   Life was great, the work revealed my renewed vitality, and love of life.   I painted and produced some of the best things I’ve ever done.”

"You never showed anything to me, do you have another agent?"

"No my friend, I have at least twenty completed canvases back in my studio, I couldn't bare to part with them."

“Time Gentlemen!” called the barman, and they staggered out into the dark streets. 

“I have a few bottles of wine at the studio,” said the painter.

They staggered into the studio and the agent stepped on the stool and cut the rope, moving the stool to a corner as the painter turned his canvases to face into the room.   “These are what I’ve done,” he said leaving the agent to view them as he went in search of wine.   When he returned he continued his tale.

“Then, out of the blue, the young man of her dreams, and my nightmares, her pimp returned full of promises, he was so seductive.  To her credit she resisted, but he persisted until finally she left with him.  Nothing I could say or do made any difference.”

"Sorry," she said.

“Once an addict always an addict,” the pimp sneered at me as he led her out, and slammed the door.

“More wine?” The dealer emptied the dregs of the last bottle into their glasses.

By two in the morning they were snoring with a will.

.-…-.

 Some time later the artist was passing that same street where he’d first seen her.  He saw her again, talking in a huddle with a group of other provocatively dressed young women. They giggled as he passed; she made a point of ignoring him.  He thought again about the noose.

.-...-.

 His art show was an outstanding triumph.  He became the toast of the art fraternity.  Overnight the dealer and owner of ‘the Premier Art Gallery’ became wealthy, celebrated, and universally acclaimed.

.-…-.

Three months later a dishevelled rake of a girl barged into the Premier Gallery, in the middle of a show.  She was immediately apprehended by two guards who were in the process of showing her to the door when the owner appeared.  

“Ear, I wanna word wiv you,” she howled.   His party guests went noticeably quiet.

“Very well, I can spare you two minutes,” the dealer replied aiming an amicable reassuring smile at his nearest guests.

They thought she was a floozy who’d been given her marching orders; she didn’t care what they thought.   He took her to one side – in plain view of his guests – the guards took care to remain within touching distance.

“Okay, what do you want?”

“The pictures yer floggin ere to all these posh geezers,” she pointed at the exquisite nude portraits, “they’re of me!”

 He looked at the portraits then at her.

“I wos is model, and I was never paid fer the work I done!“

“He gave you a home, fed, and clothed you, got you off drugs and you repaid him with a broken heart. He was in love with you.  But, to you he was just a meal ticket!”

“I wos is inspiration.   Could e-ave done all this wivout me?" 

“You don’t understand do you?   Your just a vicious little gutter snipe.   That isn’t you, it never was.   Those images are inspirational; they are the genius of his mind.   You were simply a template, a mannequin at best you were never worthy to clean her shoes.   Go on tell them, tell them all!” He yelled, bursting into laughter.

The room went silent.   All eyes were on the girl and the art dealer.   She took a step forward looked into his eyes, to call his bluff.   He nodded encouraging.

“I wos is model, is inspiration, those pictures are of me!” she announced.

The silence became a buzz, then titters, then uproarious laughter.   Her face contorted, becoming ugly with anger and she ran from the gallery tears smearing her over painted face.  The dealer placed three ten pound notes into the hand of one of the guards.

“Go after her, give her this, and tell her it’s her thirty pieces of silver.   Tell her she earned it!”

He headed for his private rooms where the artist waited in his wheelchair.

"Oh my friend, what a waste," the agent sighed.

The artist looked at him, tearful, He’d botched a belated suicide attempt, and broken his neck.   Now paralysed, he would never paint again.

Fox Burns Bully Bullock 

  John Bullock was the worst bully in the school. So, when Mr East entered Form 4a and said “Fox, Bullock, head’s study now!”  I got a sinking feeling in my stomach.

.-...-.

“Mrs Graham has reported seeing one of you two boys bullying Andrew Burns, at first break.  I don’t like bullies, and I won’t tolerate bullying in my school.  Do you understand?”

“Yes sir,” said Bullock.

"Yes sir,” said I.  Our ‘copper knobs’ bobbing in unison.

"If either of you are caught bullying, you will receive..." he picked up and flexed his cane,"six of the best!   Now get back to your class."

.-...-.

I’ve always been a loner. But, my classmates had never considered me to be a threat; I’m just one of the lads.  I’ve always been what my aunt Jo describes as, an easy going well mannered boy.  So, I get called ‘carrot top’, ‘ginger nut’, and ‘copper knob’.  Nobody but nobody, would ever dare use those phrases within earshot of John Bullock, not even members of his own gang.  Out of ear shot? he was referred too contemptuously as Bully Bullock.

 I’m happy to accept good natured ribbing from the guys, but I’m not susceptible to bullying.  I’ve never given in to threats, so if it comes to blows, I will give as good as I get, My attitude has earned me respect from the school bullies.  We have an understanding.  They leave me, and anybody who is with me, alone. Consequently I enjoy a certain amount of popularity with boys who feel they need protection. At times, I’ve even been offered little inducements.  Occasionally somebody gets the idea they can beat me, because of my size.  At fifteen, I’m five foot nothing, and weigh a hundred and twenty pounds which is below average for my age.  What sets me apart is being the grandson of Graham (Grey) Fox.  Granddad was the British Flyweight Champion, for three years, in his youth. He taught me everything he knew about the noble art of boxing and all the dirty tricks used in roughhouse fighting as well. He was fit, fast, feisty, and fatal; right up to the day he took on a two-ton truck, in a catch-weight contest he was always destined to loose.  He died without regaining consciousness, and left me the ‘Grey Fox Gym’ in his will.  The club brings in enough money to pay for my school uniforms, and give Aunt Jo something for my keep, plus a little bit put by for a rainy day.  Aunt Jo became my legal guardian when mum and dad were killed in a German air raid in 1940.  The man who runs the gym for me, and takes care of the business side, was a long time associate of Granddad’s.  The arrangement suites everyone, allowing me to get on with school, and with growing up, free from distractions.  I have to say that Granddad taught me well.  Quick thinking, good reflexes, and fast footwork have stood me in good stead; I'm fit, self-confident, and prepared for anything.  I work out, at the gym, for two hours every evening, to keep in shape.  There’s no way I would allow myself to go soft.  I’d seen fighters run out of steam in the middle of a contest and it wasn't a pretty sight.

.-…-.

I was having problems with my maths and physics homework; that’s Charley Holmes’ department.  He’s our Maths and Science teacher.  He’s about the same height as me but broad and solid. I could tell from his bearing that he kept himself fit and knew how to handle himself.  He served in the ‘Special Boat Service’ during the war, It was an elite force, for which we students held him in awe.

“Excuse me Mr Holmes I'm having problems with the Algebra homework could you tell me what I'm doing wrong please?” I asked.

“Come back at 4:00 o'clock Fox,” he said.

So at 4:02 I was standing outside his office when Andy Burns arrived, and stood beside me. 

“Are you here to see Charlie?” I asked. We all called him Charlie behind his back, but never to his face. “Your top of the class Burns what do you need help with?”

“Don’t worry, I'm not going to push in,” he said.  At that precise moment the door opened and there stood Charlie, unlit pipe in hand.

“Ah!  Just the chaps I need to help me out of a fix,” he said.  Then he smiled.

I always get nervous when Charlie smiles, it takes twenty years off his age at a stroke, and I know, deep down, he’s hatching some fiendish plot.  I looked at Andy and he grimaced, articulating my thoughts.

“Come in and sit down lads, would you like some tea?  I have some scones with home made jam and fresh cream,” he said placing a large plate in the middle of the table.

May as well get something out of it, I thought. “Do you have a contact in the black market sir?” I asked. 

He put his unlit pipe in his mouth, looked me straight in the eyes, and tapped the side of his nose twice, but said nothing. 

I took the cup he offered. He poured hot tea, milk and two spoonful's of real sugar, not saccharine, into each cup, as we helped ourselves to side plates and tucked into the unexpected feast.

“Delicious,” said Andy.

“Actually, I have two problems.  But, I'm hoping to kill two birds with one, metaphorical, stone.” Charlie smiled again and I shivered.

“One bird needs a whole lot of coaching in, Physics and Maths, if he’s to pass his GCE ‘O’ levels.  The other bird needs toughening up – to put it bluntly.   Are you with me so far?”

“Yes sir,” we said in unison.

“To be honest, I don’t have time to give private tuition, but I know a person who does.”  Charlie looked directly at Andy, who averted his gaze on the pretext of selecting yet another delicious scone.

“Actually, it’s just a simple quid pro quo arrangement I'm proposing.  Burns you will tutor Fox for an hour each evening…”

“And you expect me to act as his bodyguard?” I said incredulously.

“I said toughen up not molly-coddle,” Charlie exploded, he took a deep calming breath. “You spend an hour each evening teaching Burns how to defend himself.  Don’t tell me your grandfather didn't pass on his fighting skills to you?”

Andy finally made his choice and reached for a particular scone.

“Leave it!” I said. “As of now you’re in training.   You’re fat and overweight. You even have trouble running for the bus!”

His eyes lingered on the scone, then he looked at me, and reluctantly his hand withdrew.

“I take it you both accept your assignments?” There was a moments silence, “Good! Well have a progress meeting at the same time each Friday, but I can’t promise scones every week you understand?”  We all grinned. “Any questions?” We shook our heads. “Don’t you lads have homes to go to?”  The deal was done so we left his office together.

“When do we start Fox?”

“Right now,” I said, “and call me Red.”

“We’d better run if were going to catch the 4:20 bus,” said Andy. 

“Don’t worry, were running home,” I said, “I've got a lot of work ahead of me to get you in shape, come on."

.-…-.

I worked Andy like a dog for the next two weeks, just roadwork, mile after mile, to build up the stamina in his legs, and put steam in his boiler as Grey Fox would say.

In return, Andy exacted his revenge with quadrilateral equations, logs, slide rule maths, Pythagoras and Geometry theorems. To be fair, he was a good teacher and had a natural flair, for explaining things, in words that I could understand.  So, chemical processes, atomic weights, valences, and double bonds in organic chemistry suddenly began to make sense.

True to the code Bully Bullock and his gang left us both well alone.  I had Andy skipping rope and pounding the bag way into the evenings.   He was getting home after lighting-up time and his mother began to accuse me of having a bad influence on him.  Charlie had to explain our strategy to her.  That was when I started getting invites to Andy’s house for tea and Sunday lunch.   Aunt Jo didn't mind, it gave her more quality time with her new boyfriend, and she saved on ration coupons.  A month in, I was getting improved marks at school. Andy was in tip top shape and brimming with confidence.

.-…-.

Then out of the blue I was stricken down with a heavy bought of influenza.  I was delirious for two days, and confined to bed.  I started eating again on Saturday and got out of bed on Sunday, but Aunt Jo wouldn't let me go out.

When I returned to school on the Monday, everybody was talking about a fight that took place outside of school on Friday evening.

.-…-.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, Andy?” I asked.

He smiled, “I was running home, sticking strictly to the program, as if you were there with me.  They barred my way, just outside the gates.  I tried to go the other way but they blocked me again; It was Bully and his gang.”

.-…-.

“Come on guys, don’t hold me up I have a lot to do tonight,” I said.

They made way for Bully, “You got me in trouble with the head Burns,” he said.

“That was your own fault,” I said.  He came at me throwing punches.  I slipped them ducking and diving, bobbing and weaving.  Then I hit him with a combination punch two in the bread basket and one on the nose.  He folded like a sack of spuds.

“Who’s next?” I said, turning on the others. But, they just moved aside and let me pass. I didn't even break sweat.  I looked back when I reached the corner of Valence Avenue.  Bullock was still lying on the ground; the other three had run off and left him.  So, I went back to make sure he was OK.

“Piss off Burns, you've ruined my life.  When this gets out I’ll be a laughing stock.”

“So, why didn't one of the others offer to take me on?” I said, “Why didn't they stand by you?  Instead they ran off like the cowards they are.”

“That’s true,” he said.

“So,” I said “What satisfaction did you get from beating people up?”

“It made me feel respected and important.  Now you can fight we could form our own gang.  Get your mate Fox to join us we’d be unbeatable!” He said.

“You still don’t get it do you Bullock, beating up somebody weaker than yourself doesn't make you look big, just the opposite.  You are hated feared and avoided like plague.”

“Yea, good eh?” He said.

.-…-.

“What did you do Andy?” I asked.

He became silent and reflective, “I just shook my head, disapproving, like Charlie does, and walked away.”

“Good on you man, you don’t need any more lessons in self defence,” I said, feeling regret.

“I don’t think so Red,” he said. I got the feeling he was gauging my reaction.  “But, I do still need somewhere to train and a good friend if you know of one?”

The bell rang, as we exchanged grins, so we headed off to our first lesson – double maths – with Charlie Holmes.

ends