Young 'un

Young 'Un

          As i meandered through the nostalgic part of my brainbox one day, I came across a small boy. Pencil skinny he was and afflicted with ubiquitous grubbiness. A light grey schoolshirt, button missing, drifted in and out of dark flannel shorts, the pockets of which only he knew, or wanted to know the contents of. His face was made out of grime and freckles, a touch of snot and a large dollop of curiosity which was etched across sharp, blue eyes. Dirt crusted knees, the left bearing a large brown scab, which no doubt would be receiving some attention later, were the things propping up this morsel of a lad. Black, wooly socks struggled to cling to pale, wiry calves, in fact, one gave up and slithered down to the half mast position. Scuffed brown sandles finished off the bottom of the little boy, while carrot coloured, curly, wild hair topped him off and made him look like a badly labelled firework that had gone off unexpectedly.

          I knew this boy, his eyes flicked from left to right with feral entrepeneurship. One week it was, 

" Penny fot' Guy!"

And the next week it would be over the back wall of the pub to collect the empty pop bottles. He collaborated with his pals every so often to extricate penny tray delights from the old lady at the sweetshop. One boy would distract her by asking inane questions about the confectionery on offer while the other boy would fill his pockets with treats. A quick role reversal would then ensue, allowing the other boy to similarly take his fill of tots and toffees. Then they would escape down the street like startled birds, whooping and calling like the wild Indians of their favourite T.V. shows. They so wanted to be Indians of the wild west, just because they got to camp out permanently and throw axes at each other. The sweet shop raid was occasional. Even in his tender years, Young 'Un knew not to kill the goose that laid the golden egg. Something the more supposedly erudite in power and business could learn from him today.

          Even though he wasn't a cub scout, bob a job week was acted upon  enthusiastically. Weeding, car washing and leaf raking, all provided a healthy return. This capital was generally spent on the things that small boys craved. There were cap bombs and comics, chocolate and chupa chups and bubbly gum and Beanos, and a mountain of tat which Young 'Un stashed under his bed in tins and shoe boxes.

          I knew this boy. Schadenfreude was his friend. He and his pals would nearly choke to death laughing at the misfortune of others. An ice cream would fall to the floor leaving a dry, empty cone. Somebody might fall into the canal. A park keeper, looking down his hosepipe just as somebody turns it on and the funniest, a neighbour, kicking their ball back from his garden, slicing it and breaking his own window. That was usually  Young un's job.

Young 'un always  had food in his belly, just enough. His bedroom was cold in the winter but he'd  mastered the art of getting undressed in five seconds and diving under the blankets to blow out warm air until he was comfortable. His biggest treat was on a Friday night if his dad was in a good mood,  he would give him money to buy chips and a bottle of dandelion and burdock. Hot chips, liberally  covered in scraps. He would take this treat to a wall somewhere to eat. Him and his pals divvied up all their booty equally but this treat wasn't  for sharing and to this day he loves to eat chippy chips and dandelion and burdock.

          I knew this boy. He was real. There wasn't  much love in his life but he didn't know any different and ignorance is bliss. He would find that out during his soul sapping journey through adulthood. He wasn't aware that his young life was spent in the cradle of a benign social democracy. He got free milk at Primary school. Dinner tickets at Secondary school. Households could afford to keep a parent at home and the streets were well policed although Young 'un didn't appreciate that so much. And he didn't know that the plutocrats were coming to sod it all up.

          I knew this boy. He looked up at me calculatingly. The corners of his mouth turned up as he reached a decision. 

" Penny fot' Guy?" He ventured and shrugged at me with his eyes. I smiled at him and reached for my pockets to fetch him some change. There was no Guy, it was fucking April. He took the money and smiled at me broadly. Then he flicked me the archer's salute, turned on his heels and scuttled off to penny tray heaven.

"WOOWOOWOOWOOWOO!"

"Take care of yourself Young 'un! I called after him but he wasn't  listening. Cos he never did.