Read Online Noisy at the Wrong Times by Michael Volpe - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Volpe
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bit where I was on the estate because I would be hunted down and found. You could hear the relay of shouted enquiry across the forecourts and playgrounds: “Where’s Mike? Find Mike!” I would wait smugly for my coterie to arrive, puffing and panting, eager to impress. If I were indoors, Mum would send me out, if nothing else to consume some time in the company of my father, with an order for a block of ice cream.
“And tella you fadda I’m no gotta ma mentenence dissa week,” she would call as I slammed the door behind me. “AND NO SLAMMA DA FUCKY DOOR!”
If they had not yet knocked on my door, having fruitlessly searched for me in the Court, my friends would be waiting at the foot of the stairs, fervent, excited and hugely pleased to see me. They would take it in turns to put their arms around my shoulders as we skipped hurriedly towards the chimes, and fights would erupt as kids argued over which of them was my best friend. By the time we reached Dad’s van at the Shottendane Road entrance of the estate, we must have looked like the Bash Street Kids, approaching in a comic-book cloud of dust from which arms and legs would occasionally protrude. Peace would return the moment we arrived at the van and I began to bark out orders to Dad, although nothing that my friends asked for was given. You could have a cone, a cone andif you were really lucky, you could have a cone. They came in three sizes, all of them small. Anyone who had the temerity to request red sauce would get short shrift and very likely no cone either. And even I couldn’t get a chocolate flake. Tutting and rolling his eyes heaven-wards at the demands of us children, Dad was never outwardly pleased to see me. Eventually, I would relay Mum’s order and he would grudgingly hand me a small block of ice cream to take home. If his tip for the 2.30 at Plumpton had come in, it would be raspberry ripple. Ice cream was just about the only thing my father ever gave us, but sometimes even that felt like treasure. As we were about to trot off to enjoy the delights of frozen vanilla flavoured fat, I would remember Mum’s other instruction.
“Mum says she wants her money this week.” Often I would have to shout it again, but louder, so he could hear over the large crowd of customers who had gathered.
* * *
The scorching summer of 1976 also saw me spend two weeks in hospital with an ailment that left the doctors baffled. An agonising pain in my hip and groin left me unable to move during school sports day, and immobility in the fierce sun had led to sunstroke. I ended up in hospital with acute fever and lots of hurting. Putting two and two together and getting five, the doctors suspected rheumatic fever. They took what felt like several pints of blood and, when that proved inconclusive, they took several more, then stuck me on an ECG monitor, X-rayed me, poked me, prodded me and generally acted as if they hadn’t a clue. My consultant was the bow-tie-wearing Mr Jolly, apparently one of the world’s leading paediatricians of his day. I always treat people who wear bow ties with suspicion and it’s common in the classical music industry, but back then it setMr Jolly apart and I was chuffed when a year or so later I saw him on the television.
“That was
my
doctor,” I would proudly announce to anybody who was listening, which was everybody if I had my way.
I ought to point out that this was my second stint in hospital; two years previously, I had spent a fortnight in a private room in the maternity unit. I was there because my injury was burns and they had to isolate me as a sterile measure, and the only private room they had was in the maternity ward. I am almost reluctant to relay the cause of my misfortune since it can paint a picture of foolhardy negligence on the part of Mum – but it wasn’t really. I was nine years old when it happened, and it was the same hospital, New Charing Cross (as it was then known) in Hammersmith, that picked up the
“And tella you fadda I’m no gotta ma mentenence dissa week,” she would call as I slammed the door behind me. “AND NO SLAMMA DA FUCKY DOOR!”
If they had not yet knocked on my door, having fruitlessly searched for me in the Court, my friends would be waiting at the foot of the stairs, fervent, excited and hugely pleased to see me. They would take it in turns to put their arms around my shoulders as we skipped hurriedly towards the chimes, and fights would erupt as kids argued over which of them was my best friend. By the time we reached Dad’s van at the Shottendane Road entrance of the estate, we must have looked like the Bash Street Kids, approaching in a comic-book cloud of dust from which arms and legs would occasionally protrude. Peace would return the moment we arrived at the van and I began to bark out orders to Dad, although nothing that my friends asked for was given. You could have a cone, a cone andif you were really lucky, you could have a cone. They came in three sizes, all of them small. Anyone who had the temerity to request red sauce would get short shrift and very likely no cone either. And even I couldn’t get a chocolate flake. Tutting and rolling his eyes heaven-wards at the demands of us children, Dad was never outwardly pleased to see me. Eventually, I would relay Mum’s order and he would grudgingly hand me a small block of ice cream to take home. If his tip for the 2.30 at Plumpton had come in, it would be raspberry ripple. Ice cream was just about the only thing my father ever gave us, but sometimes even that felt like treasure. As we were about to trot off to enjoy the delights of frozen vanilla flavoured fat, I would remember Mum’s other instruction.
“Mum says she wants her money this week.” Often I would have to shout it again, but louder, so he could hear over the large crowd of customers who had gathered.
* * *
The scorching summer of 1976 also saw me spend two weeks in hospital with an ailment that left the doctors baffled. An agonising pain in my hip and groin left me unable to move during school sports day, and immobility in the fierce sun had led to sunstroke. I ended up in hospital with acute fever and lots of hurting. Putting two and two together and getting five, the doctors suspected rheumatic fever. They took what felt like several pints of blood and, when that proved inconclusive, they took several more, then stuck me on an ECG monitor, X-rayed me, poked me, prodded me and generally acted as if they hadn’t a clue. My consultant was the bow-tie-wearing Mr Jolly, apparently one of the world’s leading paediatricians of his day. I always treat people who wear bow ties with suspicion and it’s common in the classical music industry, but back then it setMr Jolly apart and I was chuffed when a year or so later I saw him on the television.
“That was
my
doctor,” I would proudly announce to anybody who was listening, which was everybody if I had my way.
I ought to point out that this was my second stint in hospital; two years previously, I had spent a fortnight in a private room in the maternity unit. I was there because my injury was burns and they had to isolate me as a sterile measure, and the only private room they had was in the maternity ward. I am almost reluctant to relay the cause of my misfortune since it can paint a picture of foolhardy negligence on the part of Mum – but it wasn’t really. I was nine years old when it happened, and it was the same hospital, New Charing Cross (as it was then known) in Hammersmith, that picked up the
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