Read Online The Tightrope Walkers by David Almond - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Almond
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laughed bitterly.
“Oh, Vincent!” he mocked. “Oh, Vincent, come and play.”
And suddenly he grabbed Holly, wrapped her in his arms, started kissing her and licking her. He got me too as I tried to separate them.
“You as well!” he snarled. “Oh, two lovely little bairns!”
I caught the scent of him, felt the stubble on his chin, the icy wetness of his lips, felt this body thrusting itself at us.
“Is this it?” he snarled. “Yes? Yes? Is this the kind of bliddy thing you want?”
Then threw us free.
“Go away, little innocents,” he said. “Go away, young bairns.”
That night I dreamed him coming up the stairs and through my door. The stench of fire was on him. He stood in the doorway.
“Leave the lass,” he said. “Come out with me and play in Hell.”
We went on with our rope walking on clear days beneath astounding winter skies. Maybe the death of Bernard was a weird inspiration. We were ungainly, our ropes were inadequate, but we walked for life, we walked against death. Soft-soled shoes were best. In them, our feet could grip the rope, could hold it, making the rope less alien, less threatening, almost an extension of ourselves. We knew that at the best of times the rope and the walker and the air through which the walker walked would become one single thing.
“Each time we walk,” said Holly, “we make a work of art.”
She became braver, bolder, was soon leaving me far behind. Soon she could walk the whole rope without a fall, whereas I would always stagger, grab the upper rope to stabilize myself. It was failure of confidence, of faith, as much as of balance and skill. But I improved. I began to complete the walk without needing the upper rope, without a fall, and as the winter passed we knew we’d need greater challenges once spring arrived.
Tyneside became monochrome: white patches of roofs and fields and tracks, black roads, dark walls, dark river, dark distant sea. Dad told of the freezing shipyards, of men in pullovers and hats and gloves and scarves working and cursing beside fiercely burning braziers. The men slithered across the salted decks and over salted gangways. There were many accidents: falls, stumbles. There were sprains, broken legs, even a couple of fractured skulls. Donny Linn got frostbite that turned to gangrene and he lost three toes. Many got the shakes. There were extra small allowances for working in such weather. But there was much absenteeism, of course. And some days the yard was closed down — everything seized up with snow and ice, and just too bliddy cold for work. And no overtime, no more extra shifts to bulk the pay packet out. The drawing office stayed open, Bill Stroud continued to draw his bits of ship, continued to get properly paid. Dad glared across the street at him, snarled at his overcoat, his scarf, his trilby, his leather gloves.
“Why don’t they just bliddy bugger off out of here?” he snapped.
Pensioners died in their homes. Chesty babies died in their cots. We found birds lying dead in frozen gardens. Cars slithered and crashed. Diesel froze in the tanks of buses. Trains didn’t run. Schools were closed. Kids slid and sledged through the streets and lanes. Our skin was chafed and scorched. We knew chilblains and delight.
Holly and her dad joined the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament that winter. They raged against the Russians and the USA. Atomic weapons? Hydrogen bombs? Didn’t they know there was quite enough of death without the need of such stupid things? They marched for peace and disarmament in the Haymarket in Newcastle. Bill and Holly distributed campaigning leaflets. They showed mock-ups of a blasted world. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT THE WORLD TO BE? JOIN NOW. MARCH FOR PEACE. SPEAK OUT AGAINST BOMBS AND WAR. SAVE THE WORLD FOR YOUR CHILDREN .
“Typical conchie crap!” grunted Dad. “We’ve been battling each other since time began and we’ll be battling each other for everbliddymore.”
“You can’t believe
“Oh, Vincent!” he mocked. “Oh, Vincent, come and play.”
And suddenly he grabbed Holly, wrapped her in his arms, started kissing her and licking her. He got me too as I tried to separate them.
“You as well!” he snarled. “Oh, two lovely little bairns!”
I caught the scent of him, felt the stubble on his chin, the icy wetness of his lips, felt this body thrusting itself at us.
“Is this it?” he snarled. “Yes? Yes? Is this the kind of bliddy thing you want?”
Then threw us free.
“Go away, little innocents,” he said. “Go away, young bairns.”
That night I dreamed him coming up the stairs and through my door. The stench of fire was on him. He stood in the doorway.
“Leave the lass,” he said. “Come out with me and play in Hell.”
We went on with our rope walking on clear days beneath astounding winter skies. Maybe the death of Bernard was a weird inspiration. We were ungainly, our ropes were inadequate, but we walked for life, we walked against death. Soft-soled shoes were best. In them, our feet could grip the rope, could hold it, making the rope less alien, less threatening, almost an extension of ourselves. We knew that at the best of times the rope and the walker and the air through which the walker walked would become one single thing.
“Each time we walk,” said Holly, “we make a work of art.”
She became braver, bolder, was soon leaving me far behind. Soon she could walk the whole rope without a fall, whereas I would always stagger, grab the upper rope to stabilize myself. It was failure of confidence, of faith, as much as of balance and skill. But I improved. I began to complete the walk without needing the upper rope, without a fall, and as the winter passed we knew we’d need greater challenges once spring arrived.
Tyneside became monochrome: white patches of roofs and fields and tracks, black roads, dark walls, dark river, dark distant sea. Dad told of the freezing shipyards, of men in pullovers and hats and gloves and scarves working and cursing beside fiercely burning braziers. The men slithered across the salted decks and over salted gangways. There were many accidents: falls, stumbles. There were sprains, broken legs, even a couple of fractured skulls. Donny Linn got frostbite that turned to gangrene and he lost three toes. Many got the shakes. There were extra small allowances for working in such weather. But there was much absenteeism, of course. And some days the yard was closed down — everything seized up with snow and ice, and just too bliddy cold for work. And no overtime, no more extra shifts to bulk the pay packet out. The drawing office stayed open, Bill Stroud continued to draw his bits of ship, continued to get properly paid. Dad glared across the street at him, snarled at his overcoat, his scarf, his trilby, his leather gloves.
“Why don’t they just bliddy bugger off out of here?” he snapped.
Pensioners died in their homes. Chesty babies died in their cots. We found birds lying dead in frozen gardens. Cars slithered and crashed. Diesel froze in the tanks of buses. Trains didn’t run. Schools were closed. Kids slid and sledged through the streets and lanes. Our skin was chafed and scorched. We knew chilblains and delight.
Holly and her dad joined the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament that winter. They raged against the Russians and the USA. Atomic weapons? Hydrogen bombs? Didn’t they know there was quite enough of death without the need of such stupid things? They marched for peace and disarmament in the Haymarket in Newcastle. Bill and Holly distributed campaigning leaflets. They showed mock-ups of a blasted world. IS THIS WHAT YOU WANT THE WORLD TO BE? JOIN NOW. MARCH FOR PEACE. SPEAK OUT AGAINST BOMBS AND WAR. SAVE THE WORLD FOR YOUR CHILDREN .
“Typical conchie crap!” grunted Dad. “We’ve been battling each other since time began and we’ll be battling each other for everbliddymore.”
“You can’t believe
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