The Lost Child

VI. CHILDHOOD

“Leaning on a Lamp-post”—George Formby

It’s years since I’ve seen one of those tellys. They look like a brown ice cube, and all the edges are rounded, and the screen’s a bit like a goldfish bowl. These days you never see them in people’s houses, and I bet they don’t even have them in museums. The old-fashioned tellys are so strange that most people coming across one might well be inclined to think, bloody hell, what’s that? That said, were I ever to clap my eyes on one of them, I’d be fascinated because of the memories it would bring up. I remember watching our set with Mam. Just the two of us on a Sunday afternoon, sitting in the living room of the new flat in Leeds and our Tommy asleep in the bedroom. I don’t know why, but I like to imagine a scene where I’m standing up tall in a cot and clinging to the top rail and peering in fascination at the flickering black-and-white images, but I know that, being six years old, I was sitting bolt upright next to her on the settee, my little legs sticking out, and I had both hands threaded neatly together in my lap as though I was trying to please her.

I remember the Arnhem Croft flat really well, but it sometimes makes me sad that I can’t remember that much about where we used to live in London. I know that it was small, and I’m sure that it had an inside toilet because in those days having a toilet in the house was still something of a big deal. Mind you, I can’t see Mam ever putting up with sharing a privy with other people. She seemed to take a lot of pride in insisting that we might not have had much, but at least we had standards, repeating it like it was a piece of scripture. What I do remember is that in the London living room there was a cupboard with a wooden train set that was stashed away, and I had to reach up and open a door and grab it from a shelf if I wanted to play with it. I wasn’t supposed to do this, but if nobody was looking, I knew that I could just about reach it. I don’t remember ever playing with the train set in Leeds, for after all, we had a telly now. Come Sunday afternoons it was just me and Mam, and sleeping Tommy, and the telly and the sharp smell of the gas fire if it was really cold out. I remember us once laughing together at a film that starred George Formby, who was gormlessly dashing about all over the place on a motorbike. He was funny, and we both loved the fact that he was behaving like a clot, but when the film was over, I’ve not got a clue what we did. Truth be told, I’ve no idea what we’d have done before the film, although I do know that, despite the evidence of a nice new bathroom in the flat, at some point every Sunday Mam stood me on a chair in the kitchen and gave me a strip wash, reminding me all the while that cleanliness was next to godliness.

What I do remember about London is that life was better outside the flat than in it. Our London street was quite wide, with tall houses on both sides and a café opposite us that we looked down on. There was a wall at the far end of the street, and if you got on your tiptoes and pulled yourself up, no doubt chafing the tips of your shoes as you did so, then behind the wall you could see slack water. I thought it was a river, or maybe a canal, but it was probably just the filthy runoff from some factory. However, as a child, I thought it looked splendid. After all, there was this mysterious body of water, and it was right at the end of my street. Of course, I’m pretty sure that I wasn’t allowed to go to the far end of the street by myself, so it must have been Mam who took me. I also remember going with her to a park that was under a bridge at the end of a main road. The park was little more than a steep, grassy hill that you walked up, and when you got to the top, you could look down and see right into a football ground. If it was a Saturday afternoon, then you could hear the noise and see the little spindly men running crazily around like clockwork toys, and I loved this and used to try and follow the match. Mam would smile and ruffle my hair. You’ve got lovely hair, Ben, but you’ll have to be careful that you don’t catch nits when you start up at school. If you do, they’ll shave it all off, and you’ll feel a right charlie. I looked up at Mam, who would usually be staring off into the distance, and then the sudden roar would tell me that somebody had scored a goal. You like your football, don’t you? And you know the names of all the players, don’t you? I’d nod confidently, but she’d just smile and say, give over with your fibbing.

On the way back to the flat she’d take it upon herself to remind me of the players’ names. Morrison, Chapman, Harvey, Connolley, Adamson, Connor, Firth, Young, Lewis, Appleton, and Smith. She’d laugh and then tickle me. Come on, you big soft lump, I know you can remember them, although come to think of it, I’ve no idea how she knew them. I suppose she must have memorized them from the papers, and she probably thought it was the sort of thing that boys ought to know. She’d make me practise the names till I got them right, and then she’d give me a gobstopper or an aniseed ball as a reward as we made our way back home. Come on, we’d better get a move on. Mam would reach down and take my hand, and with her other hand she’d push Tommy in the pram, and together we’d head off in the direction of the main road, where, during the week, the lollipop man patrolled the crossing when the children started to come out from school. This was the same school I was slated to attend come September. Once, when we were crossing the road right by the school, I noticed that one of my shoelaces had come undone, and so I stopped, and Mam bent down to tie it for me. Of course, in the end, I hardly spent any time at that school because we moved north to Leeds and left Dad behind.

I have a really clear picture in my head of the day a red double-decker bus got stuck under the bridge near the park, and how everyone came out and stood in the street and gloated. I don’t think anybody was hurt, but you’d have thought that the circus had come to town, for people were standing on the pavement and just gawping. I also have a good picture in my head of the rag-and-bone man trundling by our London flat with his horse and cart. Any old iron? I’d rush to the window and hop from foot to foot and beg Mam to take me downstairs and let me see the horse, and the few times that she did I could see that the horse looked even sadder and more clapped out than the rag-and-bone man. The man would slowly take his cart up the end of the street by the wall that held back the water and then do a clumsy U-turn and come rattling back with the same sad clip-clop sound. Any old iron? We never had anything to give him — nobody had — which makes me wonder why he bothered. At night Mam sometimes gave me an extra-big hug as she tucked me and Tommy into bed, and I liked that. I remember the train set, and the park and the slack water, and the rag-and-bone man, and the names of the footballers, and our Tommy in his pram, and the occasional extra-big hug. I also remember Dad. However, when we moved to Leeds, it was just me and Mam and Tommy and the telly, and George Formby behaving like a clot, and me and Mam used to laugh together on a Sunday afternoon while Tommy slept, and George Formby seemed to make her happy.

“My Boy Lollipop”—Millie Small

We soon got used to the fact that we didn’t have a dad, but it’s not like we saw that much of him when we lived in London. Me and Tommy used to go outside and kick our football on the grass that was beneath the balcony, before the council gravelled it over to make a play zone. When we finished, we’d go over to the side of the lifts where a rusty tap poked out of the wall, and we’d take it in turns to cup our hands and drink water until we couldn’t swallow anymore. One night we were asleep in our bedroom, and the next thing I knew I could feel Tommy shoving me, and when I opened my eyes, I could hear Mam crying, but I didn’t know what to do. I was the eldest, but I didn’t have any answers for this situation. Eventually I whispered to Tommy, let’s just go back to sleep. I was nearly seven and trying to be responsible. She’ll be alright, I said. Try not to fret. Things will be better in the morning. Tommy rolled over in his bed and closed his eyes, but I got my tiny transistor out from under the pillow and turned it on. I remember the song that was playing was “My Boy Lollipop,” but it’s a happy song and Mam wasn’t happy, so I quickly shut it off. I lay in bed with my eyes open, and I didn’t sleep that night as I was really worried about Mam.

“The Time Has Come”—Adam Faith

Every Sunday afternoon, me and Tommy used to sit cross-legged on the bright orange wall-to-wall carpet and watch the three o’clock film on the telly. Actually, first we’d watch the programme that showed the highlights of the best of Saturday’s football matches, and then we’d watch the three o’clock film. Mam would be lying on the settee resting. I’m tired, so you two please behave yourselves. After the film we’d go out and play football, as we had no interest in Songs of Praise, or any religious programmes. Because it was just the two of us, we’d play shots-in with jumpers for goalposts, and if the ball went anywhere near a jumper, we’d always claim it was a goal, arguing that if it had been a real goalpost, it would have gone “in-off.”

The film I remember the most was called What a Whopper, and it starred somebody I’d never heard of called Adam Faith. Mam slept through it, but me and Tommy both liked it, and I loved one of the songs even more than I liked the film. I was about nine, and I decided that I wanted the record, but this was going to be tricky as me and Tommy didn’t get pocket money or anything like that, and so nicking it was most likely going to be the only option. On Saturday mornings I played football for an Under-10 side that met up in the city centre. I’d become accustomed to getting off the bus a stop early and then making a detour through the open market. Not the covered market, for that was always just setting up, and it was like Aladdin’s cave in there with a game row, a fish row, a butcher’s row, and even a pets row, which was actually my favourite. If, for some reason, I wanted to explore the covered market, I’d do that on the way home, but the open market was always set up before the covered one, and so I fell into the habit of pottering around there, and soon made myself familiar with nearly every stall, particularly the record shop that sold 45s with the centre bits missing. Thinking back, I reckon they must have been rejects from a jukebox or something, but they seemed okay to me, and I learned to idly flick through a few racks, and then, when the bloke wasn’t looking, I’d slip one or two 45s inside my jacket and trap them against my side by tucking in my elbow, but not so that it looked like I’d broken my arm or anything. I’d carry on looking for a while, and then casually lean down and pick up my kit bag and saunter off out of the market and in the direction of the team bus. I must have been quite good at this thieving because I never got caught. One morning I was looking through the records, and in amongst all the stuff by Blue Mink and Herman’s Hermits and The Small Faces, I saw “The Time Has Come” by Adam Faith, and I remembered it from the film.

That afternoon our Tommy was late back from his own Saturday game even though it was only around the corner, but by the time he walked into the flat and slung his bag down on the floor, I’d played the record a thousand times. Here, Tommy, you’ll never guess what I’ve got. The zip on his jacket was broken, and he tended to hold it together with one hand as he walked. He let go of his jacket and slumped himself down on the settee and gave me that slack-jawed, come on, impress me look, so I played it again. His face didn’t change a bit. Well, I said, don’t you know what it is? He stood and picked up his bag. It’s from that film, isn’t it? The truth is, our Tommy must have been only seven, but he was pretty much obsessed with football. Pop music meant nothing to him. What a Whopper. I told him the title of the film, but he shrugged and said he was starving and asked what we were having for tea. It seemed like he was always starving, which didn’t make any sense as Mam always wrapped us both some dinner money in pieces of paper and left it for us on the kitchen table. I’d asked him a few times if he was being bullied, but he just shook his head and clammed up, so I didn’t push it. Well, what’s for tea? He knew full well that we were having either beans on toast or spaghetti hoops on toast, depending on what was in the cupboard. I let the song finish and then went into the kitchen and started to make our tea, which was my job when Mam had to work Saturdays at the library.

When Mam eventually came back, I put the song on again. And then a second time. By now Tommy was downstairs and kicking a ball up against the garages, so it was only me and Mam in the flat. I started to play the record a third time, and she shouted from her bedroom. Wasn’t there anything on the telly? I took the 45 off the turntable before it finished, and then I turned on the telly. The science teacher at school, Mr. Thompson, had just got a colour set, and he was always going on about how great it was to watch football in colour. I knew we wouldn’t be getting a colour telly anytime soon, so there was no point in dreaming. About anything.

“Those Were the Days”—Mary Hopkin

Mam started to get into the habit of coming back from her job at the library and then going straight into her bedroom and taking off her work clothes. When she came out again, we’d still be sitting in front of the telly, watching whatever was on, and she always made the same joke about us getting square eyes. Sometimes she’d be done up if she was going out for a drink with that smug prat Derek Evans, but if she was stopping in, she’d just pour herself a drink and work on her stories at the kitchen table, and when she finished, she’d join us in front of the goggle box. We all liked Hughie Green and Opportunity Knocks. I remember Mary Hopkin with her long blond hair and that squeaky voice that she had. Me and Tommy were taken with her, probably because she seemed to win every week, but eventually we were desperate for somebody else to win. Anybody.

Our Tommy didn’t have homework, but I was swotting for my Eleven plus and hoping to pass it and then be accepted at the grammar school in town, so I always had plenty to be getting on with. Tommy, on the other hand, wasn’t the slightest bit interested in school as everyone knew that by the time they got to his year they were going to scrap the Eleven plus, so he wasn’t even going to have to bother trying. He’d be going to John Wardle’s Secondary Modern, which was the nearest school to our estate, and the hellhole I was dead keen to avoid. At John Wardle’s there was no such thing as a fair fight, and if you turned your back on the wrong kid, you were likely to get bricked. Apparently there was a small chance that if I got in, Tommy might join me at the grammar school in town because if you had a brother that was already going there, then they could put you on a waiting list. But our Tommy didn’t seem too fussed about where he might end up. I was a bit torn. A part of me liked the idea of us both going to the grammar school in town, but another part of me was ready for a bit of separation.

At night, after Mam had told us that it was time to go to bed, we’d lay in the dark and talk for a while before falling asleep. Usually about things like whether we’d be able to go to the feast when it came to the moor this year, or I’d tell him what it was like at the new Olympic-size baths where our school had started to take us older boys for swimming, or I’d ask him if he thought we’d ever live in a bought house — either a bungalow or a semi — without us having to win the pools or something. I’d nearly always finish by asking Tommy if he could imagine what it might be like to freewheel down a steep slope on a bike, but I’d never give him a chance to answer. I bet it’s champion, I’d say. Owning a bike was my new obsession, but Tommy always wanted to talk about the same thing. How come our dad never came to see us? Didn’t he care for us anymore? Sometimes I’d get angry and ask him how the chuff was I supposed to know? It’s not like I can read minds, you know. Tommy would go quiet and say that he needed new football boots with screw-in studs, not the moulded plastic Gola boots that he’d been playing in for ages now. They were too small, and they pinched his feet, and people laughed at him for not having screw-ins as he was the best player in the school and if anybody should have them, he should. Last Christmas he wrote a letter to Dad and he gave it to Mam, who said she’d post it to him. In the letter he asked for a pair of new boots, but he never heard back from Dad, and Mam didn’t say anything. I’d given up believing in him ages ago, but his disappearance really seemed to get to our Tommy. There was a boy in my house at school who liked to tell everyone that his dad had left them and gone to Australia. I was a bit jealous as he seemed to me to be really lucky, for unlike us, there was a definite end to the story of his dad. According to Steve Pamphlet, his dad had gone down under to Australia, where there was sunshine all the time and everyone had loads of money and big houses. He said that his dad had told him that Australians didn’t allow Jimmy Jamaicas into the country to steal your jobs, and Aussies didn’t take cheek from anybody, including the bosses, and in Australia things were so good that there was no need to even think about buying anything on the never-never. Steve Pamphlet always started off talking about himself by confidently bringing up Australia and his dad, and it occurred to me that maybe I should try something like this. I could tell people that my dad’s in America, or even in jail. That would be different.

Once, after Steve Pamphlet had been bragging again about his dad and Australia, I came home and waited until Mam got back from the library, and then I came straight out with it and asked her if she knew where Dad had gone off to. She just looked at me and then went into her bedroom and shut the door. When she came back out, she told me to turn off the telly as she wanted to say something to me. You’re nearly eleven now, and so I can talk straight to you. Your dad’s gone off back to where he came from. Maybe he’ll turn up one day, but if he does, he’s not coming in this flat. She made me promise that if on the off chance he ever showed up when she wasn’t around, then I’d not let him in the flat. I nodded. I’ll not let him in. Ben, she said, this is important. She pushed my shoulder back. I know, I whispered. I could feel tears welling up behind my eyes. I promise. But what was I supposed to do, leave him on the doorstep? Anyhow, nobody ever knocked at our door, except gypsies selling clothes pegs and bits of lavender, or fat blokes in tight suits trying to sell you junk to clean your kitchen with, or creepy-looking Avon ladies. Your father’s left me to cope with the both of you by myself, and we’re doing alright. We don’t need him, do we? I shook my head, but realized that Mam probably wasn’t telling me the whole truth. Ben, she said, we don’t need him, do we? We’re better off without your father. I nodded. That’s right, and have you looked into that paper round yet? This time I shook my head. Well, see if you can’t get it, love. We need all the help we can, and you’re the man of the house now. She paused. Where’s your brother?

“Hey Jude”—The Beatles

While Mam was around, badgering us to unpack our suitcases and get settled in our new bedroom with its nice comfy twin beds and flannelette matching sheets and pillowcases, the woman was really nice. She even brought us a tray with three cups of tea on it, and a big plate of custard creams and digestives. Mam smiled and thanked the woman, and then Mrs. Swinson backed out of the bedroom and said she’d give us some time to ourselves and told us that there was no rush. She said this twice, about there being no rush. Tommy and I began to cram the biscuits into our mouths, but Mam got mad and said we had to behave properly. She insisted that Mrs. Swinson was a kind lady, so we had to be careful not to do anything to annoy her. Mam looked around the room. She has a beautiful home, she said. Me and Tommy nodded and promised that we would behave, but neither of us took our eyes off the biscuits.

Eventually we stood up and followed Mam down the stairs and into the hallway, where we watched the two women talking for a minute or so until Mrs. Swinson opened the front door. Mam looked back at us both, then wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Mrs. Swinson closed in the door quickly and didn’t even give us time to listen to Mam’s footsteps finally fade away before she started up on us about our clothes and about Mam. Upstairs, she said, and get yourselves in the bathroom. Once you’ve had a good wash you can come down, and then we’ll have to go out and try and get you kitted out with something respectable to wear. And dry yourself properly in your small areas or you’ll get chapped. She didn’t smile, but then again we’d already noticed that she never smiled. Later, after tea, we had to do the washing-up, and she shouted at us to be careful with the dishes as they were antique. We were to take it in turns. One day I’d wash and Tommy would wipe, then the following day we’d change around, did we understand? We nodded but tried not to look at Mrs. Swinson, for she’d now plonked herself on a chair and was slowly rolling a stocking down the full length of her veined leg.

That first night we lay in our beds and wondered what our new school would be like. Tommy was ten now, two years younger than me, and Mam had told us that in this town we’d both be going to the same school, as juniors and seniors weren’t split up. Mrs. Swinson had already taken us out and bought us our new school uniforms, but everything was too big on us. I didn’t say anything to Tommy, but it occurred to me that we might have to fight at this new school, and I worried that it might well be the type of school where there was no point in reporting anything to the prefects as they might be the ones doing most of the beating up. That’s how it was at my grammar school, and I reckoned that it was no doubt even rougher at John Wardle’s. On our estate it was always me who had to scrap and stick up for our Tommy, as kids obviously saw something that made them want to pick on him, but Tommy couldn’t fight to save his life. However, with me it was different, and although I was never going to be cock of the school or the estate, I also wasn’t ever going to back down. I knew I was clever, as I was already top of the class at the grammar school, and I did like to show off a bit, so hardly a day went by when I didn’t hear the words “Do you wanna make something of it?” coming out of my mouth. However, on Monday morning, I soon discovered that things at this new school seemed to be a bit easier.

After we’d got through the first couple of days, I started to keep an eye on Tommy, and we began to hang out together. We seemed to always get chosen on the same side for football, but these kids didn’t have a proper ball, only a dirty grey tennis ball. Everyone quickly worked out that our Tommy was the best player by a mile, but being a new boy, he inevitably took a bit of a kicking, and so even when we were supposed to be having fun, I still had to stand up for him and occasionally belt a few people. Back at Mrs. Swinson’s, we soon discovered that we were a disappointment to her and she was only interested in her three husky dogs and not much else. The drill was we were to come home, get changed, then come down for our tea and afterwards wash and wipe the dishes and pile them up neatly next to the draining board. Mrs. Swinson soon gave up asking us about our school or if we had any homework to do, and she just made it clear that after we’d finished our chores, we were allowed to go down to the basement and watch telly for one hour, and one hour only, and then we had to go to bed. She never came down there with us; she’d just sit upstairs and play with her dogs, particularly the young one, Simla, who she talked to more than the other two.

She once got mad when she caught us watching television when we should have been in bed, but it wasn’t our fault. The Beatles had just split up, and there was a programme about them, and at the end of it they played “Hey Jude” and it just kept going on and on and on. It was great because it looked like the song would never stop, but then Mrs. Swinson burst in and turned off the telly and started to shout. When you two reach the age of majority and live under your own roof, then, and only then, can you do as you please. We could hear the dogs barking at the top of the stairs, and that was frightening. She wanted to know just who the hell did we think we were, disobeying her? Did we want to feel the flat of her hand? She said one hour, and she meant one hour. Then she started talking about God, and she said that back in the old days they had built a ship and people said that even God couldn’t sink it, but he did and everyone drowned. Didn’t we believe her? Well? She suddenly moved towards us like she was going to slap us across our heads, and we both flinched back into the settee. Your mother’s a fast one, isn’t she, fobbing you off on me so she can carry on like a minx? Like it’s not manifest. And you, she pointed at me, you want to be careful looking at folks like that. One day somebody’s going to give you a good leathering, and it might well be me. I can be mother, father, and magistrate all rolled into one if needs be, so if it gives the two of you a thrill to disobey me, you’d better think again and modify your ideas. Do you know what I do with dumb, insolent tykes like you two? And then she threatened to put us down in the cellar with the rats and throw away the key, and our Tommy started to cry, and I watched her face change shape as she began to laugh. There was some spit at the edges of her mouth. I’ve got your flaming number. Both of you. After all, you don’t even know how to wipe around the toilet after you’ve used it, do you? But I’m not surprised. I mean, look at your mother’s coat. Red’s a common colour; everyone knows that. Frock, coat, or hat, it doesn’t matter: it’s common.

Later that night, in the quiet of our bedroom, Tommy whispered that he wanted to go home. He said he didn’t like being fostered. I agreed with him, but I reminded him that Mam wasn’t well and the doctor said she needed a break. She was having a hard time pleasing her boss at the library, and I had a feeling that if she lost her job, she wouldn’t be able to afford to look after us anymore. We just had to be patient. I said all of this, but inside I was angry at her. Although I enjoyed being a popular boy, the smallest thing would set me off. I don’t know where I got the idea from, but I used to imagine it was my fault that Dad had left us both. I couldn’t think of anything I’d done wrong, but somehow I just got the sense that I was the problem, and this just made me even more frustrated. That night our Tommy wet the bed for the first time.

“In the Summertime”—Mungo Jerry

It was Terry Neat’s party, and his parents had completely abandoned the house to us. There were six of us boys and five girls, and to start with, I was a bit disappointed that there were more of us than them. His parents had put out bowls of crisps and peanuts and some bottles of pop and a sleeve of plastic cups. We had a choice: either Tizer or ginger beer. And, of course, we had use of their record player. Everybody’s favourite song was Mungo Jerry’s “In the Summertime,” and I remember it really well because it was the first time I’d ever been tempted to sing along. Not dance, of course. At twelve years old, dancing was out of the question. We just sat around and filled our faces and then made slightly muffled efforts to sing along to the chorus. At some point Mr. and Mrs. Neat came back, and it was clear that it was time for us to leave. The other kids’ parents started to turn up to fetch them. They came in and said hello to Mr. and Mrs. Neat, and thanked them before leaving with their son or daughter. Nobody came to pick me up.

We were back living with Mam now. One Saturday morning she’d just turned up at the foster home. She barged in past Mrs. Swinson and stood in the hallway and told us to pack up our things as we were leaving. Mrs. Swinson went to sit in the kitchen with the three dogs and slammed the door in behind her. Mam came up to the bedroom and stood over us and said we had to hurry, so we just chucked our things into the one big suitcase. She had come to visit us the previous weekend, and she’d waited until the three of us were alone in the sitting room before asking me what I thought of things by Mrs. Swinson, and I said everything was alright as I didn’t want to upset her. She just nodded but said nothing. Then, when I went to the toilet, I had a suspicion that she talked to our Tommy by himself. When Mam left, I asked Tommy what she’d said to him, but he just shrugged his shoulders.

Once we were packed, me and Tommy lugged the suitcase down the stairs and into the hallway. Mam had already made her way back downstairs, and she was waiting for us. You two got everything? We nodded, and that’s when Mrs. Swinson burst out of the kitchen and started on about how she’d tried to make allowances, but we were dirty, and we bolted our food, and we had no manners, and she went on about how she had no time for kids like us who’d been dragged up. Borstal material, she said, if not worse, but she was adamant that she couldn’t lay all the blame at our doorstep. She leered at Mam: I can’t abide women who are all over the shop when it comes to their responsibilities. On behalf of the blessed council, I seem to spend half my life mopping up the mess people like you make. I mean, look at how you’re all tarted up, and a mother too. Conceited bugger. Why don’t you just buzz off, she said, which seemed a bit soft after everything she’d blurted out. Go on, sling your hook and go elsewhere. Mam could have just walked away at this point and decided that there was nothing to be gained by getting into a fight, but that’s not how Mam worked. She started to yell at the woman and she gave as good as she was getting and the two of them went at it hammer and tongs while me and Tommy just stood there next to the suitcase, wondering when we were going to be able to go.

On the Monday morning I started up at the grammar school again as though nothing had happened. Our Tommy found out that he hadn’t made it off the waiting list, and so he’d soon be going to John Wardle’s, but he didn’t seem concerned. Steve Pamphlet was also in my house at the grammar school, and he interrogated me as to where I’d been for the past month. I was tempted to tell him America, to see my dad, but I just said, “Around.” There was a new music teacher, Mr. Hall, who asked me if I could play the descant recorder, and when I said I could, he called me out to the side of the piano and put some sheet music on a stand and made me play “Greensleeves” in front of the whole class. He seemed a bit peeved that I did alright, and when I finished, he told me to sit back down, and he didn’t look in my direction for the rest of the double music period. By dinnertime there were no more questions from anybody, just the odd glance from one or two of the teachers who probably hoped they’d seen the back of me. And then Terry Neat invited me to a party on Saturday afternoon at his house and so I went and I found myself half listening, half singing along to Mungo Jerry.

That night, back at the flat, I lay in bed across the room from our Tommy, and I told him about the song and how I wanted to nick the record out of Terry Neat’s house but I dared not in case somebody caught me. He propped himself up on one elbow, and he seemed a little put out. I could tell by how he was looking at me, but he knew full well that I nicked records, so what was his problem? We didn’t get pocket money because Mam couldn’t afford it. This also meant that we didn’t have Levi’s or Ben Sherman shirts or anything decent to wear. We had nothing. Nicking odds and sods seemed alright to me so long as you didn’t get caught. I told this to our Tommy, but he just kept looking at me and saying nothing, and so I changed the subject. I tried to get Tommy talking about football, but he still said nothing, and that’s when I began to feel sad and a little bit ashamed. I watched as my brother lay back down and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Good night, he said. See you in the morning. I listened to Tommy’s breathing becoming deeper as he fell asleep, and then I realized that I was actually angry with the bed wetter. If I wanted to nick stuff, I’d nick it. Who cared what he thought?

“Maggie May”—Rod Stewart

Beverley Armitage was the name of the first girl I ever kissed. She lived in the same block of flats as us and she went to John Wardle’s. She used to come and knock on the door and wait for our Tommy so they could go to school together, but he started to leave early so that he didn’t have to be seen with her, and I started to miss my bus into town so that I could be there when she came knocking. After the third time that it was me who opened the door, I could see that Beverley Armitage was getting the idea that our Tommy was doing his best to avoid her. She was twelve, a year younger than me, but I’d noticed that the age gap didn’t make much difference with girls. With a lad a year could be a massive gap, but lasses always seemed a bit older than what they really were. I’d also noticed that Beverley Armitage had started to develop a chest that I couldn’t take my eyes off, and I reckoned I’d better ask her out before she stopped coming around. So after failed attempt number three, and just as she was turning away to go back to the lifts, I blurted it out and asked her if she’d seen Diamonds Are Forever. She looked at me as if she hadn’t heard properly, and so I had to go on. It’s showing at the Clock Cinema, I said. We could go on Friday. She still didn’t say anything, so I thought I’d better finish. If you’re not doing anything, that is. Like most thirteen-year-olds, I was the bashful sort when it came to girls, and a smug, grinning Steve Pamphlet had summed me up in front of the whole class: too slow to catch a cold, let alone a lass. Of course, I had to pretend that I was in on the joke, so I laughed, but inside of myself I knew he was right. However, that morning on the doorstep, I surprised myself. In the afternoon, during the boring chemistry double period, I wrote “Beverley Armitage” on my exercise book in big swirling letters and coloured her name in with red, green, and blue felt-tipped pens. Inevitably, I missed everything that the teacher was going on about. Something to do with potassium and copper, or something like that, but having finished my doodling, I was busily now trying to work out how to pay for Friday night without it coming over like I was Mr. Moneybags.

It turned out that I needn’t have worried so much, for when we got to the head of the queue, she stepped in front of me and said that her grandma had given her half a crown and told her that she had to go dutch and pay her own way. I didn’t argue, but I was a bit surprised. I’d managed to save up about two pounds over the past year, mainly by nicking money out of kids’ pockets when we got changed for games. I’d go to a lot of trouble to make sure that I was the last out of the changing rooms, or first back in, or both, and I soon learned whose pockets were worth going through. To start with, I’d use the money to buy comics, usually Hotspur or Victor, but sometimes The Dandy too. But then I decided I wanted a red Chopper bike, and so I stopped buying comics or going out anywhere, and I started to save up, but I quickly cottoned on that it was going to take me forever to save up enough money for a Chopper, or a bike of any kind, and that’s when it became clear that stopping in and saving every penny for a bike I’d probably never own was a waste of time. I’d be better off buying a bag of chips and hanging out by the off-licence and watching the older estate boys smoking Woodies and doing their impressions of Rod Stewart singing “Maggie May.” Getting together two pounds hadn’t been easy, but every time I saw Beverly Armitage’s chest, I knew that I’d be prepared to spend whatever it took to impress her.

However, it didn’t take long before I began to get the message that she wasn’t interested. I steered Beverley Armitage towards a double seat at the back of the front circle, but I didn’t lay a finger on her during the film. I just sat ramrod still and stared at the screen. I didn’t even offer her a spice, even though I had a packet of fruit pastilles in my pocket. The couple beside us seemed intent on getting thrown out as they were all over each other, and it was pretty distracting, as you could actually hear them kissing and their tongues were involved. I didn’t want to look, and it was sending me spare just thinking about it, but I realized that Beverley Armitage didn’t seem to be put out by their snogging, and I even caught her sneaking a peek at the courting couple. We both stood up for the national anthem at the end, and then I walked her home and started to make small talk about the film, and she tried to look interested in whatever it was that I was going on about.

It was still light when we got to her flat. I stood by the door, but I didn’t know if I should ask her out again, because it’s not like she’d been acting completely offhand or anything. However, she didn’t give me much of a chance to properly weigh things up in my head. She leaned forward and pecked me on the cheek and said good-night in a kind of cheerful voice as though the whole evening had been okay, and then she disappeared inside. And so that was it, but there was something about the way she kissed me that let me know that she didn’t want to go out with me a second time. Once was enough, and I knew I wasn’t going to embarrass myself, or her, by asking again. It was only later that night, as I looked over at our Tommy, that I began to accept what was going on. I may have been a bit older, but I was a crap substitute. From her point of view, it was all a big mistake. It was our Tommy she was smitten with, and maybe she thought she could get his attention if she was nice to his brother. The Beverley Armitages of this world were not interested in boys like me, but I decided that when Steve Pamphlet asked me if I’d got anything from her, I was going to tell him, yes, a quick feel, and then shrug my shoulders and say she wasn’t my type of lass, and try and leave it at that.

“Band of Gold”—Freda Payne

Things began to deteriorate after the fostering with Mrs. Swinson didn’t take. At the end of the day Mam was always tired, and sometimes she didn’t even have the energy to talk to us, so to my way of thinking, she needn’t have bothered making the effort. Most nights Tommy was at football practise, and so I was left by myself with her as she poured a drink, then scribbled a bit at her stories, then poured another drink. It was painful to watch, and I was always happy when she gave up and just went to bed. I worried a bit about Tommy, for he didn’t seem to have any time for Mam, and he even told me that he wished he was an orphan. Apparently there was a lad in his class at John Wardle’s who lived in a children’s home, and according to Tommy, he had more fun than we did. In fact, some of the grown-ups from the children’s home even came to watch Tommy’s mate play football. The one bright spot in all of this was that I managed to get a job delivering the Evening Post, but not before I had to practically beg the newsagent to give me the round, and even then I got myself a lecture. You just shut your gob and listen to me. I’ll not tolerate any slacking. You’re an estate lad, and it’s a scab of a place. There’s well-brought-up lads from farther out who’d kill for this job, and I always have to keep an extra bloody eye open with you lot. Always on the cadge, aren’t you? I mean, face facts, nothing good will ever come of you kids. They should build a trunk road between that estate and the local lockup because that’s where most of you are heading. And just because your lordship’s at the grammar school, don’t be thinking that you’re any better than the rest of them, because you’re not. I’ve got your bleeding number.

After school, I’d get off the bus and then chase home to the flat and drop off my briefcase and get changed out of my blazer and shirt and tie. Then I’d run back up the hill to a fence by the side of the church where the newsagent’s van would have left the bag of papers. I soon got to know the round like the back of my hand, and I’d jump over fences, cut through alleyways, all the time working out even quicker ways to get the papers delivered. Some people got fed up with me because they used to be early in the round, but now, because I changed things to make the round go faster, some of them were getting their Evening Post up to half an hour later than usual. The only bit that really slowed the round down was when I had to go into the new sixteen-storey block of flats. If a flat was below the fifth floor, then I’d forget the lifts and just race up the stairs. Above the fifth floor it wasn’t worth it; it was better to just wait for a lift, but they were really unpredictable, and usually at least one of them was out of order. If I had to use them, I’d start at the top and leave my bag blocking the lift door and work my way down. Once in a while I’d get caught by a resident who wanted to know what the hell I thought I was playing at messing around with the lifts. I’d have to use the stairs after that, but sometimes, maybe once a week, I’d get all the way down to the ground floor without being interrupted by anybody, and that sped things up a lot. I gave Mam most of the money from the paper round, but I don’t remember her ever saying thank you. Twelve and six, and then when the new money came in, I got a pay rise to thirteen bob because it was easier to give me sixty-five pence as opposed to sixty-two and a half pence. Six nights a week I did the round, and I got it down to just under an hour. However, after I’d given Mam her fifty pence, I was left with pretty much sod all, and so I began to think about getting another job, and then I got lucky.

One day, when I was picking up the bag of papers from beside the church, Father Hanson asked me if I wanted to be an altar boy on a Sunday, which not only meant dressing up in a white surplice and following him around with a goblet of wine and some wafers, but it also meant handling the collection plate. A lot of people gave money in envelopes, and after the service was over, it was my job to take the collection plate into the vestry. I thought, well, God helps those who help themselves. Mam was pleased that I was going to church because it got me out of the flat on a Sunday morning, and it gave her some time for herself. Occasionally her friend Derek Evans would come to visit, and the two of them would be off out to the moors for lunch. He’d often knock on the door and then use his own key to let himself in and wait in the kitchen until Mam was ready. He usually dressed well, in a jacket and shirt and tie, but for some reason he shoved too many things in his pockets so he always looked as if he’d slept in his clothes. He didn’t have much to say to me because he could see the way I looked at him, but he liked football, and he always had a word for our Tommy about United’s latest game or some such thing. Even though he was only eleven, Tommy had been recruited by Farsley Celtic, and he was doing really well and playing with kids two years older than him. I was proud of him, and on Sunday mornings I liked to stand on the balcony and watch when the minibus came by to pick him up, and then I’d be off out to my collection plate caper. Whenever I left the flat for church, Mam had real peace and quiet and the place all to herself unless, of course, her podgy-faced friend had come around.

I remember it was a Monday night when the two scouts from Pudsey Juniors turned up and knocked at the door. Mam was in her bedroom, and Tommy and me were watching telly, although I was also trying to do my homework at the same time. Tommy had a feeling some scouts might be around as he told me that two men had spoken to him after Sunday’s game and asked him where he lived. He’d scored twice and made the third goal, and according to him, he’d played a blinder. I called Mam and went back into the living room while she stood at the door and spoke to them both. Me and Tommy sat on the settee and looked at each other, and then we heard the door slam shut. Mam had a tube of lipstick in her hand as she came through into the living room. I told them no, you’re concentrating on your schoolwork, alright? Our Tommy nodded his head. And besides, we’ve already spoken about you playing for Uncle Derek’s team, haven’t we? She puckered up without waiting for an answer, and then lobbed the lipstick onto the sideboard. For heaven’s sake, be good. And don’t be up when I get back. She snatched up her coat and closed in the door behind her, and it was then that our Tommy began to cry. A single tear ran down the full length of his cheek, and eventually he pulled himself together enough to speak to me. She says Uncle Derek’s involved with Scott Hall Juniors, and he wants me to play for them. But they’re crap, I said. There was no need for me to say that, but I couldn’t help myself, and it just slipped out. What I really wanted to say was I could tell the beady-eyed bastard wasn’t treating Mam right, for she always made an effort to look nice for him, but he still had a wife. He was just using her to get at Tommy, for he liked nothing more than to impress kids, and football was his way of doing so. Without football he was nothing but a sad, desperate balding fucker who liked rambling on the moors with an anorak and compass, and he knew it. Our Tommy said nothing, and he just got up and went out. I heard the front door click shut, and I knew that he’d be off down the garages with his football until it got too dark to see.

I began to think about what exactly Steve Pamphlet might have meant when, earlier in that week, he’d asked me, How many uncles have you got? I was going to smack him, but I didn’t want him to think that I was bothered because I knew he thought he was better than me. If United were at home on a Saturday, he usually went to watch the match, and he always bragged about this. So, on the following Saturday, I decided to spend some of my church money and take myself off to watch United for the first time. At halftime they played “Band of Gold” really loudly out of the speakers. I’d never heard music played that loud, and I loved it. Not just the loudness, but the fact that the song was telling a story. But now I had a dilemma. I had enough money so that I could actually buy the record if I wanted to, instead of nicking it from the open market. I was a bit torn as to what to do.

“Ride a White Swan”—T. Rex

We stood together outside of the Civic Hall with the other kids and their parents and waited for the coach to come and pick us up. Mam never asked Tommy and me if we wanted to go to the seaside; it was just announced. We were going, and that was that, and we’d be spending two weeks at Silverdale Holiday Camp near Morecambe. I could tell by the type of kids who were waiting for the bus that this was a trip for poor people. They were the type of lads and lasses who were plagued with boils and spots, and who queued for free dinners at school, and who knew all about dodging the rent man or going down to the post office to pick up the family allowance money. And we were no better. I was nearly fourteen, and the emotion I was most familiar with — besides anger, that is — was shame. Mam tried to act all upbeat while we waited for the coach, but there was no getting around the fact that she was letting us go again. However, at least this time it wasn’t to a foster home. It was obvious that her nerves were not getting any better, and we could tell that she needed a rest. These days, she seemed really thin, and she’d begun to act even more weird than normal. We knew that we weren’t allowed in her bedroom, but now she was always asking us straight out, Have you been going in that bedroom when I’m not here? Of course we hadn’t. Why would we? But it felt wrong that she should be shouting at us and accusing us of something we hadn’t done. And then there were the nights that we had to spend by ourselves in the flat. In the morning we’d be having our Weetabix in the kitchen, and in she’d come, wearing the same clothes that we’d last seen her in, and she’d rush by us, stinking of cigarette smoke, and we’d carry on spooning the Weetabix into our mouths as we listened to her clumping about in her bedroom. We both assumed she’d been out with Derek Evans, but it wasn’t for us to ask.

Every morning I’d make sure that Tommy’s school uniform had been ironed, and that he’d had some breakfast, and then I’d check that he’d got his school bag and make sure that he set off on time. Clearly he was old enough that he should have been able to look out for himself, but I’d noticed that after Mam told the football scouts where to go, something in him changed, and it was like he’d kind of given up. He was still wetting the bed, but he’d learned to take the sheet off by himself and rinse it through in the bathtub. Then he’d hang it on the wooden clotheshorse so that it would be dry by the time he got back from school, which was always later than me because he had football practise every night of the week: twice for school and three times for Scott Hall Juniors, as Derek Evans had got him to agree to play for them. Mam told Tommy that it was nearer and more convenient, but we both knew that our Tommy was the best player on their team, and they were lucky to get him, and if it wasn’t for Mam, he’d be playing for Pudsey Juniors. But Tommy didn’t really want to talk about this, any more than he wanted to talk about Derek Evans, who, when he wasn’t hanging around in the kitchen waiting for Mam, had taken to chauffeuring our Tommy around like he was some kind of footballing god. Apparently so-called Uncle Derek was a bird-watcher, and he kept a huge pair of binoculars in his car, and if he spotted a bird that he liked, he’d pull over and spend ages just looking up in the trees. I could tell that the dickhead was trying to impress our Tommy, for my brother nearly always came back home with a small bottle of Lucozade, which Derek Evans claimed would give Tommy energy, but the biggest upshot of all this attention was our Tommy got a brand-new pair of Adidas boots with screw-in studs and a black Adidas holdall for his kit.

As we waited for the coach, Mam lit a cigarette, then put on her helpless face. I know they’re no good for me, and I’m going to give them up, but I just need a bit of help right now. Neither me nor Tommy said anything. Anyhow, this will give you both a chance to see the sea for the first time, and it’ll give me a chance to get my strength back. As she spoke to us, her eyes jumped this way and that, as though she was afraid that somebody was looking at her. And then I realized what it was. She felt abashed standing up in the street with the pair of us. I could tell that she couldn’t wait for the coach to arrive, but I didn’t say anything. I just hoped that Tommy could keep it together until she’d gone. Don’t cry, our Tommy. I was the one who’d have to look after him for the next two weeks, and looking at these lads, I could tell that there might be some rowdy stuff. Some of them looked like they were fourth formers, fifteen-year-olds, so I’d be giving up over a year if it came to a fight. I tried not to think too much about this, as it was too worrying, and then I saw the coach coming around the corner, and Mam threw her fag down on the ground and started to mash the stub into the pavement. Come on, smarten yourselves up a bit. You two be good, she said as she hugged us both together. You’ll be fine as these are fully qualified people, but just make sure you write and let me know how it is, and don’t you be getting into any trouble. I’d arranged for somebody to take over the paper round, and Father Hanson had got his alternative altar boy lined up, so nobody would miss me. That’s what I was thinking as the coach pulled away and I looked out of the window and waved at Mam. Nobody will miss me.

It took forever to get to Silverdale; that’s about all I remember of the journey. I kept nodding off, but every time I opened my eyes we were still driving and my bladder was full to bursting as I was dying to go to the toilet. I was sitting on both of my hands, but eventually we stopped at a big garage that had a café attached to it, and we were told to form a single line and wait our turn to use their facilities. Our Tommy said he didn’t want to go, but it was obvious that they wanted everyone off the coach, and so he just got to his feet and didn’t say anything else. As we were climbing back on board, Derek Evans was at the front, handing everyone a crab apple and a cheese sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper. Alright, Ben. Alright, Tommy. Your mam says I’m to keep an eye on you two, so don’t you be worrying yourselves; there’ll be no problems. You’ll have a nice time. As the coach pulled out and into the traffic, I asked our Tommy if he knew that Derek Evans would be coming along too in his own car. He shrugged his shoulders. What’s that supposed to mean? It means that Uncle Derek said he goes every year, and he says that you can bank on everybody having an ace time. An ace time? I think he might be having you on. Well, do you believe him? Our Tommy never answered me.

They bullied Tommy at the camp, and I didn’t do anything about it. Neither, as far as I could see, did Derek Evans, who always managed to make himself scarce every time he saw me coming. Good job too because I was already dreaming about chinning him and knocking that cocky little smile off his face, even though I knew Mam would go spare if I started anything. But if Mr. Bleeding Bird-watcher cared so much, why didn’t he do something for our kid when he got called names? It didn’t matter how good Tommy was at football: they laid into him and gave him the treatment, which usually meant rubbing chewing gum into his hair, or spitting in his glass of water and making him drink it, or just smacking him around. On the other hand, I suddenly found myself being quite popular. I had a bit of money in my pocket, I knew about music, I wasn’t that bad at football, and I had a pair of Levi’s that I took off only at night, when I went to sleep on the top deck of a bunk bed from where I could look down and see everything that was going on. They put Tommy in a different dormitory, so it was hard for me to keep an eye on him, so I suppose I shouldn’t blame myself too much. However, even though I could sense that he was having a difficult time, Tommy chose to say nothing to me about the bullying, and it was only later that he let on to me what had been going on, but by then it was too late to do anything about it. Whenever I ran into him at the camp, he looked like some little lost boy you wanted to hug. There was nothing in his eyes. No light, no nothing, but what was I meant to do, give him a pat on the head and a cuddly toy? He should have said something. One day he did tell me that he’d like it if I could buy a postcard so we could send it to Mam, and I said I’d get one, but I never did. I just hoped that he wouldn’t mention it again, and sure enough, he didn’t.

In the mornings they left us alone to run around in the boggy fields that were surrounded by crumbling stone walls. In the afternoons we were taken down to the beach, where some of the younger kids started digging to Australia, which was a really popular game, but I used to wander off and stare at the worn-out donkeys giving rides on the beach, or gawp at the big dipper at the funfair or the tubby ladies sitting in deck chairs in their baggy bathing costumes. My favourite thing of all was to listen to the military band that would strike up in the bandstand at exactly three-thirty every afternoon, although I could never work out why they always finished off with a sing-along of “O Come All Ye Faithful” given that there was still five months to go until Christmas. After that I’d go back to the beach and take off my plimsolls and socks and stand right where the water stopped rushing, so that the sea licked my toes and I could pretend that it was a dog that I owned who would never leave my side. And then it would be time to go back to Silverdale.

There was an older boy and a girl in charge of our dormitory. Peter and Rachel. They said they were eighteen, and it was clear they fancied each other as they were always smiling when they were around one another. Peter liked T. Rex, and he used to whistle their songs. I could tell that he thought he looked like Marc Bolan, but his hair was too short, and he wore glasses. However, he did put glitter on his face, and I liked that. I can’t speak for the others, but I had a soft spot for Rachel, who had beautiful hair and a pink woollen bobble hat that set it off nicely. I used to like to be around her whenever she was in the dormitory talking to us, but if I looked too long at her, I could feel myself colouring up. She’d tell us to make our beds, but mine was always made. When it rained and we had to sit inside and play board games, I’d always try and sit near her, but it was no use. It was obvious that if it wasn’t Peter, it would be some other older lad that was going to come along and snatch her up before I had a chance, but I tried not to feel too cheesed off. Rachel looked at me a lot. Well, at everybody really, but she was the first person that I can remember who smiled at me and maybe meant it.

“All the Young Dudes”—Mott the Hoople

The thing I remember most about the summer after we went to Silverdale was Mam descending into a kind of madness. I’m not sure if I can explain it any better than that. “All the Young Dudes,” was always playing on the radio. It was a pop song that sounded like something you’d play at a funeral. I liked it a lot and became a bit obsessed with it. The song was always snaking through my head, rolling around from one ear to the other, and it made me think of a woman dancing and slowly turning her hips. I suppose that’s the sort of thing that fourteen-year-old boys think about, or at least this fourteen-year-old used to think like that. Our Tommy never cared much for pop music, and so he probably never even heard the song. The Munich Olympics would come later, but the summer started out the same way that every summer started out, with Tommy spending every waking hour kicking a ball up against the garages. There were only six of them to serve all the flats, but then again the council was not stupid. They knew that most people on the estate wouldn’t have a car, and those that did would be happy to just park it on the road. The names of the cars back then sounded so glamorous. They still do. Cortinas, Capris, Avengers, Zodiacs, Zephyrs. However, the cars on our estate were never new, but if you had a car, it meant that you were doing alright. That said, most people who had a car had more sense than to pay the council fifty pence a week to rent a poxy garage, especially when the rent for a two-bedroom flat was just under four pounds. I knew this because it was my job to take the rent book and an envelope of money down to the council office every Saturday morning. No bloke in his right mind was going to pay an extra ten bob a week for a garage when he could take that cash and get blathered down The Squinting Cat and still have change.

After the two weeks we spent at Silverdale, Tommy came back, and after he’d eventually told me some of what went on there, he just clammed up, and he wouldn’t talk anymore. For the whole year he always looked like he was about to bawl, and I could tell that he wasn’t his true self. Twelve months later, and not much had changed with our Tommy, who would get up in the morning and take his football and go and boot it up against the garage doors until it got too dark, or until one of the neighbours got riled and shouted at him and told him to fucking stop it or he’d have him. Oi, cut it out. The noise is fucking killing me. Which is pretty much what Mam would say to me as she got ready to go out. Except she wouldn’t swear, of course. Ben, can you turn off that radio now? It’s doing my head in. We have got a telly, you know. That summer I remember she started to wear a kind of garish pink lipstick, but I don’t remember her ever doing her fingernails. Go on, turn it off, for heaven’s sake. I’d usually just turn it down, and that would put an end to her complaining. We were good at making truces and not letting things get out of control, but there were times when she’d just get on my tits. However, more often than not, I’d say nothing and just pick up the transistor and go and sit with it in the kitchen and wait for my song to come on again. Derek Evans had broken Mam’s heart when he gave her back the key to the flat. These days I didn’t have any idea who she was going out with. I did, however, know that our Tommy would be down the road kicking his football up against the doors of the empty garages and keeping his own counsel.

“School’s Out”—Alice Cooper

Our Tommy disappeared the same summer that they had the Olympics in Munich, West Germany. I used to watch every day, mainly the athletics and the swimming, and I remember all the excitement over Mark Spitz and Dave Wottle and Lasse Virén, and then the sudden confusion when the athletes were killed. I was confused too. Towards the end of the summer our Tommy eventually stopped kicking his ball up against the garages, and he started up training again at Scott Hall Juniors. Then one stormy night he was away at football practise, and he never came back. I didn’t know what to do, as Mam was out, so I lay in bed listening to the wind and rain and tried to get my head around who our Tommy might have gone to stay with. He had his football mates, and I thought maybe he’d gone off with one of them, but I didn’t know them, and I didn’t much care to either. Brian, Luke, Graham: I just knew their names, but we didn’t have a phone in the flat, so he couldn’t call us up to let us know where he was, and anyhow, I doubt if his football mates had phones in their houses. Derek Evans usually ran him back home from training in his car, but I had no idea how to get in touch with that prat, so I just lay on top of the blanket and stared at the wall.

Eventually it started to get light out, and I looked across at the empty bed, where his pillows were standing to attention in that odd way that our Tommy liked to leave them. I heard Mam outside on the balcony, and then I listened to the noise of the key in the lock and the banging of her coming in and kicking off her shoes. I got out of bed and opened the bedroom door, and she looked at me as though it was somehow wrong of me to be seeing her like this. I just blurted it out, and she stood there for a minute, trying to take it in. Well, where is he then? She was asking me, as though I knew, but that was the whole point of telling her: I had no idea where he was. Wasn’t she supposed to be the mother? Get ready for school, she said, and then she went into her bedroom and closed in the door behind her.

When I came back that afternoon, Mam was sitting on the settee and two uniformed coppers were in the house. The woman one was sitting next to Mam and comforting her, and the bloke was standing up like he owned the place. Mam looked up at me and said that the bloke copper wanted to have a word, and then she started to cry again. The copper took me into the kitchen, and we sat at the table. He asked me if I was yearning for anything to eat, and I wanted to tell him that all we had was spaghetti hoops and toast, but I didn’t say anything, and I just shook my head. Then he started to ask me about Tommy’s friends, and if I’d noticed anything different about him in the past few days, and all sorts of stuff. No, I said. He seemed just the same, although he was a bit upset about having to play for Scott Hall Juniors, but who could blame him? I suppose he had kind of stopped talking, but I told the copper that this not talking lark went all the way back to Silverdale, where he’d had a particularly tough time. Did he make friends there? I shrugged my shoulders. How should I know, we were in different dormitories. But I didn’t say this. And these days, was he the kind of boy who liked to comb his hair differently once he’d left the flat? He got me with that one. Why would our Tommy want to do that? Then the woman copper came into the kitchen and said that I’d have to stay with social services for a day or two, as my mother had to go into hospital for a checkup. Then there was a knock on the front door, and the woman copper opened it and let in two ambulance men carrying a stretcher. She showed the pair of them into the living room, and then she closed in the door to the kitchen. I knew that Mam would be mad if I barged my way in to see what was going on, so I just kept sitting where I was, and I tried hard not to cry. I used my tongue to wet my lips and stared down at the chequerboard pattern on the lino. The bloke copper put his hand on my shoulder. You’d best go and pack a bag, he said. They’ll soon be here for you.

In the end it was a charmless, bearded man in a social services van who picked me up. The ambulance had long gone, and they’d waited until I was in my room before slipping Mam out of the front door, so I wouldn’t see her leaving. The woman copper went with her, and that left just me and the bloke copper waiting for social services. When the bearded man arrived and I stepped outside and looked over the balcony and saw “Social Services” scrawled in big letters on the side of his van, I was embarrassed, for I knew that everyone on the estate would know that I was going into care. I sat in the front of the van and didn’t even bother asking the man where he was taking me. When he pulled up outside of the big detached house on the corner of Manston Drive, I thought to myself: I pass this place every day on the bus, and I can see right into the garden from the top deck. It’s about halfway to town, so if I end up having to stay here, then my journey to school will take only fifteen minutes, plus the ten minutes walking through the market and the arcades. After he’d yanked up the hand brake, the social services man turned to face me and spoke for the first time. I’m not sure if this is an appropriate use of public resources, but it’s not up to me. But I can tell you, the Gilpins are a nice family, so do us all a favour and try to behave yourself. I didn’t say anything to him, but I’m sure he could tell what I was thinking by the way I was glowering at him. So he changed his tune. Well, come on then, let’s be having you. We don’t want to keep them waiting.

The Gilpins had two girls, Helen and Louise, who were a bit younger than me, and they both were kind of chunky and giggled too much for my liking. Their mother put on an educated voice and made some halfhearted effort to introduce me to her daughters, but I could see straight off that her whole life revolved around pleasing the two girls. Her husband, on the other hand, wanted to make friends, which was the wrong way to go about things. Maybe he’d been dying for a son or something, but I sensed that he was trying too hard. The social worker bloke said so long then, and shook hands with Mr. Gilpin, and then Mrs. Gilpin showed him to the door. The moron pretty much just dropped me off there like he was some kind of taxi driver and then he left, and that was it.

The two girls were going off to bed, so Mr. Gilpin took me into the kitchen and made us both a ham sandwich, and then he offered me a cup of stewed tea, which, after one sip, I had to leave as I knew I couldn’t stomach it. He asked me if I liked the Olympics, and I said I did. We took our sandwiches and sat in front of the telly on this really large, comfy settee, and we watched Kip Keino win the steeplechase. David Coleman was commentating and talking really fast, and I looked across at Mr. Gilpin, who kept nodding, and then smiling at me, and then looking back at the telly and nodding some more. I could tell that he also liked the Olympics, but I was now wondering about his clothes, for he had on fur-lined slippers, suit trousers with a crease, and a ratty-looking cardigan over a shirt with a grubby collar, all of which made him look about ten years older than he probably was. When his wife came in, he quickly got up and turned the volume down a bit. Mrs. Gilpin didn’t say anything, she just pulled the curtains, and then sat down and watched for a while, but you could tell that she wasn’t really following what was going on. Eventually she smiled at me and said, chop-chop, isn’t it about time for bed now? I didn’t stand up. Well, come on. Let’s not be having a falling-out about it. I wanted to remind her that we’d only just started back after the summer holidays. Hadn’t she ever heard of Alice Cooper? “School’s Out,” missus. It’s on the radio every day, and it still feels like the holidays, so why was this woman being so stroppy?

I rolled from one side of the bed to the other side, then back again, and realized that it was the sheets that were making me feel funny, for they were clingy and made an odd scratching noise when I moved about, like somebody needed to oil them. And then I remembered: the bag of newspapers would still be sitting next to the fence by the church. Tomorrow I’d have to go and tell the newsagent that he’d have to get somebody else. I wondered if I’d ever see the inside of our flat again, but I had a feeling that I might not. Of course, nobody explained anything to me: not the copper, not the social worker, not even Mr. Gilpin, although it’s possible that he was in the dark like me. I stared out of the window at the stars and wondered again about our Tommy. Where was he? Why wasn’t anybody telling me what was up with him? I wasn’t some kid, I was fourteen, and whichever way you looked at it, I had a right to know.

“Rock and Roll” (Parts 1 and 2) — Gary Glitter

After nearly a week at the Gilpins’, I went to see Mam in hospital, and I found her sitting by herself in a big room full of plastic chairs. She was staring out of the window like she was in her own world, and she didn’t even shift herself to turn around when I walked in, even though I know she must have heard me as my trainers made this horrible high-pitched squeal whenever they rubbed against a wooden floor. Mr. Gilpin pointed at her as though he reckoned he was helping me out, and then he whispered that he’d wait outside for me in the car. By now I knew that he’d have happily moved lock, stock, and barrel into his Austin Maxi if it meant he’d be able to get away from his wife and two roly-poly kids. After all, I was pretty sure that he cared more for the car than he did for them, and maybe fostering me was his way of finding somebody to talk to, for the three of them pretty much ignored him. I walked over to Mam and sat in the chair opposite her and said hello, all the while trying to hide the fact that the place was making me feel all queasy inside. She looked directly at me, and as she recognized me, a kind of tired smile spread over her face. I’m sorry, she said. I suppose I should have kept a closer watch on both of you. Will you forgive me? She looked like all the life had been knocked out of her, and I wanted to say that it wasn’t her fault, but I just couldn’t get the words out. When I think about it now, I’m convinced that they must have had her drugged up on all sorts of medicine, but to me she just seemed like she was half asleep and not really making much of an effort to stay awake, and I wondered how long it was going to be before I could get back to Mr. Gilpin’s car. However, I knew I had to make the visit last a bit longer or it would be rude, but I didn’t have a clue what to say, and I knew that she wasn’t going to ask me anything about what I was up to. And so we sat together for nearly an hour, me itching to get up and leave and Mam with that vacant look on her face, and neither one of us able to talk about what had happened to my brother.

At school I decided to try harder because that’s all there was now. There was no Tommy, and I didn’t feel like talking to anybody, and so inevitably I soon discovered that I had no mates. I’d always been a bit of a clever clogs when it came to schoolwork, and the teachers often said if I continued to make an effort, I could do very well. I decided to swot up and try and come top in everything, except the science subjects, of course. It was my way of keeping my mind off the depressing reality that I’d been fostered out again, and this time it looked like Mam wasn’t coming to rescue me. Mr. Gilpin obviously felt a bit sorry for me, so he started to give me fifty pence pocket money every Saturday, and I could double it if I helped Mrs. Gilpin with some jobs around the house. The two girls didn’t have to do anything, and they still got more than me, but I wasn’t complaining, for the money gave me a reason to stop nicking things. Mr. Gilpin told me I could use the record player whenever I wanted, but Mrs. Gilpin let me know that she didn’t much care for my Gary Glitter single. Too much shouting, she said, which made me play it even louder in the hope that she might ask me to take it off. But she never did ask me to take it off, and eventually I realized that she never would, and so I started to play it quietly. I’d already worked out that Nancy Gilpin thought she was better than other folks, and she was deluded enough to think that her two girls were at the front of the line when they were handing out brains. I was shocked when, pointing out of the window, she told me that the next-door neighbour’s dog was allowed to do his business in the house, like I’d be interested in hearing this. When it became clear that I wasn’t — despite the additional information that they were proper Asians, for the wife had a big red spot on her forehead — I could tell that she immediately wrote me off and lumped me together with her scruffy husband. However, the sad fact was I now had no choice but to live with these people, and perhaps try and forget Mam.

After she gave me the silent treatment at the hospital, I didn’t hear from Mam for a while, and Mr. Gilpin must have sensed that things hadn’t gone that well, for he didn’t ask me anything, or suggest a return trip to see her. The truth is, Mam’s silence made me feel as though I’d done something wrong, as though it was me who had to explain myself, and the only way I could forget this whole hurtful nightmare was by concentrating on my schoolwork. At night I used to tell myself that maybe one day she’d be better and we could work everything out, but sometimes the feelings got so upsetting that I seriously thought about changing my name. And then Mam started with the phone calls and letters and postcards, and it must have been Mrs. Gilpin who said something to social services, for a posh woman in a fancy twinset came to see me and told me that Mam was disrupting the Gilpins’ household. I didn’t say anything, but the social worker woman gave me a fake smile and said that she’d be bringing Mam on Christmas Day, but Mam never showed up, and I spent most of the day by myself feeling dismal in my bedroom. Things got worse when Mam turned up outside of school, and the teachers wouldn’t let me out until she’d gone, and I just wanted the whole thing to end. Why couldn’t she just go somewhere and get better instead of all this? Why was she embarrassing me?

“Life on Mars?”—David Bowie

After a while I decided that Helen, the older one, wasn’t so bad. She was thirteen, and her little sister, Louise, was nearly eleven, but of late I’d noticed that Helen had lost a lot of weight and started to fill out upstairs. She’d also started to buy the New Musical Express, and every week she’d Sellotape the double-page posters up on her bedroom wall. It was mainly David Cassidy, and the Osmonds, and even the Bay City Rollers, but she also liked some okay music. After school she’d sometimes ask if she could borrow my records, and I told her that was alright as long as she didn’t scratch them. She’d started to write the names of her favourite singers on the covers of her exercise books in all sorts of psychedelic patterns, and it was Helen who brought up the idea that we go to the Rollarena, where David Bowie was doing his final tour as Ziggy Stardust. If you agree to come with me, then Dad will let me go; otherwise you know he’s just going to say that it’s crackers to waste your spending money on a bloke dressed up in aluminum foil, with a bog brush hairdo, and who looks like he’s good to his mam. Do you remember? That’s what Dad said when he saw him on Top of the Pops. He wanted to know if this David Bowie fellar was doing it for a dare. Although I was two years older than her, Helen talked to me like we were the same age. We’ll have to queue for tickets, I said. She shrugged her shoulders as though this was obvious, and so I agreed. Okay then, let’s go.

The concert was on a Thursday night, and I came back early from school to get changed, not that I had any glam gear to get into. Since I’d started studying really hard, I’d kind of lost all interest in clothes, which was just as well since even the hard cases and suedeheads were now starting to wear tie-dyed scoop-neck tee-shirts and glitter, and I didn’t want to be associated with them in any way. However, I knew that Helen would be going in for something flashy, and I was more than a bit curious about what she’d be wearing. She wasn’t back from school yet, so I nipped across the landing and snuck into her room. She had a smart dressing table mirror with three panels so you could adjust them and see what you looked like from the sides as well as the front. Before I knew what I was doing, I was fingering her cuddly toys, and then I started pulling open the drawers and touching her clothes. Steve Pamphlet was always boasting about going all the way with slags late at night in the shop doorways in town, but I’d never even touched a bra. Her underwear felt so soft and comfortable, and so I picked some up and smelled them and rubbed them against me a little, and then I could sense somebody standing behind me. I put the pile of panties back into the drawer and turned around and saw Mrs. Gilpin staring at me. She had on a headscarf, but I could see that her hair was in rollers, and I guessed that she must have been out in the back garden for she’d never be seen in the street with her hair in such a state. I’ll never forget that look on her face. She was glaring at me like she’d finally sized me up and found out who I really was and there was no hiding it now. I knew that we’d never recover from this moment, and I just wanted it to end, but Mrs. Gilpin seemed to glare at me forever. Then, as though nothing had ever happened, she slowly turned and walked out of the room, but she left the door wide open so I’d know that I was expected to follow. Immediately.

“Dat”—Pluto Shervington

I don’t take a good photograph, and as if to prove it, there’s a picture of me that was taken at one of those photo booths not long before I left the Gilpins’ house for university. After Mam died, it was my history teacher who kept chucking compliments in my direction, and I liked the attention, so I started to do extra lessons after school. That’s when he put me on the list for Oxford and Cambridge, but I could tell that he didn’t have much faith that I would do the work necessary to give myself a chance, although I was determined to prove him wrong. In the photograph I’m seventeen and staring into the camera, with my big, unshapely hair and my bulky black-rimmed specs, and I’m not smiling at all. I’m focused, and there’s not even a little hint of a smile. I’ve also got on the worst jumper in the world: a blue, round-necked polyester number, with two white hooped stripes. The truth is I look downcast, which is pretty much how I remember my time as a foster child in the Gilpins’ house. In my own mind, I reckoned that once Mam died the social services people must have told the Gilpins that the decent thing to do would be to see it through until I went off to university. It must have been agony for them because it was undeniable that Mrs. Gilpin hated me, and I didn’t exactly think much of her either. Right from the off, whenever she spoke to me, she’d always been a little abrupt, and then after the thing with Helen’s clothes she never stopped looking at me as though I’d somehow interfered with her precious daughter.

In the end I was there for nearly four years, during which time I continued to be interested in pop music, but I also began to watch a lot of films. Once I’d done enough work to pretty much guarantee high grades in my exams, I started to skive off school and go to the so-called independent cinema near the polytechnic, where I’d watch themed seasons of films by mainly American and French directors. I even bought a paperback book called The Film Director as Artist and decided that this is what I wanted to be — a film director — but only after I’d finished university. However, first of all, I had to get out of the Gilpins’ house, and the sooner the better, for the whole family more or less ignored me. Helen never asked to borrow any more records, and Louise made sure that she was never alone with me. Even Mr. Gilpin stopped trying to be friendly; he occasionally smiled in a kind of pitiful way, but his wife must have told him that I was some kind of deviant because, aside from the driving lessons that he got me as a seventeenth birthday present, he went out of his way to avoid me.

When I wasn’t watching films I went to concerts by myself. Elton John, the Faces, Supertramp, Emerson Lake & Palmer: I saw loads of gigs. Even Joan Armatrading, which felt odd. A kid at school called Patrick wanted to see her, and I suppose she was okay, but there wasn’t much in the way of a drum solo. It just wasn’t my type of music, and I had a feeling that I shouldn’t have gone with somebody as I much preferred going by myself, so the next time Patrick asked me to go with him to a gig I just made up some pathetic excuse. Patrick wanted to do law at university because his dad was a solicitor and his grandfather had been a barrister. He said he didn’t have any choice in the matter. I applied to university to do history, and was soon asked to attend two interviews. The first one was a joke. I took the bus to Durham and walked around a bit until I found the university history department, only to be told that the interview was the following week. I’d got the date wrong.

I was surprised when Mr. Gilpin said he’d drive me to the second interview, but I said I didn’t mind taking the bus or the train to Oxford. Which? he asked. I said the train, and he opened his wallet and handed me a fiver. He did so in a way that made me realize that we were to keep quiet about this. The night before the interview I was watching telly and Helen and her boyfriend came in from the pictures and told me to budge up on the settee as they plonked themselves down next to me. Lester Nisbett had on tragically unpolished brown platform shoes that were even bigger than hers, and a whisper of hair where he hoped a moustache might one day grow. He also had that “some bird’s gonna get lucky tonight” kind of cockiness about him, and judging by the fresh love bites on Helen’s neck, he had every reason to be confident. He asked me if could I tell him what the lyrics of that Pluto Shervington song meant. No, I said, I couldn’t. I hadn’t got a clue. Come on, Benny boy, of course you do. He winked at Helen and started to laugh, and suddenly it was clear that they’d both been on the lager and limes. He’s not telling the truth, you know. You know that, don’t you? Helen tried to suppress her giggles, but she wouldn’t meet my eyes. Tell me something, why are your lips so fat? And it’s like you’ve got wool on your head instead of hair. And what’s that white stuff on your skin? By your elbows. It’s all ashylike. Jesus, you look like a fucking burned sausage. Helen burst out laughing, but she still wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Bohemian Rhapsody”—Queen

I had to stay overnight at the college as they did two interviews for candidates, one in the afternoon and then another one the next morning. I was told that dinner would be served in the dining hall at seven precisely. The first interview had gone badly. In fact, I was sure that the three lecturers could see that I was out of my depth, and I decided they were basically taking the piss out of me and couldn’t wait for me to leave the room so they could collapse into heaps of laughter. The main one of them had on a cravat, and everything about him suggested swellhead, especially the way he was twirling his propelling pencil in between his fingers like it was the simplest thing in the world. Why shouldn’t one walk naked in the streets on a hot day? Any thoughts on that, young man? What kind of question was that? You shouldn’t walk naked in the streets because you’ll look like an arsehole and offend people. I didn’t say that, but whatever it was that I said in response obviously didn’t impress them. All of them did that thing where you nod and make some notes and kind of hum like you’re really thinking about what was said, but it’s transparent that you’re not. And then I got the next question. To whom does a member of Parliament owe his loyalty: his party, his constituents, or his conscience? Depends, I said. Depends on what the issue is. I waited, but their silence let me know that I was supposed to expand on my answer, which was when I started to waffle and get all confused.

There was no way I was going into the dining hall, so although it had changed from spitting rain to a downpour, I went wandering up the High Street until I found a fish-and-chips shop. The wind was brutal, and the cold was cutting right through me as all I had was a thin jacket and my old United scarf. Fish and chips once, please. With scraps. But I didn’t say the part about scraps because I knew they wouldn’t get it. By the time I got back to the room I was drenched to the skin, and so I turned on the two-bar electric fire and sat and ate the fish and chips right out of the paper and listened to the tranny I’d brought with me. The song went on for ages and sounded more like a piece of classical music than a pop song. When it was over, I screwed up the fish-and-chips paper and rammed it into the bin and then thought of our Tommy, which I did pretty much every day.

I also thought about Mam and the business of her not showing up that Christmas and then waiting outside the school for me. The posh social worker woman had come around a second time in order to explain about Mam’s behaviour and she said that in time she thought that things would probably be alright between the two of us, but she reckoned it best if Mam just gave me some space. I remember I didn’t say anything, so she went on and told me that Mam had been going through a rough patch, but she was getting better and onto the right track. And then later, the same woman came to the Gilpin’s a third time, and told me that apparently Mam was planning on leaving the library and going down to London to try and start to put her life back together, whatever that meant. I listened to the woman but there was only one thing I wanted to ask Mam and that was, What about our Tommy? But I knew Mam wouldn’t want to deal with this, and so I looked blankly at this posh woman perched on the Gilpins’ settee in her familiar fancy twinset and decided that until Mam did want to deal with this, then there really wasn’t anything to say as far as I was concerned. I’d be concentrating on my school work, and hopefully one day getting a place at university, and then clearing off out of the Gilpins’ house.

“Dancing Queen”—Abba

The summer before I went to university was the hottest on record, and Abba were at number one for nearly two months. Even now when I hear the song, I start to sweat. Every morning was a scorcher, and there was no need to check the weather or wonder when it was going to break. It wasn’t going to change. It was like Spain. Or what I imagined Spain to be like. I was still living with the Gilpins as I didn’t have anywhere else to go until university started. I had no money for a flat, and so I just tried to stay out of their way. I’d sneak in from the pictures long after everyone had gone to bed, and I’d hide out in my room until they’d all gone out in the morning. Eventually I got a job in a dingy backstreet garage, pumping petrol and checking water and oil levels. It wasn’t a summer job, so I had to tell the bloke who interviewed me that I had ambitions in the auto trade and one day I hoped to own a petrol station; otherwise he’d have never given me the time of day. He made a steeple of his hands and asked me if I had a driving licence, and I said yes, I did, for I’d passed my test first time. My would-be boss nodded approvingly and made a cat’s cradle of his fingers as he stood up from behind his desk. I looked at him, then back down at the desk, where I couldn’t credit the state of his blackened ashtray; it was a dirty metal contraption with a button on top that you plunged and two little trapdoors that flapped open and prompted the ash to drop inside. How could anybody run a business with something that filthy on his desk?

I soon discovered that he was a retired copper, and he was trying to be liberal and all nice, but I could tell that he was as thick as two short planks. Half his clients were Pakistanis and Indians dressed up in all the gear, but he tried too hard when they came in, and he was always putting it on. They smiled sweetly, but I could tell that, like me, they didn’t think much of him. His other clients were corporate accounts types, ill-mannered buggers who just signed for their petrol and wanted to be treated as though the sun shone out of their arses. They were the ones who got shortchanged, because I soon learned how to fix one particular pump so that the meter wouldn’t clear. If the smarmy bastards asked for five gallons and the pump already had on two, I’d give them three gallons, and they’d have to pay for five. Naturally I’d keep the cash for the two gallons, and nobody was the wiser. I was skimming off at least a tenner a week, and then towards the end of September I quit with nearly a hundred quid in the bank. I packed up my things at the Gilpins’ and rented a van so I could drive south to university, but I decided to wait until Helen and Louise were at school before taking my leave.

That morning I could see it on Mrs. Gilpin’s jaundiced face that she was hoping that my going to university would be the end of everything. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Both she and her husband stood by the door and watched me lift the last box into the van, and then I came back into the front hallway, where Nancy Gilpin leaned in and gave me a pretend hug like she didn’t want to catch anything. Her husband offered me a firm handshake, and he wished me good luck, and I said thanks, and that was it, they were rid of me. I could tell that Mr. Gilpin wanted to say something more to me, but he could never come straight out with anything, he always had to go all around the houses, and now, with his wife gaping at him like a pit bull, there was no time. As usual, he’d missed the moment. I drove away from the Gilpins’ house on Manston Drive, and I took care not to look into the rearview mirror. Once I was sure that I was out of sight, I sped up and turned the van towards the moors, which was the opposite direction to where I should have been going.

I stopped by the side of the road and stared at the depressing landscape. Bloody hell, I thought, even with a full moon it must be pitch black up here at night. And cold, and our Tommy didn’t have his duffel coat with him. I shouted. Tommy! I walked a few paces away from the van and looked out into the distance. Tommy! Tommy! But it was no use. I should have done more for Tommy, and that’s what had been keeping me awake for years now: the feeling that it was my fault. As a family we had nothing, so of course it was straightforward enough for somebody to turn our Tommy’s head. It’s easy to turn a kiddie’s head when he has nothing. I’m sorry, our Tommy. Sorry for laughing at you at Silverdale when you wet the bed. Everyone laughed at you, but I shouldn’t have. However, I had no idea what was going on. Honest, not a clue. I took a few steps onto the actual moorland. There was nobody around, which was just as well, but I really wasn’t ready to climb back into the driver’s seat and point the van south. Not just yet. I wasn’t ready to abandon our Tommy again, so I made up my mind to stay put on the moors. Hours passed as I walked for mile after mile, and as the daylight eventually started to fade in the sky, I could feel the moors closing in on me, and for the first time in ages I began to feel close to my brother.