he started training on his own.”
“Aw, right… I’m glad you’re OK.”
We decide the safest thing is to hide the jemmy inside Cathkin. I cover while Skooshie extracts it from his sock and slots it in under the iron fence, within easy reach of anybody who know it’s there but totally hidden from the rest of the world. He picks a dock leaf while he’s down there and applies it to a fictional jaggy nettle sting in his hand as he stands up, just in case anybody should be watching and wondering what he’s doing rummaging in the undergrowth.
We go back to wait for the others to arrive. We sit in the sun and talk about just how brilliant Cathkin’s going to be.
Once they come we play tennis against the wall, measuring and marking a net. There’s been tennis on the television so we’re in the mood. We take it in turn to play,partly to make it competitive and partly because we only have three racquets between us. Bru wonders if we should maybe call it squash, but none of us is really sure what squash is. We’ve never known of anybody who’s actually played it. But tennis we love. Bru’s convinced he’s Jimmy Connors – he never gives up even when it’s hopeless. Lemur puts on a Borg-like coolness, not reacting even at his best shots. Once he tried falling on his knees when he beat us all, but tarmac is a lot tougher on the knees than grass. He won’t be doing
that
again in a hurry.
Today we’ve got to the best wall before any girls show up to get in the way with their skipping games and their prams and their dolls. Bru, Skooshie and I are sitting on the steps in the shade, watching a tough final between Lemur and Hector.
“My money’s on Hector,” says Bru.
“No chance,” I say. “Lemur’s tanking him.”
Play stops briefly while the players debate whether Lemur’s last shot was actually below the net.
“Fault!” shouts Skooshie. He points a warning finger at them to head off any argument. “The umpire’s decision is
final
.”
Play resumes. A wild ricochet on the next shot propels the ball past both of them. It’s bouncing down the hill towards the road. Lemur and Hector look hopefully in our direction. We shrug and shake our heads. We’re umpires, not ballboys. Lemur snorts his disgust and starts off at a slow jog in the direction taken by the ball. He’ll need to be quicker than that. It’s the only ball we’ve got so if it runs under the wheels of a car, we’re scuppered.
While we’re waiting for him to get back, Kit appearsfrom the flats with her friend Shelagh. Skooshie’s been playing with an empty sherbet dip packet he’s found – some wee kid must have thrown it away. He quickly squeezes it back into its original roundness, so it looks full, and holding it out yells, “Hey, Kit – want a sherbet dip?”
He doesn’t know what’s hit him. She shoves him hard against the wall and hits the sherbet dip packet from his grasp with a vicious backhand swipe.
“HA! HA! HA!” she shouts in his face.
Then, after giving me a poke in the shoulder as a parting gesture, she stomps off. Shelagh, who has stood and glared at us throughout the whole episode, gives a dismissive snort and stomps off after her.
“Ow!” says Skooshie, rubbing his shoulder. “Can she not take a joke? I’m hardly likely to give her a real sherbet dip! I’m not made of money!”
“That wasn’t why she hit you,” says Bru, once he’s stopped laughing.
“What did I do?” Skooshie is a picture of wounded innocence.
“You said the words ‘sherbet dip’,” I say. “You must never – ever – mention them in Kit’s presence or she’ll think you’re looking for a fight.”
“Guaranteed,” says Bru. “Every time.”
“It’s only a sherbet dip!”
“Not to Kit. It’s a reminder of something embarrassing she did when she was wee. She was about five and my dad gave her 50p to buy me a birthday present. This was in our last house. There was a shop just around the corner and it was the
“Aw, right… I’m glad you’re OK.”
We decide the safest thing is to hide the jemmy inside Cathkin. I cover while Skooshie extracts it from his sock and slots it in under the iron fence, within easy reach of anybody who know it’s there but totally hidden from the rest of the world. He picks a dock leaf while he’s down there and applies it to a fictional jaggy nettle sting in his hand as he stands up, just in case anybody should be watching and wondering what he’s doing rummaging in the undergrowth.
We go back to wait for the others to arrive. We sit in the sun and talk about just how brilliant Cathkin’s going to be.
Once they come we play tennis against the wall, measuring and marking a net. There’s been tennis on the television so we’re in the mood. We take it in turn to play,partly to make it competitive and partly because we only have three racquets between us. Bru wonders if we should maybe call it squash, but none of us is really sure what squash is. We’ve never known of anybody who’s actually played it. But tennis we love. Bru’s convinced he’s Jimmy Connors – he never gives up even when it’s hopeless. Lemur puts on a Borg-like coolness, not reacting even at his best shots. Once he tried falling on his knees when he beat us all, but tarmac is a lot tougher on the knees than grass. He won’t be doing
that
again in a hurry.
Today we’ve got to the best wall before any girls show up to get in the way with their skipping games and their prams and their dolls. Bru, Skooshie and I are sitting on the steps in the shade, watching a tough final between Lemur and Hector.
“My money’s on Hector,” says Bru.
“No chance,” I say. “Lemur’s tanking him.”
Play stops briefly while the players debate whether Lemur’s last shot was actually below the net.
“Fault!” shouts Skooshie. He points a warning finger at them to head off any argument. “The umpire’s decision is
final
.”
Play resumes. A wild ricochet on the next shot propels the ball past both of them. It’s bouncing down the hill towards the road. Lemur and Hector look hopefully in our direction. We shrug and shake our heads. We’re umpires, not ballboys. Lemur snorts his disgust and starts off at a slow jog in the direction taken by the ball. He’ll need to be quicker than that. It’s the only ball we’ve got so if it runs under the wheels of a car, we’re scuppered.
While we’re waiting for him to get back, Kit appearsfrom the flats with her friend Shelagh. Skooshie’s been playing with an empty sherbet dip packet he’s found – some wee kid must have thrown it away. He quickly squeezes it back into its original roundness, so it looks full, and holding it out yells, “Hey, Kit – want a sherbet dip?”
He doesn’t know what’s hit him. She shoves him hard against the wall and hits the sherbet dip packet from his grasp with a vicious backhand swipe.
“HA! HA! HA!” she shouts in his face.
Then, after giving me a poke in the shoulder as a parting gesture, she stomps off. Shelagh, who has stood and glared at us throughout the whole episode, gives a dismissive snort and stomps off after her.
“Ow!” says Skooshie, rubbing his shoulder. “Can she not take a joke? I’m hardly likely to give her a real sherbet dip! I’m not made of money!”
“That wasn’t why she hit you,” says Bru, once he’s stopped laughing.
“What did I do?” Skooshie is a picture of wounded innocence.
“You said the words ‘sherbet dip’,” I say. “You must never – ever – mention them in Kit’s presence or she’ll think you’re looking for a fight.”
“Guaranteed,” says Bru. “Every time.”
“It’s only a sherbet dip!”
“Not to Kit. It’s a reminder of something embarrassing she did when she was wee. She was about five and my dad gave her 50p to buy me a birthday present. This was in our last house. There was a shop just around the corner and it was the
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