McNally's Limes - 1

We met at the cemetery gates on Thursdays.
I can’t remember why, exactly; we could have been free from bothersome household chores by late afternoon, or maybe Thursday sounded perfect to meet at such dreary surroundings.

I was lying on my back and listening to the wind howling. I raised my eyes, upside-down-like, and watched the skeletal fingers of undead trees inviting me outside. I couldn’t help but feel that there was excitement in the air as the somber-looking clouds pulled faces at me through the grimy glass. I stuck out my tongue at them, latched the window and rolled over on my tummy.
The steel frame was cold under my arms as I snatched my knapsack from under the bed. It bulged at the side with an apple, and a great shame came over me, just like those clouds loomed in familiar grey.
The mattress was damp to the touch as I lifted it and felt for my notes. I shoved them in the bag in an attempt to hide the apple.
Strangest thing; the apple was hidden from sight, probably rolling around and devouring my words, but the shame stayed with me ‘til this day for not sharing it with Mum.

“You off again?” shouted Mum, tending the fire beneath a cauldron of boiling potatoes.

I sprinted out the back door and cleared the uneven steps Dada had fixed just two years previously. Still in mid air, I replied, “It’s not all beer and skittles, Mum!”

“Be back for supper, you ‘ear me! You ‘ave a scarf on?!”

“Aye!”

“Brollie?” Her voice faded.

“Aye, Mum.”

Halfway down Lower Meadow Avenue I had to stop because my trousers were falling down. I lifted up my shirt and noticed that the string around my waist had come loose. Then, holding my shirt up with my chin, I tied it. From across the cobblestone road I heard uneven footsteps going uphill. I couldn’t look up because I had a hard time tying the knot - I wished I didn’t bite my nails.

“What are you doing, son?! Are you playing with your willy?!” bellowed Hardgrave, the village idiot.

Despite the drizzle, my face went hot at this verbal assault. I wanted to shout back It has nothing to do with you!. However, my guts failed me, and so did my bladder. I squatted and pretended to tie my shoelace-less shoes, placing the brollie between my legs at such an angle that he couldn’t see my face.

“Look at him now! Little sissy boy hiding behind his little brollie,” he continued.

The mere thought of his swollen face and lice infested head caused a kind of nausea in my empty stomach that make people stay in bed for more than two days. I wished him dead at that stage; something I am not proud of.
I imagined the alcohol in his veins bubbling hot and steam coming out of his ears in mighty puffs and I could hear the wheezing of smoke that was buttering his lungs in black. I wanted him to explode like a mighty volcano, spewing out his flesh in big chunks; I wanted to see his blood flowing down the road so that I could skip over the red hot pools.
I even went so far as to search for the knife in my knapsack - just for comfort-like - but all I felt was the cool skin of the apple, apple, apple and the warm piss dribbling down my legs. Soon he was gone, swaying, no doubt heading for The Outsider’s Inn, probably stopping to lie down in his own vomit for a while; ‘to sleep it off,’ as Dada used to say.

On the corner of Lower Meadow and Stockford, I passed the mildewed red brick entrance to the greengrocer’s. “Top o’ the mornin’ taya, lad!” shouted Missus Fines.

I stopped and had a peek inside.

“I heard ya from way up there, lad – and never ya mind that excuse of a man, Hardgrave, luv. The devil’s taken his soul a long time ago. We should pray for him,” she continued.

I didn’t answer. The contrast between the brightness of the hopeless silver-lined clouds outside and total darkness in her store - except for a few grimy windows fixed high up on the wall that let in some light - had me squinting.

Missus Fines was blind, so there was no need for her to use paraffin, which was almost as scarce as sunlight in those days. Of course, in a village with a population of two hundred and nineteen - no, that’s a miscalculation; make that two hundred and nineteen minus Hardgrave - this had always been a hot topic for discussion.
The women who congregated in and around the store would cackle amongst themselves, making it clear that they didn’t appreciate the greengrocer taking their good money.
A typical conversation in the Missus Fines’ would go like this:

“Are these carrots fresh, Missus Fines? I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Neither can I, luv” Missus Fines would reply.

“How shall we know if these apples are red or green, Missus Fines?”

“I can’t tell the difference,” she would say, wiping a vicious knife on her apron.

Missus Fines might have been blind, but she wasn’t stupid. To these kind of people she would pay no heed; to them she played deaf and dumb.

“A green ‘un! Catch!” she shouted.

The apple struck me head-on, just like the steam locomotive had hit McNally two months before. Head first! Right in the middle! Bam!

“I heard that,” she roared, “Be sure to share tha’ with your mother dearest, ya hear? And peel it first.”

There was a pause.

It was as if the air itself had gulped that moment between us, and humiliation robbed me of speech as the red apple in my pack dug into my shoulder and the rain started to pour.

“Aye, Ma’am! Thank you.” I lifted the umbrella and waved.

Missus Fines waved back.