Inkerman Writers - Mike Watson : Archive

He loved his garden but just how much was about to be revealed...

Putting Down Roots

I love my garden. There are lawns, trees, ponds, flowers, vegetables and a path that meanders to a shed. Every year there are beautiful flowers, plump vegetables and juicy fruit. I ’ve got green fingers it’s true….but what nobody knows, not even my wife, is that I’ve also got green arms and legs….and toes that have stretched and grown long and thin and white….just like roots.

It was Spring when my body began to change. I’d sown the first rows of broad beans and after repeatedly washing my hands I couldn ’t remove the green stain that covered the tip of each finger. Even using a scrubbing brush made no difference; it was as if I ’d been fingerprinted on a pad of indelible green ink.

At first I thought the marks may have been caused by a chemical or dye from the broad bean seeds but after a week I changed my mind. The “green” had spread on both hands and now covered each finger down to my knuckles. It looked like I was wearing weird mittens and it was no longer a stain or a patina of green but instead the colour had deepened so much I could literally feel it under my skin.

I was neither alarmed of frightened in fact quite the opposite because, as I flexed and stretched my fingers, the pain of arthritis I had learned to live with since I ’d retired had gone. And I don’t just mean diminished or subsided or temporarily numbed….it had utterly and completely vanished. The relief I felt was as if splinters of wood had been deftly and expertly removed from every finger joint.

By the beginning of April netting was in place to protect the broad bean shoots from wood pigeon attack, peacock butterflies had emerged from hibernation, trees were coming into leaf and the “green” had travelled further. As well as my hands, both arms up to my shoulders were the colour of daffodil stems. And there was a fresh suppleness in my wrists and elbows that, for the first time in many years, made lifting, pushing and pulling an effortless, joyous and painless activity.

Around the house I had taken to wearing gloves and long sleeved shirts and at bedtime I put my pyjamas on in the bathroom.

“I hope you don’t me saying this Mike,” began my wife one morning at breakfast, “but you’ve become a bit….well….a bit messy.”

I was about to reply but before I could draw breath she continued,

“No. Messy is the wrong word.” She spread marmalade thinly across the lightly toasted whole wheat bread and then, as if suddenly finding the solution to a mental crossword, she announced,

“Slovenly….that’s it….you’ve become a bit slovenly.”

Compared to my wife, who is always exact, tidy, well presented and conscious of her appearance, I am I suppose slightly ….well, slightly casual. But slovenly! I put down my coffee mug and responded,

“Slovenly? What do you mean slovenly?”

She quartered her toast with surgical precision, took a sip of tea from her cup, dabbed her lips with a serviette and replied ’

“I accept your explanation about having to wear gloves because of an allergy. Goodness knows though why you haven ’t seen Dr. O’Brian. It’s been well over a month now.”

She took another sip of tea.

“But it’s not just the gloves it’s….it’s the beard and….” There was a tone of exasperation creeping into her voice. She waved a hand in the air as if batting away a persistent midge,

“and the hair. It’s so….well, so slovenly!” She posted the final quarter of toast into her mouth and began to chew.

I hadn’t shaved or had a haircut since the day the “green” had first appeared on my fingers and in that time, my beard had grown vigorously covering my cheeks, chin and throat and it was the same shiny light brown as my mop of hair. Gone was the ever present and embarrassing bald patch and gone was every thread of grey. As the “green” was making its journey….and that’s how I regarded it….as a “journey”….I was slowly changing as well and I was enjoying sharing the ride. I felt better ….I felt fitter….healthier….I felt rejuvenated. Where would the journey end? I had no answer and I was seeking no answer. There was such calmness and serenity in my mind, there was no room left for anxiety or apprehension. And, I had also developed a youthful stubborn streak that arrogantly declared ….if I don’t want to shave….I won’t! And if I want to grow my hair long….I will!

“Annie,” I smiled, “the allergy is just a minor skin complaint and as for seeing Dr. O’Brian….why waste his time? I feel fine, no, not fine, I feel great. I feel better than I have done in years. Besides …,” I reached across the table and touched her hand, “….you didn’t complain last night.”

A blush bloomed on her cheeks and she giggled.

“No, because in the dark I couldn’t see how slovenly you are!”

During the first few days of May the swifts arrived from Africa returning to their nests beneath our eaves. Fruit bushes sparked with blossoms of pink and cream. The scent from the flowerbeds was perfume sweet and in the pond the smiles on the goldfish widened as they enjoyed their daily swim-by-take-away of young comma shaped tadpoles.

And my toes had begun to grow.

May is a busy time. The garden is large. The days are longer and I was spending all my time outside. Sometimes I would dig, sometimes sow, sometimes prune, sometimes mow and sometimes I would simply sit on the decking outside my shed and dream into the sun .

Annie was perfectly content to spend her time in the house while I “pottered about” in the garden. She enjoyed the flowers I brought and the fresh fruit and vegetables. She made delicious pies and crumbles with apples or blackberries, rhubarb or plums. And the wines she produced using a wide variety of ingredients ranging from pea pods to quince were guaranteed to either quench your thirst, demand a refill or occasionally convince you all your teeth had gone soft! This arrangement suited her. It suited me.

The canvas chair creaked as I sat down and unscrewed a flask of coffee. In the warmth of the sun I could smell the preservative oil on the decking beneath my feet and the creosote on the planking of the shed. I was hot from preparing the ground for a bed of climbing French beans and my t-shirt had dark patches of sweat. Looking at my bare arms I noticed that, as usual, being exposed to the sun since breakfast the colour of my skin had darkened and intensified to the green hue of laurel leaves.

I wore a pair old walking boots for gardening and the leather was scuffed and cracked and the treads had long since been worn smooth from miles of hiking but they were as comfortable as slippers.

Normally I would wear those boots from dawn to dusk and they’d be like a second skin on my feet but on that Thursday afternoon in May they suddenly began to tighten, particularly at the toe end. Wriggling my toes didn ’t help so I quickly undid the laces, pulled off the boots and knocked them upside down against the decking. I expected to see small stones or earth tumble out to provide an explanation for the discomfort but nothing appeared. So I pushed my fingers inside each boot again thinking to find something lodged inside but they were empty. It was then I noticed my socks. They were stretching and elongating. They were writhing and straining.

Could it be, I thought, that some creatures had found their way into my socks? Caterpillars? Worms? Beetles? Centipedes? The image of mini-beasts exploring my feet and entwining their cool scaly bodies between my toes had me yanking off my socks and flinging them in disgust to one side.

It was my toes that were twisting! It was my toes that were entwining! It was my toes that were slowly and inexorably growing longer! And, like the antennae of snails, each toe was exploring and sensing its immediate environment.

After five minutes the toes became still. The canvas chair creaked as I leaned forward to examine my feet. My toes varied in length, some were about ten centimetres while others had stretched to about sixteen centimetres. Cautiously I reached down and touched the little toe on my left foot, although having more than quadrupled in length it was now a misnomer to call it “little”. I felt the pressure of my finger on it and when I stroked the skin my stomach filled with a tickling sensation.

With both hands I bunched my toes in fist tight grips and then coiled them like thin snakes around my fingers and eventually bent them backwards until they touched my ankles. Every toe tapered to a point and every toe at its end had a meagre shadow instead of a nail. All the toes had the texture, colour and shape of dandelion roots but were as pliable and malleable as strips of dough.

That night in bed I took off my gloves as usual but kept my socks on to ensure the elastic bands securing my toes to the balls of my feet didn ’t slip off.

The first crop of broad beans was harvested in July and every afternoon, drinking and dancing, a confetti of butterflies enjoyed a party at the buddleia.

As a compromise to my wife’s wishes, my hair was combed and tied back into a ponytail and I trimmed my beard on a regular basis. She didn ’t accuse me anymore of being “slovenly”. She now labelled me “Bohemian” although I wasn’t quite sure what she meant, I did become excited by her mischievous grin when she said it.

One evening I inadvertently overheard part of a telephone conversation between Annie and her sister Susan. Living at opposite ends of the country they make frequent calls to each other but my attention was drawn to this particular conversation because much giggling and chuckling punctuated it. I heard my name mentioned a couple of times then caught the phrase, “…. it’s like his sap is rising….” followed directly by more emphatic girlish tittering.

Never before had I felt fitter, stronger and more agile. I had lost over a stone, reduced my waist measurement by over an inch and was standing straighter and taller. As a necessity, I had discarded the old walking boots for a large pair of Wellingtons to accommodate my feet. My toes had eventually stopped growing, however, they were now split and divided.

It had been a slow but gradual process during the last few weeks. Many side shoots had sprouted from my long tapering toes and, from those shoots, numerous smaller and thinner strands fanned out like white hairs.

Above the ground, the fibrous growth at the end of each foot had a random and haphazard pattern ….a floppy chaos of loose ends. But when they penetrated the earth, each shoot, strand, thread and fibre had an individual purpose and direction. I felt them burrowing and invading the loam, exploring and investigating and analysing. I sensed them relentlessly seeking purchase and anchorage until they inevitably secured their grip on the dark realm that surrounded them.

No longer did I seek relaxation in the canvas chair on the decking next to the shed but instead, with my arms by my side, legs together and feet firmly rooted to the ground I pointed my face to the skies and swayed like an exotic dancer in harmony to the rhythm of nature.

Having no immediate neighbours and secure in the knowledge that I couldn’t be seen from the house, or that Annie wouldn’t venture into the garden unless it was absolutely essential, I began to spend more and more time, dressed only in shorts, putting down roots in the soil.

My chest and back were tanned and my hands, arms and legs down to my ankles were the colour of cucumber skin. I didn ’t feel the chill of a north-easterly breeze or the intensity of a mid summer sun. A sudden shower could wet my hair and beard and saturate my shorts but rain simply slipped from the rest of my body like pearl drops down a window.

And when I stood in the soil, my eyes closed and swaying side to side and back and forth, I experienced a contentment and peace that was unique to my life. And I felt such a closeness to the garden that I realised the feeling extended further than love ….it was a belonging.

As July turned to August, fledgling swifts skated on the sky strengthening their wings for the imminent arduous flight to Africa. Red and black currants dotted the bushes and the brambles were ripe. For me, it now felt natural to stand in the soil and there was a growing stubborn reluctance at the end of each day to extricate my root toes and fold them back into the artificial environment of Wellingtons.

That summer the garden was fat. It was swollen with life. It was plump with vitality. The lawn was lush and springy and in the borders the flowers were tall and strong and petal bright. Small frogs crouched on lily pads and the goldfish splashed in the shower of the waterfall. Never before had there been such an abundant harvest of carrots, spinach, potatoes, peas, beans and onions. And the branches of the fruit trees strained to support their yield of apples, plums and pears.

It was a season of glorious days and soft warm nights, of dew sparkled mornings and evenings melodious with bird song. A perfect time when you hoped everything would stay the same ….wished that all would remain constant.

But….October came. The swifts had already started their long journey south, bats were seeking dark corners for hibernation and ….my hair was falling out.

The changes to my body were rapid and dramatic. During the final week of September I had spent every day deep inside the rows of runner beans swaying in chorus to their tangling of stems, rustling of leaves and chaffing of pods. Seven days later the bald patch had returned to the crown of my head like an ugly scabrous infection and my beard was grey.

Normally, thirty minutes was all I ever needed to mow the lawn but it now took two hours. The cutter was boulder heavy, my back felt split, arm muscles burned, arthritis had returned with a vengeance to my joints and exhaustion covered me like a cloak of lead.

By the end of October standing up straight was painful. I walked with a slight stoop and, as well as socks, I wore gloves in bed.

“That was Susan on the phone,” said Annie as she walked into the kitchen. “She’s at her wits end worrying about her operation next week.”

“Go and stay a few days,” I suggested. Annie looked at me and the concern on her face was all too obvious.

“I wish you’d go and see Dr. O’Brian.”

“I’m fine.” But I knew I didn’t sound convincing.

“Mike you’re not fine. You’ve lost weight. You complain you’re always cold. You look tired and worn out.”

“Thanks Annie.” I gave a feeble laugh but quickly turned my head to hide the fact another tooth had fallen out. “I’ve just been working too hard in the garden that’s all. Go to Susan’s. You know how she appreciates her big sister being there.”

Annie began to fill the dishwasher but then she spun round quickly,

“I’ll go on one condition. You make an appointment with the doctor.” Her raised eyebrows emphasised her insistence,

“Mike?”

“Okay. I’ll phone this afternoon.”

She smiled, nodded once in affirmation of victory and then returned to stacking the dishwasher.

I had no intention of seeing a doctor. And I had no intention of any doctor seeing me with my hair falling out in clumps, arms and legs the colour and texture of old sprouts and bundles of toes tied under my feet like striated hooves. No doctor could offer diagnosis, nor suggest remedy or prescription ….or even guarantee a recovery in the future. Thing was….neither could I! I felt tired. I felt weak. I felt hollow and limp. I wanted to sag and close my eyes. In the ground, with my toes rooted steadfastly, I did feel slightly better ….less lethargic and less delicate but nevertheless still weary and eager for sleep.

At four o’clock Annie kissed me for the last time. I watched her taxi turn the corner then I closed the door and made my way to the garden.

Close to the shed, near an ancient apple tree, I had prepared an area of soil about a metre square. I had removed stones and pulled out itinerant and invasive weeds such as ground elder and couch grass. A liberal layer of compost had been spread and then I ’d forked and raked the whole area until the loam was fine and crumbled and rich and ready.

In the twilight of that October evening I stripped off my clothes and stepped onto my patch of earth. Immediately, I experienced the familiar tingle as my roots spread avidly sideways and downways and everyways searching out nutrients and purchase in the fecund environment which was their dark home. I closed my eyes and relaxed …. serene…. calm.

The wheel of life….it slowly and surely turns. Somewhere in a nearby copse a tawny owl screeched and beneath a rising moon a small brown mouse nervously twitched its whiskers.

The wheel of life….it slowly and surely turns. And I am part of its eternal movement.

Grandpa Sam Martin was such a super hero to his neighbours that they called him “Shed Man”…

Shed Man

Every morning he walked to the shed, opened a trapdoor in the ceiling, and climbed out onto the roof. His orange cardigan, knitted by his wife, had two large letters sewn on the front …..S….M. He was Sam Martin, known by some as Grandpa Sam and others as….Shed Man!

From the roof he could see the neighbouring gardens and property; the yards and lawns and trees and bushes and ponds. Pets playing with balls, washing on lines, backdoors and babies in prams. All this and much more Shed Man could see and all his friends and neighbours up and down the street could see Shed Man. They waved to him and he waved back.

The extraordinary and wonderful adventures of Shed Man started almost two years ago. In fact it was a month after he ’d retired. Of course, back then he was only known as Grandpa Sam.

It was a Thursday morning and Mrs. Billings, who lived next door and was married to a merchant seaman, was leaning on the fence talking to Grandpa Sam ’s wife. She was grumbling about her tits.

“Bloody nuisance,” she wailed, “these tits I’ve got! They’re out of control!”

In the shed, Grandpa Sam put away his tool and, with growing interest, tuned into the conversation taking place outside.

“Bloody tits,” she went on and bent towards Grandpa Sam’s wife and whispered loudly, “I’d like to get rid of them!”

She nodded her head vigorously five or six times while swiftly repeating,

“Hmmm….yes I would….I would ….oh yes….hmmm….I would.”

“But aren’t they protected?” inquired Grandpa Sam’s wife.

Inside the shed, Grandpa Sam peeled his nose from the window and felt a hot flush surge over him. He opened the door to cool down. The two women at the fence swivelled their heads to his direction.

“Oh there you are Sam. Mrs. Billings has been telling me about her tits.”

Gingerly, Grandpa Sam stepped forward unable to unclasp his gaze from Mrs. Billings ’ ample bosom.

“Perhaps you could help,” said Mrs. Billings. “Your wife tells me you’re awfully good with your hands!”

Grandpa Sam then did three things very quickly….gulped….blushed….and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. It took a monumental effort to put a brake on his rapidly accelerating imagination and, to correct his balance, he leaned against the doorframe .

“Well….I….”stuttered Grandpa Sam. “ I don’t know….really I don’t”

“Now Sam, don’t be shy. Stop hiding your light under a bucket.”

“Busby,” corrected Mrs. Billings.

“Yes, busby. That’s right.”

“Tell you what,” suggested Mrs. Billings, still resting her upper body on the fence, “ why don’t you pop round and I’ll show you the problem.”

She smiled and Grandpa Sam noticed, smudged across her dentures, bright red lipstick looking like freshly spilled blood.

It was ninety minutes before Grandpa Sam returned from Mrs. Billings’ house. His eyes sparkled, a wry smile played on his lips and his whole body emanated an aura of delight and wonder as if he had recently returned from an experience of epiphany.

He sat at the kitchen table and stared at an invisible spot a hundred yards away. He swallowed, in one gulp, the mug of tea Grandma Martin had placed in his hands.

“Problem solved?” she asked.

There was no reply. Grandpa Sam continued to stare while his fingers roamed the undulating contours of the mug. Standing in front of her husband she asked again. The response was the same. There was none. It took a gentle poke in the chest to bring Grandpa Sam ’s attention back to the present time and place.

“Hmm?” he said, unsure why his wife’s face was a centimetre from his.

“I said, did you help Mrs. Billings with her tits?”

“Oh yes, “ replied Grandpa Sam and quickly retreated to the sink to wash his mug. “I cut a piece of wood to stand on her milk bottles.”

“And was she pleased?”

Gazing through the window, he wistfully answered,

“Oh, yes.”

“Well done Sam. You really are good with your hands.”

Where upon, the mug slipped from his grasp and smashed in the sink.

It didn’t take long for Mrs. Billing to spread the news around the neighbourhood about Grandpa Sam.

Two days later a nervous Miss Tweedy tapped on the front door. She was a spinster from no.34, an incorrigible romantic and avid reader of Mills and Boon. She explained to Grandma Martin her Tuesday afternoons were spent at the sewing club held in the annex of the Methodist church. Oh yes, Grandma Martin had replied. She knew of it but admitted she hadn ’t the patience to be a member of a stitch and bitch club. Miss Tweedy giggled and covered her cotton thin lips with a pale hand. Her regular partner, she continued, was Mrs. Billings from no. 43 and Mrs. Billings had told her, in glowing terms, all about Grandpa Sam ….the care he’d taken….how considerate….and how patient….and how accommodating.

And taking such a deep breath that her knees slapped together like wet fish, Miss Tweedy wondered if Grandpa Sam could pop round and put right a little problem she had.

Blooming with unsuppressed pride, Grandma Martin declared her husband would only be too pleased to “pop round” and “do what he could.”

Miss Tweedy veritably shivered with anticipation of Grandpa Sam’s impending visit and her coat hanger shoulders twitched uncontrollably inside the cream coloured polyester cardigan she ’d bought from House of Fraser.

Without being asked, she explained that a blockage was the problem. Probably needs a thorough plunging decreed Grandma Martin and assured Miss Tweedy that Grandpa Sam would come equipped with his long pole!

“You look exhausted,” observed Grandma Martin when later that evening her husband returned from Miss Tweedy ’s.

“Well, hadn’t been used for a long time. And you just can’t rush these jobs.”

“Quite right Sam.”

“And you have to be gentle with delicate equipment….take your time.”

“Bit of coaxing?” hinted Grandma Martin.

“Exactly. It was tight at first but a bit of lubricant in all the right places works wonders. ”

“Did you use your pole?”

“Yes….but in the end decided to replace the entire u-tube under the sink.”

“Miss Tweedy pleased?”

Grandpa Sam relaxed back in his chair.

“Relieved, I should say,” he paused for a moment as if trying to find a more appropriate word, and repeated, “yes, relieved.”

And then Grandpa Sam rolled down his sleeves and buttoned them at the wrists….a sure sign of a job well done.

In bus queues and shop queues, at Bridge clubs and W.I.s, from M and S to B.H.S. and on doorsteps and mobiles, word of Grandpa Sam spread. Discreet, clean, flexible were some words used and “spring chicken” and “bigger than you’d imagine” were others. For those who weren’t close neighbours he was referred to as “the man with the shed” and it was only a matter of time before that reference was shortened to “Shed Man”.

The widow Webster at no.15 spoke of him in reverential terms, as did Polly Sykes at no. 7, whose husband was in Durham Jail after he ’d been apprehended with a disposable camera and a drill in the women’s changing rooms in Debenhams.

And Miss Gray, of no26 and who worked in the reference section of the town library, enthused to her colleagues that she was “delighted” and “thrilled” that Grandpa Sam had serviced her appliance in the kitchen during the morning and in the afternoon tackled her sticking drawers in the bedroom.

Grandpa Sam was willing and able and undertook every task with enthusiasm, appreciating that job satisfaction was reward enough.

It was the McKay sisters at no.33 who suggested he stood on the roof. (Grandpa Sam regularly pruned their eleagnus and agapanthus) It would make sense, they said, if he stood on the roof then he could be seen. People would know if he was available. The lady who lived at no. 14, and whose husband had run off with a jockey from Scunthorpe, agreed. And said it was rather like the standard being hoisted at Buckingham Palace to signify a royal presence. Her neighbour at no.12 and whose husband had moved out to join a gay pride group in Cockburn Sodham was not quite convinced about the royal comparison saying it did Grandpa Sam an injustice but nevertheless thought the idea of standing on the shed roof splendid ….simply splendid.

And so, every morning, Grandpa Sam walked to the shed opened a trapdoor in the ceiling and stood on the roof. For months the arrangement worked without a hitch. A shout or “you hoo” from those close by, or a wave or a fluttering piece of material from those further a field would be sufficient to attract Grandpa Sam ’s attention and off he would go to his next assignment. Everybody was happy. Everybody was satisfied.

However, like all good things….there’s a thorn on a rose….a fly in the cream….toothache at Christmas. And there’s Sidney Slimewart!

He was the thorn….the fly….the toothache….the itch on your back you can’t reach. And he was the Health and Safety Inspector based at the Town Hall.

Sidney Slimewart was tall and thin. His shoulder blades protruded through his jacket like newel posts. His shoes were sleek, polished and black ….and so was his hair.

For two hours last April, Sidney Slimewart had presided over a meeting. A piece of marmalade, like a glistening boil, was stuck to his forehead. Nobody told him. Nobody laughed. His office smelled of warm socks, damp armpits and dead geraniums. Everybody in the Town Hall knew Sidney Slimewart ….but they made sure he didn’t know them!

One Friday afternoon he went to the coffee machine in the corridor. Three typists already there let him use it first. Like a crow hunched over a carcass, Sidney Slimewart bent forwards, inserted a coin, selected his choice and heard the plastic cup “thlop” on the perforated tray and watched it shudder as it filled up with decafe.The typists nodded at his back. Down the left shoulder of his jacket was a splash of bird dirt. A streak of dirty cream peppered with freckles of black. They didn ’t tell him. They didn’t laugh. They folded their arms and continued the conversation they’d been having before the arrival of Adolf, as he was commonly referred to by the girls in the typing pool because of his demeanour, manner and of course his initials.

“Auntie was ever so pleased. She’d been waiting for days. But he came twice on Wednesday. She was ever so thrilled. ”

“Is he expensive?”

“No, well, that’s the thing.”

“Whatever do you mean?”

“He doesn’t charge.”

“Doesn’t charge? What! You mean he’s free?”

“Hmm, well that’s what Auntie says.”

“He must have an ever so long waiting list.”

“Well no. That’s the other thing. He doesn’t have a waiting list. He just stands on the shed roof and if anybody needs him they just shout or wave. It ’s ever so simple really.”

The thin eyebrows on Sidney Slimewart’s face became active like black ants on the move. He spun round so quickly that the three typists jumped back in surprise.

“Shed you say! Stands on a shed roof!”

His words were bullet fast. He leaned over them and his tuna soaked breath made their eyes water.

“Stands on a roof! A shed roof!”

His decafe had turned cold by the time the three typists were allowed to scurry away but Sidney Slimewart had all the details and information he needed to pay a visit on this ….this….Shed Man.

Grandma Martin heard a persistent, determined knocking on the front door that brought to mind the hammering of nails into a coffin lid. At first glance, she was convinced an undertaker had come to call. A tall, thin man confronted her. He was dressed in a suit that was shiny and black as his hair and shoes. Under his arm was wedged a briefcase with the letters S.S. embossed on the flap above the clasp. Grandma Martin noticed the zipper on his trousers was undone but didn ’t like to mention it.

“I’m from the Town Hall.”

Never before having such an important visitor standing on her front step, Grandma Martin quickly fluffed up her hair, stood to one side and almost curtsied.

“Oh, please come in….do.”

As Sidney Slimewart eased past her, she sniffed a fetid aroma that reminded her the cat litter under the stairs needed changing.

He perched on the edge of the sofa and from his briefcase produced a file and tapped it twice with his middle finger. Raising his eyes to Grandma Martin, he spoke in the manner of a person delivering cataclysmic news.

“My official visit,” he stressed the word “official”, “concerns a Samuel Martin. We’ve received information, which frankly is quite disturbing. I am here in my official capacity, ” again he stressed the same word then paused, sat upright and continued, “in my official capacity as Health and Safety Inspector to speak to a Samuel Martin. Is he here? ”

It took Grandma Martin a few moments to realise it was her husband to whom the visitor was referring. He ’s not been called Samuel Martin since, well since he’d been christened at St Aidan’s and that was a long time ago when the world was black and white. She was confused. She was worried. What had grandpa done? Why, he never left the house except to help the neighbours. She ’d had porridge for breakfast, a pair of tights were soaking in the sink and later that morning she was going to Tesco for a piece of haddock. And now, here was a gentleman from the Town Hall, no less, on official business, an inspector wanting to speak to her husband. Oh dear she thought and sat down before her trembling legs gave way.

Sidney Slimewart asked again and this time his words sounded as if they were coated with hard metal.

“Is he here?”

“Yes….”blurted Grandma Martin. “Well, no….he’s ….he’s….”

Sidney Slimwart leaned forward

“Yes?”

“He’s in the garden,” Grandma Martin burst out.

“Ahh haa!”

“Down at his shed.”

“Ahh haa!”

Sidney Slimewart rose to his feet.

“Garden this way is it?”

And he strode past a tearful Grandma Martin, through the kitchen and into the garden where immediately he spied Grandpa Sam standing proudly on top of the shed; his orange cardigan radiant in the morning sunshine.

Sidney Slimewart narrowed his eyes and his mouth twisted into a thin, tight, pale scar.

“Shed Man I presume,” he whispered and he squeezed his right hand into a fist, “gotcha!” He marched down the path but was halted by a piercing shriek of “co-eee!” from the window of no. 19 where Mrs. Needham was trying to attract Grandpa Sam’s attention by waving a piece of flimsy, white material.

“Could you spare a few minutes,” she hollered and with her glasses reflecting in the sunlight like an urgent semaphore she continued, “ I’ve got something stuck in the bathroom. Geoff’s still at the hospital with his toe and I need a pair of strong hands!”

“Say no more, dear lady,” shouted Grandpa Sam. “ I’ll fetch my equipment.” And then with a theatrical flourish announced,

“Shed Man’s on his way!”

However, all his enthusiasm wilted and shrivelled when he abruptly bumped into a tall, dark figure standing on the path. Behind a rolling bank of cloud, the sun became obscured and Grandpa Sam felt decidedly chilly when he heard the words descend on him.

“You and I….Mr. Samuel Martin….need to have a little chat.”

And chat they did have, albeit one sided and it turned out to be longer than a little.

The Health and Safety Inspector from the Town Hall officially warned Samuel Martin that he was in severe breach of regulations which had been implemented following lengthy and thorough discussions through committee procedures in accordance with directives and guidelines forwarded by central government to ensure that the health and safety of each and every resident of the borough was safeguarded and protected against any contravention of and breach of health and safety guidelines as formulated and instigated by elected councillors, committees and sub-committees of this borough.

Glassy eyed Grandma Martin slowly stirred her tea and the intermittent tinkling of metal against bone china was perfect accompaniment to Grandpa Sam ’s ponderous open-mouthed chomping of a plain digestive.

Sidney Slimewart continued in a similar autocratic manner for a further forty-five minutes. He informed Samuel Martin he had no licence or permit necessary to undertake maintenance and repair work. He had no qualifications ….no insurance….no P45….no V.A.T. He was vulnerable to claims for negligence and indeed expensive claims of compensation.

As for standing on a shed….he was labelled irresponsible….foolhardy….juvenile and accused of encouraging reckless behaviour and being a thoroughly bad example to younger people. Suppose he fell? Emergency services would be utilised ….doctors’ and nurses’ precious time would be diverted….hospital bed taken up….depriving others of their entitlement.

The clasp of the briefcase snapped shut. Sidney Slimewart rose to his feet.

“We are agreed then….this nonsense will stop. I’ll see my own way out.”

Apart from the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the room was quiet and it was five minutes before Grandma Martin spoke,

“Well,” she said feeling somewhat shell-shocked from the bombardment of words from their visitor. Grandpa Sam was slumped on the sofa staring into space.

“What were those things he was on about?”

“What things?”

“You know….asbos.”

“Asbos? Oh,” said Grandma Martin, “Asbos are people. They live in Australia.” She shook her head. “ No, I must admit, I didn’t understand that bit either.”

A week later Sidney Slimewart found a memo on his desk. It was from the Chief Executive Officer of the Town Hall. There were just three words ….MY OFFICE NOW!

“Shut the door Slimewart. You’ve two minutes to tell me about Samuel Martin.”

“Samuel Martin? What do you mean? Is there a problem?”

“Oh yes, Slimewart. There IS a problem. And you’ve got ninety seconds left!”

It was Sidney Slimewart’s first visit to the Chief Executive Officer’s room. It had panoramic views of the town, a thick shag carpet and a huge mahogany table with an intercom that happened to be switched on so that in the adjoining room the C.E.O. ’s secretary could hear every word.

Cynthia Crystal painted her fingernails with a bright red colour called Mexican Sunset, which she ’d bought half price at Superdrug, and listened intently as Adolf stuttered and stammered and told her boss, Mr.Needham about Samuel Martin, a shed, and a lady waving a flimsy piece of white material from an upstairs window.

While Cynthia blow dried her nails My Needham jumped to his feet and stalked aggressively back and forth across the shag pile.

“I’ve had letters of complaint about you! Which does not surprise me one bit. You’re an objectionable person Slimewart. You bully the people in your department. You ’re not a leader….you’re an intimidator….you enjoy breaking people. I work with you Slimewart and, God knows, I’ve tried to fine your redeeming qualities but it’s like honest politicians….they don’t exist. And….and….” He reached behind the mahogany desk and produced a large canvas bag full of letters and held it up like a headless plucked bird.

“And these….these are all letters and messages of support for Samuel Martin. They all speak of him in glowing terms….all the help he gives….his consideration….quite a few mention him always being there when needed….One person suggested Samuel Martin should be nominated for an O.B.E. Another called him a saint for all the succour he provided. This man, according to these letters, could walk on water ….never mind stand on a shed roof. And I’ll tell you something else Slimewart. My wife….yes my wife Mrs.Needham….actually told me that when I was at the hospital with my toe that Samuel Martin….and here I quote…. “performed an unforgettable service.”

“Hmm,” sighed Miss Cynthia Crystal next door in her small office and made a note of Grandpa Sam ’s address.

“And yes Slimewart,” Mr Neeham’s voice boomed through the intercom, “ there is a problem. Everybody on that street from number one to number sixty eight ….and that’s the entire street Slimewart. Everybody is standing on their shed roof like a bunch of ….bunch of….those bloody things on David Attenborough’s programmes….” He waved his arms around in utter frustration.

“Meercats sir,” came a distant voice through the intercom.

“Thank you Crystal…..” realising the machine had been switched on all the time Mr.Needham immediately stretched across his desk and pressed the “off” button. He faced Sidney Slimewart and with a glare that could scorch paint and snarled,

“Now….sort….it!” But before Sidney Slimewart had time to even turn the door handle another blast hit him,

“And get rid of that bloody price tag hanging from the back of your jacket!”

After Adolf scampered past her desk, Cynthia Crystal had sufficient time to let the girls in the typing pool know exactly what had happened. They were ready and waiting they replied.

Five floors down Sidney Slimewart left the elevator. He felt sick and his legs were shaking. He took the usual route to his office by way of the typists ’ pool and a most extraordinary sight greeted him. All the girls from Angela to Maggie and from Nancy to Zelda had removed their shoes and were standing on the top of their desks laughing and giggling. And they simply explained their behaviour to Adolf by saying they ’d seen a rat!

In the kitchen, Grandma Martin dips a garibaldi into a cup of tea. She smiles. On the radio, Woman ’s Hour has almost finished and then she’ll pop to the market for her weekly visit to that nice man who makes cushion covers. Such delicate hands, she muses, and strong too.

Wearing his orange cardigan, Grandpa Sam is on the shed roof. He’s wondering who will call to him first today. The sun shines and on a chimney a sparrow is dusting off its feathers. A window opens at no.29. Pierre, the sun tanned music teacher, leans out. He winks at Grandpa Sam and asks if he ’s any good at rubbing down a French horn. No, replies Grandpa Sam, nor blowing one either. He grins. Cheeky sod. He shakes his head. I ’m working harder now than I did before I retired. Maybe I need an apprentice. An extra pair of hands. No, maybe not. Still, it ’s nice to be appreciated. Nice to be known as well….by so many different people. Known….ha! Officially as Samuel Martin and, of course, Grandpa Sam and Shed Man. But….best of all he thinks….it’s nice to be known as….from the roof he looks all about himself….as….well….as a stand up sort of guy! He folds his arms across his orange cardigan and nods. Yes.

Nonch “You think your teachers were weird, well, wait till you read about “Flash” Gordon.”

Nonch

The Kinks were at number one. They dressed in black. Annie was my girlfriend. She dressed in black but had a better arse than any of the Kinks. I was fifteen and me and my mates were “nonch”.

“Nonch” was our word. It was short for “nonchalant”. Smudge had heard the word in a song by The Searchers. Smudge liked words. He looked it up in the dictionary.

Monday. Waiting to go into Biology. Smudge came walking down the corridor. “Walking” is wrong. He came swaggering down the corridor. I like words as well. He was chewing. He didn ’t join the queue but instead leaned against the wall and casually folded his arms.

He chewed. He arched his left eyebrow. He focused on a distant vision only he could see.

“What you doing Smudge?”

He didn’t answer so Tweedy and me went over and asked him again.

“I’m being nonchalant.”

Tweedy and me looked at each other.

“You what?”

“Nonchalant.”

“Nonchalant?”

“Yeah. Nonchalant.”

“Tell you something,” said Tweedy, “ Bug Atkins catches you chewing…. you won’t be nonchalant much longer.”

Smudge opened his mouth. We looked inside.

“I’m not chewing anything. I’m being nonchalant.”

“There you go again. What’s this “nonchalant” crap?”

“It’s a word from a Searcher’s song. I looked it up. It means you’re not bothered. Couldn’t care. You’re cool.” Smudge was on a roll now.

“Woolies window….yeah? That Kinks’ poster?”

We nodded.

“They’re standing sideways….yeah? Like they couldn’t give a toss. Well….that’s nonchalant.” He raised his eyebrows. “Okay? Get it now?

Tweedy and me smiled. “Yeah,” we said, “nonchalant.”

We leaned against the wall…. chewed our tongues. We were the Kinks….well….until Bug Atkins came storming around the corner.

“Get off that wall,” he screamed, “get into the classroom. Sit down! Shut up!”

Bug Atkins had toothache. He always had toothache. And forth-five boys sat silently at desks and watched as he leaned back, gaped his mouth and dropped whiskey from a pipette onto his yellow, rotten molars.

Pretty soon, the word “nonch” circulated school. By Friday groups of lads gathered in the playground. They leaned against walls. They leaned against bike sheds and bins. They chewed their ghost gum and they were the Kinks. Yeah, you really got me!

It was the following Monday, however, when we discovered what being “nonch” and “cool” was all about.

Assembly in the hall. Seven hundred boys standing in crooked lines. Teachers sitting on the stage. And there was Mr.Gordon. New teacher. Tall, thin, wearing a black suit. His thick bushy hair was combed back to reveal a white face and a mouth like an underline. While we sang “Jerusalem”, Mr. Gordon sat impassively with an expression of somebody facing a plain wall in another room.

After the hymn Nobby Barton, head teacher, announced,

“Bow your heads boys. Our Father….”

And a grumbling, mumbling ascended to the rafters.

“Look at him.”

“Who?”

“That new bloke.”

We glanced up. Mr. Gordon hadn’t moved.

“Is he dead?”

“Could be.”

“Nah, he’s just being “nonch”.”

“Nonch? You reckon?”

“I wonder how long he can keep still.”

“Forever and ever. Amen. Smith, Watson and Harris we shall meet in my study. We shall discuss what you were discussing. And then you shall reacquaint yourselves with Bambi. ”

While the other lads filed out to their lessons, we followed Nobby to his room and after a brief discussion shook hands again with Bambi ….his “dear” bamboo cane!

Last lesson was Geography and Tweedy, Smudge and me got a chance to get a good look at the new teacher Mr. Gordon.

He was standing at the door, which was unusual. Normally we waited at least five minutes before a teacher arrived. And when they did show up, you could smell the last drag of the fag or, in the case of Bug Atkins, the peaty aroma of single malt. But Mr. Gordon ….he was there. Quickly, he regarded the line of boys and then went into the classroom. He wrote his name on the board ….F. Gordon.

“Flash Gordon,” whispered Big Al, the smallest boy in the class.

“No,” said Mr.Gordon without turning around, “my name is not Flash. But your name is Alan. Is it not Turner?”

Big Al reddened. Smudge faced me and mouthed, “ how did he know that?”

I shrugged and took out my Geography book.

“Page forty-three,” said Mr. Gordon and his voice had all the quality of a ruler….straight, wooden and measured.

We all opened our books at the correct page; all that is except Bones Skelton whose top speed was crawl and couldn ’t count double figures.

“Page forty-three Skelton,” said Mr. Gordon without raising his eyes. “Help him Watson.”

I leaned across and found the page for Bones. Smudge looked at me. I looked at Smudge. We both looked at Tweedy and then we all looked at Mr.Gordon and thought,

“Yeah….this guy’s “nonch””.

The next morning the three of us were in the playground….striking a pose. Eyebrows arched. Chewing “gum”.

With ankles crossed and hands grasped together against my crotch, I leaned against the bike shed. Smudge ’s foot was on an empty milk crate and his forearms were folded across his raised knee. Tweedy had his thumbs hooked into his trouser pockets and was contemplating the mystery of distance. We reckoned we were three pop stars ….three idols….three icons. Suddenly we were four!

“Why you standing like that? Somebody farted?”

It was Sammy Jenkins known by all as Scalp because he always looked like Apaches had just attacked him. His head was shaved and he wore a permanent expression of pain as if arrows were embedded in his back.

“No Scalp. Nobody’s farted.”

“Anyway, what do you want?”

“And stop picking your nose!”

“That’s what he said!”

“Who said?”

“He said. That’s what I’ve come to tell you!”

“What are you talking about, Scalp?”

“That new bloke. What’s ‘is name….Flash.”

“What about him?”

“Said I needed pit props.”

“Pit props?”

“Yeah. Said if I keep mining my nose I’d need pit props.”

Tweedy, Smudge and me burst out laughing.

“That’s what they did!”

“Who did?”

“They did. The whole class. They laughed.”

“What did Flash do?”

“Nothing. Never laughed. Never even turned round. Kept writing on the board.”

“Well if he was writing on the board Scalp….how did he know you were picking your nose?”

Another arrow thudded into his back. Scalp winced and threw wide his arms.

“I dunno. He’s just weird!”

All the school was soon talking about Flash.

He caught three first year boys stealing chalk. It was all the rage to dip one end in red paint and pretend it was a fag. At a distance, especially on cold frosty days, I must admit it looked realistic. A joke about a donkey and two clothes pegs, hastily scribbled on a piece of paper never got further than the sender.

“Old joke,” said Flash “Return it to your pocket. And Mathews….”

“Yes sir?”

“Stop doing that under the table.”

Okay, so the boys he’d caught weren’t doing crimes of the century. I mean, they weren’t in the same league as, let’s say, when Bri Jeavons climbed the clock tower, stuck a chair on the spire, and then broke into the Catholic school and crapped on the head teacher ’s desk. Yeah,…. that was something.

But….but the thing about Flash was….he knew what was going on and he wasn’t even looking! He just knew! Thing was….how did he know? I mean….that donkey joke scribbled on a piece of paper. He couldn’t guess that! And Mathews fiddling under the desk….well, okay, I suppose he could have worked that one out.

But what about last Wednesday afternoon when he crossed a crowded playground. How did he know to duck a second before that football was due to smack him on the back of his head? And the way he kept on walking, without glancing back, and said,

“Watson….when you kick…. keep your head down and the ball will stay down.”

Ha! Thing was….he didn’t know I was aiming for his head. Ha!…or did he?

The back of Annie’s ear smelled of soap. She giggled, playfully slapped my thigh, and whispered,

“Stop it!”

Which meant….I had permission to carry on. The back of the cinema smelled of smoke. A man behind me coughed, poked me in the back, and whispered,

“Stop it!”

Which meant….it was time to leave.

“You look like Moses.”

“Hmm?”

“Moses in that film.”

I frowned. I had no idea what Annie was talking about.

“You’ve coffee froth all over your mouth. Looks like you’ve got a beard.”

She leaned across the table and dabbed my face with a handkerchief.

“There. That’s better. You’re clean shaven again.”

Friday nights were great. No school for two days. Annie. Cinema. Coffee bar. Saturday. Lie in. Play football. Watch football. And Annie. All day and all of the night. Yeah, Friday nights were great!

“I like the bit at the sea. Remember? You think he’s trapped. You think….what’s he going to do?”

Her eyes sparkled as she relived the film.

“And he stood there and raised his arms. Couldn’t believe it….the way the sea rolled back. And a path straight through the middle! And he took all those people across the bottom of the sea! ”

Annie sipped her coffee.

“Why are you laughing?”

“You need shave.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve grown a beard…. like Moses.”

I wiped the froth from her lips.

“There. That’s better,” I said, “your clean shaven again!”

She gave me a sharp kick on the shin.

“I enjoy watching weird things like that.” She paused. “Probably why I like you Mike!”

I felt a warm rush to my cheeks and quickly changed the subject.

“Huh! You think that’s weird….well,….”

And for the next ten minutes I told her all about the strange goings on at school with Flash Gordon.

On Monday a challenge was issued. Who could be the first to solve the mystery of Flash Gordon ’s “weird power”?

People had different theories. Some lads reckoned he used reflections on the windows. But even with the blinds down Flash caught Tweedy drooling over a magazine concealed behind a geography book. The magazine was confiscated. Tweedy wasn ’t bothered. It wasn’t his anyway. He’d pinched it at lunchtime from Scalp’s haversack while it was being used as a goalpost. Scalp wasn’t bothered either….he didn’t know it had been pinched!

Mirrors were another idea. Flash had rigged up the classroom with mirrors.

“ Mirrors! Do you think he’d go to the trouble of hiding mirrors just to catch people out? That’s a bloody stupid idea.”

We all fell about laughing. But, to make sure, me and Smudge checked. Of course, there were no mirrors or even hidden cameras as somebody else had suggested. So, how did Flash manage to see what was going on behind his back?

When I told Annie, last Friday in the coffee bar, she laughed and said,

“Maybe he’s got eyes in the back of his head!”

Hmm. Yeah. As likely as mirrors and hidden cameras!

“The field trip will take place a week on Thursday.” Flash’s voice had all the excitement of somebody reading telephone numbers. He swept his long bushy hair back over his head and then wrote the date on the board.

“Harris.” He spoke without turning around.

“ Sir?”

“Your book is upside down Harris.”

Hidden by the book, Tweedy had been flicking through a pack of playing cards his brother had brought back from Paris and had fallen in love with the ten of clubs. She had the biggest knockers Tweedy had ever seen!

“And Harris….put those cards away. We are studying coastal erosion not French landscapes.”

Tweedy mouthed,

“How does he do it?”

And all I could do was shrug.

It was less than an hour’s drive and the journey was spent in complete silence. The reason? Bug Atkins and his perpetual toothache!

“No singing,” he screamed. His face was like marble….hard and cold. Touching the back molars with his tongue caused him to wince and he barked out,

“And no talking!”

He returned to his seat next to Flash at the front of the coach, tilted his head back, and took a long swallow from his hip flask. At the back of the coach Tweedy produced a wallet full of nude photographs and passed them around. No singing ….no talking….yeah,….but plenty of dreaming and wishing!

The driver parked on the sea front next to a low wall. The tide was coming in and, on the cliffs, gulls were squabbling over nesting sites. Flash climbed onto the wall, pushed back his hair, and spoke in a voice as distant and boring as the horizon behind him.

“We shall follow the path to the top of the cliff and then proceed along the designated track to the next bay. Do not wander away from the path and ….”

“Do you hear what Mr. Gordon is saying boys?” yelled Bug who now stood next to Flash on the wall. “Are you listening Harris and Smith? Stick to the path! And for God’s sake Jenkins!”

“Yes sir?”

“Stop picking your nose lad!”

Everybody burst out laughing.

“Shaddup!” bellowed Bug. “And follow me!”

He lead the way across the car park, taking a quick swig from his hip flask and then joined the steep path that twisted up the cliff. By the time we ’d all reached the top it was obvious who the dedicated smokers were by the volume of hawking and gobbing. Flash gathered us together.

“Notice the bay. The town has developed along side the estuary. The cliffs on either side form a natural harbour. We shall continue. We shall proceed in single file and ….”

“And I’ll go first,” declared Bug. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes glassy like pebbles under water. Off he went, striding unsteadily forward.

“He’s pissed,” whispered Tweedy, “bloody pissed. Look…. he’s staggering. One wrong step and he’ll be over the edge. Yaaaahhh! Bang! A squashed Bug!”

Six places in front was Flash and without breaking step he said,

“Harris….keep your thoughts to yourself.”

Tweedy shut up but began to mimic the way Bug was walking. He started lurching from side to side and then pretended to lose his footing and staggered towards the edge of the cliff.

“Steady Tweedy,” I warned. “Stop mucking about. You’ll go over!”

But he paid no attention and continued to act like a drunk. Suddenly, he stumbled to his knees. He thrust his hands out to break his fall but when they struck the edge of the cliff it started to crumble. Frantically, Tweedy desperately tried to grasp any thing that would prevent him from sliding over the edge.

“Tweedy!” I screamed and jumped forward.

“Harris!” yelled Flash.

The next few seconds were a blur and out of focus. I had a frightening sensation of seeing the earth disappearing and an image of the sea and rocks hurtling up to meet me. Then ….black and quiet….as if the world had closed its eyes and was holding its breath. Gradually, sounds began to filter back ….a heart beat….a folding wave….the scream of a gull….and finally my name being whispered…slowly becoming louder….as if it were walking towards me….right up to my ear.

“Watson! Watson!”

My eyes sprang open and stared into the face of Flash Gordon. I wanted to speak but was unable to form any words. However, he knew what my question was.

“You fell. You landed on a ledge.” Turning my head, I could see the incoming tide spilling over the rocks about fifty feet below. “The ledge broke your fall and….” His voice sounded different. It sounded normal….human….as if he were carefully considering and selecting the most appropriate words. “and…. I think your ankle is broken.” To verify his point, a knife of pain stabbed me in the leg.

“You did a brave thing Watson.” I had no idea what he was talking about. He continued.

“I saw Harris beginning to slide off the cliff. I couldn’t get there in time. But you did. You pushed him back. The edge crumbled away and took you with it. ”

There was a shout. High above us, quite a crowd had gathered but they were all being mashalled to safety by Bug Atkins.

“We can’t go down,” said Flash. “So, we’re going up.”

The pain in my leg was burning. I couldn’t possibly climb.

“I don’t think I could sir!”

He turned carefully on the narrow ledge and crouched.

“Put your arms around my shoulders. Climb onto my back. Your ankle will hurt….but we can’t stay here.”

Physically, Flash was hardly bigger than me and I doubt he was any stronger but the tone in his command made anything seem possible. With his help, I heaved myself onto his back like a haversack. He stood and began the ascent to the top.

He never faltered. He never paused. I clung on and let him do all the work. And while I rocked back and forth against his shoulders, I realised what “ nonch” was all about. It wasn’t about posing or pretending to be something you’re not. Like me and Tweedy and Smudge thinking we were famous pop star because we imitated somebody else. While Bug Atkins blustered and bawled at the top of the cliff, Flash knew what needed doing ….and, well, just got on with it….he was his own person. Yeah…. that was “nonch”.

And there was something else I realised. As I leaned my head against Mr. Gordon’s neck, his long hair swayed back and forth like seaweed in a swelling tide. It was about Annie. Her arse was better than any of the Kinks. The back of her ear smelled of sweet soap and oh …. about Flash Gordon and the secret of his weird power.

As he carried me to safety that Thursday afternoon all those years ago….I saw them….two…pale….shiny marbles concealed by his long hair. Annie had been right…. He did have eyes in the back of his head!