The Wailing on the While

Wailing on the While

ISBN :9781310904516

David William Kirby

The Wailing on the While

Copyright: David William Kirby: 2015

The Dogbreaths Publishing

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Author’s note...

This is a fictional account

of certain events that really happened in 1973.

Any relation to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

The Wailing on the While.

Hackney 2014-01-27

Chapter 1

February 1973

I was dreaming of Ford Cortinas and the smell of cigars, of maxi-dresses and satin trouser suits. The sound of Marc Bolan and T.Rex Metal Guru’ed into my long, curly-haired, lurex shirted, platform heeled vision of cultish youth.

I was there on Top Of The Pops, bouncing along to the girl who put the Uzi in Suzi; Miss Quatro, of course.

She was a leather-suited, style-wannabe; banging her big bass and ‘Caning the Can’, this ain’t Rock and Roll, I screamed, this is Pantomime.

She was then followed by the sickly ‘Sweet’, a sweaty group of Manchurian hairdressers, all lipstick and beer bellies; they recklessly chased Miss America down that soulless drain created by their writing team Chin and Chapman.

They had a formula guaranteed to take a good idea and turn it into solid-gold tripe; a harmonious knife ripping out the heart of Pop Music; with a rinky-dink-dink. (dink a dink a dink a dink a dink.)

When would this pop-tastic nightmare end, I dreamed, and a real Electric Warrior emerge to satisfy my teenage sensations?

I knew a Starman waited in the sky, he didn’t know what time it was and neither did I. But I’d wait till Jimi crashed along the watchtower, all silver satin and chiffon tourniquet, afro at the ready; his guitar wailing like Sweet Jayne, sweet, Sweet-Jayne.

Still; I felt happy, really happy. I mean really, really HAPPY.

But then....

I woke up.

Get your arse out of that bed... My father’s gruff voice screamed along the watchtower.

Instantly my dream turned into a nightmarish waking hallucination as he persisted.

...or I’ll come in that bedroom and drag you out.

I opened my eyes, Jimi and his guitar faded into the ether, and I felt cold; really cold. There was ice on the inside of my bedroom window which, using a finger nail, scrapped off to reveal a frosty back garden decorated with frozen weeds, brambles and refuse.

Our garden, instead of blooms and shrubs, was decorated with an old washing machine, a rusty fridge and piles of other junk the council refused to take free of charge. It was all neatly arranged in a fake modern-art installation which could be called Happy Crap if anyone had bothered.

We certainly hadn’t.

I could hear my mother banging around in the kitchen below and the smell of stale alcohol, cigarettes and bacon hung thick in the morning air. She always banged around on Monday mornings to let everyone, particularly my father, know that she was in a foul mood.

The school/work week was about to begin and so we had to put our thoughts, of dossing around in bed all day, back into that ‘weekend’ cupboard for another five days.

Get your arse down here... I heard her shout from the gap in the kitchen door as I dragged my trousers on and ran a comb through the knots in my long brown hair.

...or you’ll be late for school again,

Entering the kitchen I found my father, dressed in his work boots and a dirty vest, smoking a cigarette. He was sitting beside the stove, which had all four rings blazing, to fill the room with the familiar aroma of warm gas.

The house had no central heating, so the gas cooker would melt the interior window ice in the morning, until the lounge hearth could be lit later in the afternoon.

Mother was pouring a cup of tea by the sink. We (like most Brits) lived on a diet of steaming hot tea, not Earl Grey or Camomile, just normal, thick brown, China tea; preferably with milk and tons of sugar. The day would not start properly until we’d had a cuppa; today was no different.

As I sat at the table she placed a cup in front of me with a bacon sandwich. It was only then I noticed the black eye that dad had given her the previous night when they fought.

My parents fought most weekends, we children had grown with the sound of breaking glass and splitting wood, as a backdrop to life’s other events; so much so that another altercation didn’t even merit a mention.

I don’t know what the most recent argument was about, just that they’d returned from the pub at eleven, and immediately started rowing.

Perhaps she’d looked at the wrong man, or perhaps he’d ignored her, and played darts all night. Whatever the reason, it was the third fight since Friday and her black eye joined the other bruises she’d received over the preceding days.

She threw a plate of eggs and beans in front of him and lit a cigarette as he greedily tucked in; without even looking at her. It was just another Monday morning. I drunk my tea and pulled on my blazer, walking to the kitchen door, eager to escape the tense atmosphere in that small room.

Bye Mum, Dad. I said giving them both a sideways look. They didn’t seem to notice so I left, taking my school bag off the stair-rail, on the way. It was a frosty and desperately cold day as I made my way across the small road and up to the gates of my secondary school.

I was unsure what was worse, the tensions at home, or the anxiety and fear of violence that featured in school each day? Unfortunately, I was tied to both institutions and had no other, obvious alternative at that time.

The school was a 1950’s affair on two levels, set in a couple of acres of green playing fields which served as football fields in winter, and a cricket pitch during the summer.

The school’s most notable ex-pupil was the entertainer Sandy Shaw, who had attended sometime in pre-history, a fact the headmaster never bored of relaying to visitors.

The headmaster, one Mr Jones, was the only Welsh head teacher in Essex, who was proud of his roots. He forced the school to celebrate the Welsh cultural festival (or Eisteddfod) every year as if he was still in the valleys of Snowdonia. An event no other British school celebrated or even acknowledged.

Not that this made any impression on us pupils. The only useful information I gleaned from these yearly festivities was that Wales had villages with un-pronounceable names and that the Prince of Wales was not Welsh.

The chill made my hands blue and the breath froze on my lips as I waited for others to come into the school’s car park that gloomy morning. Being the first in on Monday was never a good idea as it meant waiting outside the building in the cold.

Only the teaching staff were allowed into the warm building, at the start of each day. Until the first bell summoned, us lesser mortals or students, were not allowed into the institution. So I waited patiently until this event and looked for others to join my lonely vigil.

After a few minutes I saw Kay, my best friend and the girl I sat next to in maths class, walking across the road. She was a big girl and wore a trademark leather jacket scrawled with the words Deep Purple across the shoulders.

Beside her size, Kay was noticeable by her bright green eyes, and the many bangles rattling around her wrists. I stepped from the car park and waited by the road patiently for her. Watching her negotiate the morning traffic as she dreamily crossed the road.

Kay slipped up beside me and passed me the joint she had been smoking. It was only as she flicked her long brown hair from her face that I noticed she too had a black eye. This one was a real shiner, and featured several tones of black and blue around a large, swollen, bulge.

You’re dad been throwing his weight about again? I asked taking a deep slug on the joint; feeling the mix of tobacco and Moroccan hash flowing through my blood and instantly into my brain.

He’s not my dad... she replied with a fierce glair, digging into her bag and taking out a tube of dark foundation, which she dabbed onto a finger and rubbed over the swollen bruise.

...the bastard was trying to fuck me again. She moaned before turning to face me and asking:

Is that it covered?

Yes." I replied as the dark brown foundation was pushed this way and that, until the bruise was disguised, under a thick tan smudge.

Wow. Are you okay?

I’m used to it... She said with a sniff.

...I told my mom... Kay continued absently, dragging more foundation across her face with a finger, relaying her story.

...I said to her, if that bastard tries it on again I’m going to kick him in the balls. The fucking bitch just ignored me.

She knows then? I said passing the joint back to her as Kay slipped the foundation back into her bag.

The bitch... Kay sniffed. ...She just makes out like it doesn’t happen. I’ve been telling the fucking stupid cow since I was twelve and she’s still done nothing about it. Thing is...

Kay paused as Carol, our other school friend, joined us and took the joint from my frozen digits.

...I’m old enough to give the bastard a clout now. The frightened little kid he used to bully and knock around has had enough. If he wants to get into my drawers he’ll have to fight me first. By then his hard-on has gone; like me. I’m out of there, honest. I am not going back to that house until that geezer has left.

Your old man? Carol asked shaking her head from side to side and, flicking the end of the joint into the road, dug her hands deep into her Afghan coat pockets.

They should lock the bastard up.

"He’s not my old man!" Kay repeated firmly.

We headed into the school grounds and had just made it past the gates when Des Morton, one of the school’s many bullies, stepped up and head butted me square in the face. I felt my nose crunch under the force of his forehead and a sharp pain shot into my head filling my eyes with water.

What’s that for? I screamed holding my bloody nose.

He laughed and shouted something about feeling like doing it before strolling off casually with his gang. The girls sighed and hugged me close.

I am so sick of this place. Carol said, in her timid but concerned way, looking at the group of boys wandering into the school building as the first bell rang. Kay turned and spied the headmaster, Mr Jones, standing beside his parked car. He’d clearly seen the incident and looked embarrassed, firstly looking this way and then the other, before picking up his bag and strolling by us.

Aren’t you going to do anything about that? Kay shouted pointing at my bleeding nose. The head master just shrugged and replied in his thick Welsh brogue.

Go see the nurse when the bell goes. She may want you to put a plaster on it.

The headmaster coughed and spluttered before looking away and heading into the school building clutching a pile of books and papers.

Try not to get blood on the foyer carpet, boy. He shouted back to us as the doors swung closed behind him.

What about that bastard. Kay shouted but it was too late; he was gone. Suddenly the door opened again and Mr Jones popped his head out once more.

Come on children, school has started.

What about the bullying in this place? Kay shouted back at him as we approached the school entrance doors. Jones frowned and shrugged.

The bell hadn’t gone so... He smiled through the open door.

...it’s not our responsibility.

Later that day I was in an English class looking out the window as the teacher droned on about some course work we were expected to do. It was a subject I was interested in, having read voraciously since I could first understand the words on a page, but my nose was throbbing.

It felt like I had a huge red bulb in the middle of my face and this was a little distracting. It’s amazing that a teacher could take a subject I was interested in and turn it into something boring.

I’d read Shelly, Byron, Keats and even the modern classics like Sheila Delanie. Those so called kitchen sink dramas filled with tough Northern women and men who drank heavily and worked down the pits. Places where women smelt of lard and elbow grease and their men wore cloth caps and couples had bairns instead of children. Yes, Catherine Cookson was a favourite too, although I’d never admit to that in public.

This particular teacher didn’t have a clue, his idea of teaching English was to chalk a few pages of some standard like Animal Farm on the classroom’s board, and just sit there in a daze while we copied it verbatim. No discussion, no debate about the plot, the characters or the author; nothing.

Now he was droning on, and I mean, really droning on; his voice was like a monotone, machine-like, hum. He was talking about course work but by then I’d totally lost interest. I was thinking about Mum and Kay, and their matching black eyes, as a sharp crunch broke my daydream.

I want a two page essay on what you did this weekend. The teacher said placing a piece of A4 next to each pupil and accidentally knocking my bruised nose in the process.

This is a test. I want to assess your grammar, so concentrate on the punctuation. The most interesting of your essays can be read out to the class. Let’s share our adventures.

He didn’t even notice that my eyes had filled with water again and blood was trickling down my lip. The teacher just carried on as it nothing had happened. I decided not to make a fuss as it wouldn’t do anything except draw attention to my injury; the sort of attention bullies were drawn too.

I thought about the essay he’d suggested we’d write. Should I scribble that on Friday evening my parents did what they do every Friday; that is, go to the Silverhall? That dark and tobacco stained place which was neither silver nor a hall.

It was just a big room with a bar down one side and rickety old chairs along the facing wall. On Fridays an old crooner stood upon the Silverhall’s small stage to sing old country and western songs as the drinkers hummed along.

When my parents returned around eleven o’clock, both smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, mum was carrying a curry they’d purchased on the way home. The Avengers was on T.V and I was curled up next to the coal fire watching Steed and Purdy fight some bad guys.

You still up? The old man said as he followed mom into the kitchen. I listened as their voices became louder and more agitated. Dad was saying something about her dancing with a friend and she was defending the act and saying he should stop being paranoid and things like that.

Suddenly there was a scream and a bang and crash when she came running into the room with a mischievous smile. Father came running in behind her with the curry box on his head and the whole meal streaming down his face.

You fucking whore. He screamed taking the tin foil box from his steaming head and throwing it across the room.

Fuck you. She shouted back throwing a vase in father’s direction.

Then it was a free for all. She was smashing his head, he was punching her, and both rolled across the carpet and into the television. I jumped up and ran to the door as the T.V fell off its stand and crashed to the floor. She managed to jump up, pick up a whiskey bottle, which had previously been perched upon the T.V and smash it across his head.

The bottle was so thick that it didn’t break and just bounced into the air leaving a deep gash on my father’s face. His eyes crossed and he shook his head from side to side as blood and curry ran down his face onto his shirt collar. I could almost see stars and small tweeting birds fly in circles around his battered head like in the cartoons and the image made me smile nervously.

Come on boy. The teacher said. Stop daydreaming and write.

As an alternative to the vile truth, I made up a story about us going to a cinema, not just any cinema but a Drive-In cinema like the ones you see in America. It was a happy tale about chirpy parents and their clean and antiseptic kids eating pop corn and sucking on pintsized coke bottles. Then after watching the movie we drove our Lincoln Continental to the nearest drive through burger bar and sung happy ditties while pigging out on Quarter Pounders with cheese.

After handing our papers in to the teacher we sat in silence as he perused the pile. The man inspected my piece of work, looked at me suspiciously across the top of his half moon spectacles, and sighed loudly.

You boy? He shouted across the class.

Sir? I replied sheepishly.

Where is this drive in cinema? He tapped the top of his desk with a pencil and looked at me expectantly. The rest of the class turned and looked at me too, all surprised to hear about this new British phenomenon; a first in U.K history, a drive through cinema.

"Come on, don’t be shy. Where is this place? I’ve not heard of one in this country. If one exists, then let us know its location, so we can all enjoy the spectacle. I’ve always wanted to go to a drive in cinema and if one exists I’d very much like to know where it is."

It’s in London. I lied unconvincingly.

London’s a big city, boy. The teacher said sitting back in his chair almost enjoying torturing me publicly; he sneered and asked:

Where in London exactly?

East London, Sir... I replied with a slight stutter. ...near, erm, near Plaistow. I always stuttered, when lying, particularly if a large group was hearing my lies; the more he persisted the more I stuttered.

I felt my face flush red and my throbbing nose felt like a balloon sized beacon as I squirmed under his gaze.

Really? The teacher said sitting up slowly and rising from his chair. He started to walk towards me in a slow and deliberate manner, his face becoming contorted with a tense snarl, his lips trembling with rage.

I live in Plaistow, Boy. He said lowering his head and bringing his eyes level with my own.

I live there and I’ve lived there for over twenty years, I read the local press every week. I believe if there is, or has ever been, a Drive-In Cinema opening in the area I would have read about. So do you know what I think?

What, Sir? I replied holding his gaze and shuddering as his hand banged down upon my desk to punctuate his reply.

I think you are a liar, boy... He screamed, spitting small bits of dribble into my face, pushing his nose to mine.

...a no good, filthy, little liar. That’s what I think, well?

He wiped the spittle from his reddened face and gripped my blazer by the lapels before shaking me violently.

Well what, Sir? I said sheepishly as my head rolled from side to side with the vigorous shaking.

You are a liar aren’t you boy?

Yes Sir. I replied. I’m a liar; but...

You’re a dirty, little liar. He screamed, pulling me up from my chair, before realising I towered a foot or more above his head.

What are you?

A Dirty little liar, sir.

Get out of my sight." He shouted letting me go and pointing to the classroom door.

Go along to the office and explain to them why I’ve thrown you out. Now!

I was relieved to get out of there and found Kay standing in the corridor outside.

I did not know if she had seen what had happened or why she was standing out in the corridor between breaks; but I did not care.

She smiled seeing me come along and waved a packet of ten cigarettes in my direction.

I think it’s time for a fag break. Kay said as she opened the double doors to the playground. We took a quick look to ensure we were unobserved before dashing outside and diving behind the bike sheds.

I’m so sick of this school... She said after lighting one of the cigarettes and blowing the smoke into the freezing air.

...I got some African Bush here but no rolling papers. Some West Indian from my estate gave me it, if we could get some papers, I’d make a spliff.

Is that what you had this morning? I replied watching her take a small bag of seeds, stalks and buds from her bag.

No, that was some Moroccan I nicked off my mom. Kay replied deep in thought.

Fancy a trip to the shop?

Just as she said those words my enraged teacher, who’d previously sent me to the school’s office, walked around the corner and glared at me.

You Boy! he shouted; his face red with rage.

What are you doing around here?

Nothing... I stuttered before saying absently.

...She was just showing me her bush.

The words left my mouth before I realised and this made Kay burst into laughter. She looked at me awkwardly and shook her head.

I’m not interested in your sexual activity boy. The teacher stated nonplussed. Kay smirked and walked away.

Now get down to the head’s office like I told you to do earlier.

Don’t think so. Kay shouted giving me the nod. We’re out of here.

I shrugged and followed her towards the school gates. The teacher just stood there with his jaw sagging. He did not even attempt to stop us and just shook his head in disgust. It was only as we walked out through the school gates that we heard the sound of someone calling us.

Wait for me. Carol shouted as she dragged on her Afghan coat and ran to catch us up.

Let’s get out of this shit hole. She said under her breath as we walked away from the school.

So we walked into the misty morning frost; looking for somewhere to buy Rizla cigarette papers and a place to spend the rest of the day. We had no plans, nothing organised, fate had decided to lead us away from that horrible place; into an uncertain future.

Chapter 2

"Come on, come on,