Shoes for Anthony (35 page)

‘Don't be daft, man,' I said, ‘you're bust up enough as it is. Leave it be.'

‘At least take me up the mountain a bit?' whined Thomas. ‘Please, lads? I haven't seen anything other than bricks in weeks.'

We all stared down at him. We'd never tried to get a wheelchair up the mountain before.

‘I've got sherbets …' he said, tapping a lump in his pocket.

‘What flavour?' asked Fez, narrowing his eyes.

Thomas met his gaze. ‘Lemon.'

‘Right, then,' said Bozo, jumping down from the wall. ‘Let's get at it.'

It took all three of us to get him onto the path that trailed up behind the spoil tip, Bozo and Fez taking either handle, with me pushing between them. It was hot and heavy work, and by the time we'd got him onto the first ridge, we were drenched with sweat.

‘Christ, man,' said Fez, throwing himself down onto his back. ‘What you been eatin'? Bricks?'

‘Giz a sherbet, then,' said Bozo, sitting on the grass, one hand held up.

‘Ain't got none,' said Thomas, with a shrug. ‘I was lying.'

Bozo shot him a scandalised look. ‘What? You better be muckin'.'

‘I'm not muckin'. Got nothing. Look. Handkerchief. That's it. You can eat that, if you like?'

‘You're a bloody shit, Thomas Evans,' said Bozo, scrunching his face into a knot.

‘You'd never have pushed me up if I hadn't fibbed, innit?' he protested. ‘You try havin' a broken leg. It's bloody borin'.'

I shook my head but I couldn't be cross with him. I leant back against a tussock and looked out over the village, the Nissen huts, the tents, the streets rammed with military vehicles. The last time we'd been up here, we'd been on the slag heap with Ade. It felt so long ago, another lifetime. I had sat here then and thought how our village would never be any different, and here we were, three weeks later, our world turned upside down.

‘What shall we do now, then?' said Bozo. ‘I'm not pushing this bastard up any higher. He can roll down on his own, for all I care.'

‘Climb that?' said Fez, spitting at a grass stain on his knee. He pointed off up the hill. There was an old metal crane, a dilapidated thing that was of no use to anyone other than for scrambling, crawling and hanging off.

‘Yeah, all right,' I said. ‘Last one up is Hitler's arse!'

‘Hang on!' yelled Thomas, as we scampered off. ‘What about me?'

‘Eat your invisible sherbets!' shouted Bozo.

We clambered up towards the crane, dodging rabbit holes, avoiding tussocks. You could swing yourself onto it from a metal ladder that jutted out at a weird angle. It was buckled by the weather and boys hell-bent on breaking things, but from the ladder, you could snake yourself upwards through a maze of poles and struts that left your hands and the insides of your knees red with rust.

I pulled myself up onto my favourite spot, a crossbar you could sit on and be lord of all you surveyed. I glanced down the hill and waved towards Thomas. He stuck two fingers up at me. Below me, on the crane, Bozo was bringing up the rear behind Fez. ‘You're Hitler's arse, Bozo,' I said, picking at a tooth.

‘Christ!' he yelled. ‘I'm always Hitler's arse. We need someone fatter and slower in this gang. I've got no chance.'

‘Should have brought Thomas, then, innit?' I replied.

Fez was swinging from a pole below me, his knees lifted up so that he had the appearance of a large, slow pendulum.

‘See if you can get right up the top, Ant,' he said, gazing up between his arms. ‘The very top, mind.'

I looked above me. A lot of the poles were rusted through, no good for swinging on; but like on the spoil tip, there was always a path of greater resistance. I stood up on the crossbar and grabbed another above my head. Using that, I pulled myself up, groin resting parallel to the bar, and slung my left foot up to the side. Hooking my heel over the top, I pushed up and grabbed the next bar above.

I stopped and looked down; Fez and Bozo were sitting on crossbars, watching, their lower legs swinging back and forth. I could feel rust on my hands, that course, bitty sensation that would leave my hands smelling metallic for days. I cast a look around for my next move. There was a pole jutting to my right, below it a large hook. I reached out for it but my fingers couldn't quite get a grip, so getting myself into a crouched position, I pushed myself off the bar and leapt, but the pole was slimy to the touch and my fingers, as they grabbed it, slid downwards.

‘Look out, Ant!' the boys called out below.

I wasn't going to be able to hang on. I cast a quick look downwards to see what I could grab a hold of, but it was too late. My fingers fell away from the pole and I dropped.

There was a short, sharp yank, a ripping noise, and then I fell again, bouncing off a pole to the right and landing on the ground between the crane's four feet. I was face down, the wind knocked out of me, but nothing was hurt other than my pride. Above me, Bozo and Fez were in hysterics.

‘Never mind Hitler's arse,' cried Bozo, ‘we can see yours!'

I reached down to the back of my shorts and felt soft, damp flesh. I cast a look over my shoulder. A large hole had been ripped out, and my backside was exposed. ‘Oh, no, man,' I muttered, pushing myself upwards. ‘How am I going to get home like this?'

Fez was doubled over. I was trying to re-attach the flap, but with no success. ‘P'raps we can get a snap?' he howled. ‘Put it in the chapel newsletter?'

Bozo roared with laughter. I stood, my face crumpled into a picture of despair and embarrassment. ‘Ah, leave off,' I complained. ‘How am I gonna get home, like? I can't walk down Scott Street with my arse hangin' out!'

Fez and Bozo had jumped down and were collapsed on the floor in front of me, both weak with laughter. I frowned and looked back down the hill.

‘Thomas Evans,' I muttered, an idea coming to me. ‘Get up, you two. Come on.'

‘Fuck off,' shouted Thomas, as I pulled him up out of the wheelchair. ‘I can't walk home. Are you bloody mad?'

‘You're not walking home,' I said. ‘Fez and Bozo are going to carry you. I need your chair. We'll call it quitsies for you trickin' us.'

‘I've got a broken leg!'

‘Leave off, man!' yelled Fez, grabbing him under his armpit. ‘You wanted an adventure. Ant can't be walking up Scott Street with his arse for all to see. Let him sit in your wheelchair!'

As Bozo and Fez heaved him up and got either side of him, I sat myself down. ‘Right, then,' I said, with a nod. ‘Brakes off.'

‘No, wait,' said Thomas, slinging his arms about the boys' shoulders. ‘There's a knack to …'

‘Oh, shit,' I yelled, and off I sped, rattling towards certain oblivion.

My next problem was getting upstairs without Mam finding out what I'd done. I didn't have another pair of shorts, so unless I wanted to wander about in nothing, I was going to have to find a needle and thread, get upstairs, and somehow stitch my shorts back together.

I tiptoed up the hallway and peeked quickly into the parlour. Mam's sewing box was next to her chair. I ran lightly over and rifled through it until I found a reel of dark cotton. I slipped it into the palm of my hand and unhooked a needle threaded into the felt underside of the lid.

Gently and quietly, I backed out of the room. Mam must be in with Father. I'd have to slip up the stairs without making a sound.

Taking hold of the side rail, I eased myself onto the first stair. The second had a telltale creak so I stretched my leg upwards to the third. I took the fourth, then the fifth and sixth, and then stopped. I reached up and peeked through the banisters. I scanned left. There were feet, four of them: facing each other and very close. I moved up another step and took another look. My eyes bulged. Bethan was kissing Piotr. Right outside our parents' room.

‘Bethan!' came a call from the kitchen. Mam was downstairs after all. ‘Can you give me a hand with these shirts?'

I glanced down, then up again. Bethan pulled away from Piotr. He had his arms about her waist.

‘Coming, Mam!' she called back.

Quickly, I hopped back down the stairs, leapt over the creaky step, and ran towards the front door. Taking the handle, I opened it and then closed it loudly.

‘I'm back!' I yelled, turning back into the hallway. Bethan was halfway down the stairs.

‘You're as mucky as the devil,' she said, casting a look at me. ‘Tin bath for you, later.'

I gave her a lopsided grin, hands held tightly behind my back. I waited, letting her go through to the parlour, and then ran up the stairs. Piotr was standing, one arm resting against the doorframe of Father's room. He turned. ‘Been getting up to mischief?' he asked. ‘Your father's sleeping. Try not to wake him.'

I nodded and began to sidestep into my bedroom. Piotr frowned. ‘Is something wrong?'

I shook my head. ‘No … I … well, see ya.' I leapt into my room and closed the door.

I was breathing heavily, a small trail of sweat working its way from my forehead towards my ear. I slammed the cotton and the needle down onto a blanket folded at the end of Alwyn's bed and slipped out of my shorts. They looked terrible. I held them up to the window; the hole was so big, I could see the entire mountain through it.

The door opened and I clutched the shorts downwards.

‘Anthony,' said Piotr, ‘you all right? What's happened?'

‘Nothing,' I said, swiftly.

‘Anthony?' said Piotr, coming in. ‘What's wrong?'

I sighed and stared down at my hands. ‘It's my shorts,' I explained, gesturing towards them. ‘I've ripped the seat out of them. I need to fix them before Mam sees.'

‘Here,' said Piotr, holding his hand out. ‘Give them to me. I can sew quite well, actually. Let me see if I can do it.'

He reached towards a pile of Alwyn's dirty shirts that lay strewn over the back of a chair. ‘Put that on,' he said, throwing one to me. ‘It'll cover you up. Don't worry. I'll turn round. Tell me when you're ready.'

‘Mr Hughes thought he'd caught the German this morning,' I said, as I pulled Alwyn's shirt over the top of my own. ‘But it wasn't. It was a man come to make everyone stop selling illegal eggs and vegetables.'

‘I know,' said Piotr, his back still to me. ‘I was at back of the shop when Mr Hughes came in with him. He tried to give him sack of potatoes to apologise.'

‘Did he take it? You can turn round now.'

Piotr took the torn shorts from my extended hand. ‘No. The man told Mr Hughes that was bribery and he'd take great pleasure in reporting him for it. Goodness. That really is quite a rip. Did you say you had cotton?'

I pointed towards the needle and reel.

‘Will he really report Mr Hughes?' I sat down on Alwyn's bed next to Piotr. ‘He had a heck of a lamping. I wouldn't blame him for being so cross.'

Piotr had broken off a length of cotton and was tying a knot at one end. He licked the other and then, with one eye closed, he threaded the needle.

‘All right,' he said, his face concentrated, ‘let's see if we make amends.'

He pulled the ripped section taut and began to sew. ‘Sometimes men have to make show of things so as not to lose face. He was pretty furious. But he'll get home, his wife will feed him, he'll realise odd things happen in war, and he'll wake up tomorrow with more important things to do. Men do what they have to. So, no, I think Mr Hughes will be fine.'

‘I hope so. Mr Hughes was only doing what he thought was best.' I watched as Piotr criss-crossed the thread. His fingers were swift, dextrous. ‘How come you can sew so well?'

‘Just picked it up. When you're in army, you have to be able to fix things, not just jammed guns or broken-down engines, uniform too.'

‘Emrys has a got a uniform,' I said, ‘but he can't sew.'

‘He doesn't need to sew. He lives with his mother. Here,' he said, handing me the needle and the shorts. ‘I'll teach you. Take needle in your right hand between your thumb and forefinger. And with other hand, take a good firm hold of your shorts. Follow line of rip, and thread needle through so that you bring hole together. That's all there is to it. Do that all way round until you no longer have a hole.'

‘Thread's got tangled,' I said, my head bent over in concentration. ‘Won't pull through.'

‘Be gentle with it,' said Piotr, ‘sewing takes patience. It's why women are so good at it. Slow and steady. With every stitch, hole gets smaller.'

‘Thank you, Piotr,' I said, looping the needle. ‘My brothers never show me how to do things.'

‘Well, they don't know how to sew, so …'

‘Not just sewing,' I added. ‘You've taught me lots of things.'

He looked down at me. ‘I'm glad you feel this way. It's important to me that we are friends. And we are friends, aren't we, Anthony?'

I looked up and nodded. Piotr smiled back at me and patted me on the back. ‘Good. This won't take long. Not now you've got the knack. When you're done, how would you like to come to cinema this afternoon for early matinee? I'm taking Bethan.'

I stared up at him and narrowed my eyes. ‘Are you and my sister sweethearts, like?' I asked.

‘Let's say she's my friend, too,' he replied. ‘Just a prettier one than you. Come with us. We always have such fun, we three. And who knows how much longer we can have fun? Say yes. Please, Anthony?'

‘Yes!'

My shorts had come up pretty well, all things considered. They were a slightly odd fit but I'd get used to them, and until Mam had any money for anything other than feeding us, they would have to do. There was a new film on at the Gaiety,
Gaslight
, with a lady called Ingrid Bergman. I didn't think much of the poster. It said it was a melodrama, which I didn't understand, but other than that there wasn't much to go on.