Playboy Pook

ONE

One of the advantages of my childhood was being able to play in streets which, by modern standards, were often traffic-free. There was the odd horse-and-cart and plenty of bicycles but motor-vehicles were surprisingly few. This freedom enabled us to whip our tops with sadistic fury on the surface of Cudford Crescent in comparative safety.

Alec favoured the most difficult model shaped like a mushroom, while I vent my energy on the cone type, a top resembling a howitzer shell with a metal tip. The whip itself was a wooden stick with a kind of leather football lace as the lash. These fascinating toys span almost indefinitely once one had mastered the art of curling the lash round them during the whipping process.

Motor cars were such a comparative novelty that when one did come along we usually logged its number in our notebooks and—for some vague psychological motive based on children’s irrational preferences and dislikes—attempted to kick its tyres if it was not a Morris or a Rolls-Royce. If a car was parked by the roadside we always kicked the tyres if they were not Dunlop, even if the car itself was a Rolls Royce. A car bearing an AA badge was immune but I always kicked a car if it had an RAC badge. On the other hand, Alec preferred the RAC badge, only kicking cars with AA badges. Both of us kicked cars showing neither badge or sporting both badges, and Alec had a special rule whereby he kicked every car in sight on Mondays and Fridays. I was obliged to kick all cars if it was raining, whatever the day of the week. Mr Mould drove a Morris fitted with Dunlop tyres, but we always kicked this car because he was our schoolmaster, and once Alec kicked this car so hard that I had to carry him home with a sprained ankle.

But the vehicle approaching at the moment was not a car of any make, being a Norton motorbike, and we never kicked motorbikes because the riders kicked back with big boots. I recognized the owner and his pillion as Bob and Stan, two teenage dental mechanics who worked for Mr Hooper, my dentist. Seeing my top spinning on the crown of the road, Bob gave a whoop of delight, shouting, Look out, Peter, here comes the last of the hell drivers—whoopee!—then deliberately rode over my top and roared off up the road. The result was one of my worst childhood memories. Under pressure, the top shot sideways like a bullet, right through the window of Mr Bright’s sweetshop. The crash of falling glass on the pavement was appalling, bringing Mr Bright to the scene under the impression he had been the victim of a bandit raid for chocolates instead of jewellery.

Unfortunately, Bob and Stan had disappeared round the bend of the road, but worst of all was the sight that first caught Mr Bright’s eyes as he emerged from his premises—me standing aghast in the middle of the road, still clutching the whip but now topless, while Alec’s top span merrily on.

Caught you at last, red-handed, Mr Bright cried in an unaccustomed tenor voice, diving back into the shop and coming out again holding aloft my blue missile.

I explained as best I could about the motorbike but Mr Bright merely nodded his head, apparently in agreement and saying something to the effect that pigs might fly any day now. Mr Bright was obviously a difficult man to convince so I tried hard to cry. For me this had always been a difficult operation, so I creased my face, screwed up my eyes and made loud sobbing noises as though in immense pain. Sensing this affected Mr Bright a little, I threw my head back and let him have the cat howl between sobs. Experience had taught me that the cat howl always won the day because adults could neither stand the noise nor hear each other speak. Several neighbours came on the street, under the impression that Mr Bright was torturing me in broad daylight, with the result that Miss Grant led me into her flat for consolation.

Fortunately for me I had Alec as a witness, who, for reasons I never discovered, gave his testimony in a clear treble voice that I see Peter whip his top right through your window, Mr Bright. I expect he done it on purpose.

Recovering from my surprise, I attempted to hit Alec with the whip I still clutched but was foiled by Mr Bright, who accused me of trying to intimidate a witness. Perhaps this was just as well, because the last time I had hit Alec he was stunned and had to be taken home with mild concussion as the result of the impact of my Chums Annual on his head. This edition of Chums Annual—which lies before me as I write—was no flimsy modern book but a large volume of 832 pages, bound like a ledger and weighing several pounds. Alec had been savouring its marvellous contents one moment, until, due to a quarrel with me over whose turn it was to read, I decided it was his turn to experience the full weight of the annual on his skull.

Eventually, Bob and Stan were traced and questioned about the top accident but they could not recall being on the road at all that day, let alone riding over a top. In fact, at the interview Bob failed to recognize me completely, referring to me throughout the conversation as This boy you say lives in Cudford, while Stan said to me, How did you come to know my name, sonny?

Because your boss takes my teeth out, and I help you clean the motorbike every week. You’ve known me all my life. You live next door to me. You come in and out of my house all the time, or else I’m in yours.

Then how is it I don’t even know your name, sonny?

’Course you know it—I’m Peter. You go out with Alec’s sister.

Peter? What a nice name. Pleased to meet you, Peter; my name is Stan. Bob, this is Peter. He says he lives in Cudford.

Is he the lad Mr Bright says whipped a top through his shop window?

Yes, that’s him.

What a dreadful thing to do!

Unable to shift the blame and experiencing for the first time being disowned by my friends, I again bent my features for the cat howl and let them have it full blast. This always ended further discussion and Miss Grant took me home. Eventually, Mr Bright was able to have his window replaced by the insurance company but I was never allowed to clear my good name. I had grown so accustomed to performing evil deeds without detection that to be accused of something I had not done seared deep into my soul, and I brooded long over the question of revenging myself on Alec, Mr Bright and the two apprentices.

Alec was easy meat. I asked him to accompany me to Cudford Lake to sail our new toy submarines. On the way, Alec said, When you were up in Miss Grant’s flat did she jump into any trousers, Peter?

No, come to think of it, she didn’t—though I watched ever so carefully.

I wonder when she does it then? My mum says she often does it but I’ve never seen her do it.

Alec and I had long been anxious to see Miss Grant perform this gymnastic feat we heard the adults talk about. For example, I overheard Mrs Courtland telling Mrs Fleece that, given the slightest opportunity, Miss Grant would be only too glad to jump into Mr Courtland’s trousers, just as she had leapt into so many other trousers. This intrigued Alec and me immensely, for we pictured Miss Grant setting up a pair of men’s trousers, taking a short run and landing neatly with both her legs in the trousers.

I tried the same trick yesterday, I confided in Alec, but what beats me is how she sets up the trousers in the first place. I can’t do it.

She must support them with string from each button, like a basket suspended from a balloon, then she goes into them like running over hurdles.

Or else the trousers are held up by a wire frame and she runs up from the side, just the same as high-jumping in the school sports.

Perhaps someone holds them open by the waistband like a sack, then she jumps into them off a table.

Why don’t you ask her next time you see her?

Good idea; I will.

She might even show us how to do it.

Thus resolved, we set off for Cudford Lake. Our latest treasures were two realistic German U-boats, costing seven-and-sixpence apiece. They were about ten inches long, and, by means of our adjusting a vane on the rudder, sailed either on the surface of the water or at any depth we desired. The clockwork motor was wound by a key which one inserted in the bow after removing a washered screw.

Alec carefully angled the vane of his submarine to travel at one foot below the surface of the lake, then, accepting my offer that he could sail first, bent down on his haunches to launch S27, the white number it bore on the grey conning-tower.

What depth have you set yours for, Alec? I inquired.

One foot submersion—that’s one-sixth of a fathom, he reported back professionally.

How deep is the lake just here, Captain?

Alec took a sounding with his stick. Almost one fathom by the mark, Admiral.

Then you’ll be able to control your submarine from underneath it, Captain.

With that, I gave Alec a gentle push from behind and I recall so vividly how he rolled forward in the crouched position, entering the water head first and turning a complete somersault in slow-motion. Having done the deed, I stood temporarily aghast at my action now that he was actually in the lake. Directly Alec recovered his wits he began to tread water, equally amazed by what I had done and alarmed by the prospect of going home wet through.

You pushed me in the lake fully-clothed! he gasped.

Yes, I did, and let’s hope that’ll teach you to tell the truth and not give Mr Bright a pack of lies about breaking his window.

I’ll tell my mum about you, I will.

Good! Then I’ll push her in the lake too.

Alec hurried home to dry and change, but with the indifference of youth I went on playing as though nothing had happened. Expertly, I adjusted the vane on the rudder of my submarine so it would cross the breadth of the lake at a depth of two feet. The water was clear enough for me to follow its progress as I walked round to the far bank, enabling me to gauge exactly where it would arrive. The tiny three-bladed propeller drove it at a surprisingly fast speed, even underwater, but I arrived at its destination in good time and watched its progress with boyish enjoyment. Our custom was to let the submarine hit the concrete side because the loss of velocity on impact caused it to rise to the surface with satisfying realism.

S26 approached on schedule at two feet depth but when it reached the concrete side, instead of halting and surfacing, it disappeared as if by magic. Alarmed, I rolled up my sleeve and thrust my arm down to the spot where the submarine had vanished. All I could detect was a big hole in the wall of the lake but no sign of my boat. I ran panic-stricken to the park keeper, who knew me well, and told him what had happened. He pushed back his cap, scratched his head, and said, Oh dear, oh dear! It sounds like your submarine has navigated its way through the lake’s drainage pipe. Lots of folks sail their boats here but unfortunately we don’t cater for submarines.

Where does the pipe go then?

I’m afraid it ends in the sea—about a quarter of a mile out—so there’s not much hope for S26. She’s probably in the English Channel by now, heading for France.

She can’t be that far. By the time she’s crossed the lake the spring’s practically run down.

After much head-scratching the keeper admitted that he knew of no way to investigate the outlet pipe, so I decided to try myself. I cut a six-foot stick from a tree, then, by lying down on the bank, managed to insert the stick into the hole and fish about for some obstruction that might be my precious submarine. Being a persistent child, I persevered for half an hour, eventually hauling out from the pipe a rotting umbrella. This discovery so encouraged me that I forced the stick deeper and deeper along the pipe, until, just as the chimes of Cudford Guildhall struck four, I inserted the stick to its full extent, rolled over with the effort, and fell into the waters of the lake myself.

As I dripped into the house, my father demanded to know how I had got into my present state. Alec deliberately pushed me into the lake, daddy, I whined.

That’s strange, Peter—Alec’s mother has been round to complain you pushed Alec in the lake.

Well, you can see who’s telling the truth, daddy—I’m soaked to the skin.

Go upstairs at once and change before your mother sees you. Afterwards I’ll have a talk with you about this odd business.

Experience had taught me that the best way to deal with adults was to confuse them at the outset by conflicting reports and a maze of side-issues, wherein the matter on hand became lost in a welter of new material. Having changed my clothes, I located my father in the front room reading the paper, so I gave him the Bubbles smirk he liked and lolled my head on his lap so he could fondle my curls as he read. Finding he did not respond, I grabbed his hand and placed it on my head for him.

Daddy, please don’t punish Alec for pushing me in the lake, I pleaded. He only did it because I said you were cleverer than his daddy. Aren’t I lucky to have the cleverest daddy in the whole wide world.

I had worked on this opening gambit for some time and decided it was foolproof. Some rough gypsies came to the lake and stole my submarine. Then they tried to take me away with them.

Why on earth didn’t they?

Because I ran off, daddy.

More likely they ran off. Their life is hard enough without you in their caravan.

My father’s comment hit deep because of another incident the previous month, when I had decided to leave home rather than face up to what I had done to Alec. I found some gypsies on Cudford Common and had tried my best to make them kidnap me as I had learned from the story-books. I followed their caravan for over two miles down a country lane, holding on to a strap which dangled from the horse and staring into the eyes of the driver as though hypnotized. None of the gypsies took any notice of me, so I climbed onto the caravan and said to the man, Hallo, Gypsy. I bet you’re going to kidnap me and bring me up as one of your own children. Don’t worry, I won’t try to run away. I’ll dye my hair black with berry juice, then you can show me how to make clothes-pegs.

Nobody answered, so we jogged along in silence till we came to Liddale. Here the caravan stopped, where the driver lifted me down and carried me into Liddale police station like a parcel. Constable Bull recognized me at once, and said so. Why, if it ain’t Gypsy Pook! he exclaimed wittily.

I dunno what this young ’un’s up to, but ’e keeps pesterin’ us to kidnap ’im, the gypsy explained. Jes’ you warn him to stop jumpin’ on our caravan and leave us be.

It seems strange that I should be in this predicament and that Alec should be in Cudford Hospital having three stitches put in his head, just above the left ear, all because of a church. Alec and I had had a terrible row about the comparative heights of Cudford Cathedral and St John’s Church. At first I thought he was joking to think that St John’s Church steeple was anywhere near as tall as the Cathedral but Alec was adamant, despite our personal visits to both sites.

All I can say is that you need glasses, I told him.

All I can say is that you need a brain, he retorted. And what’s more—I don’t like Arsenal, so there!

Your Roman coin is a fake!

Only an idiot like you would collect dirty old tram tickets!

Your house smells of cabbage and dead rats!

Your ears stick out like railway signals!

Your mouth reminds me of a dustbin with the lid off!

During the familiar pattern of juvenile argument we had walked to the beach near the pier, where we began to back up our words with stones. Owing to the nature of the missiles we stood further and further apart, until barely within throwing distance. By sheer chance a particularly long throw of mine hit Alec above the ear, cutting the skin under the hair, so that blood ran down his neck on to his shirt, and it was this unfortunate accident which made me decide to run away from home. This was my second attempt to abscond. On the previous occasion I stowed away on a merchant ship in the docks, bound, according to the flag on the stern, for Brazil, a country I considered to be sufficiently far removed from England for my personal safety against the threats of Alec’s long-suffering mother.

I had taken the precaution of secreting myself