We had about four Caspers in my school class alone, lads from ‘broken’ homes dressed in hand-me-downs, not sure from where their next meal would come, dodging bullies, irate neighbours or members of their own family. These were shadow boys, a few yards behind the rest of us, unwilling to join in. They often played alone on the margins, down by the river near the chemical factory or on a piece of oily scrubland between the road and railway. Gerald Swanson was typical. We’d often ask him to join us but it was like trying to tame a feral cat; he didn’t trust us enough to draw close. He was always yawning and sometimes fell asleep in class, his forearm a pillow for his head. During the summer holidays we found him sleeping on a pallet near the canal, curled up tight. His face was mucky and looked to be tear-smeared.
‘Swanny.’
Gerald opened his eyes, blinked and scanned our faces. In an instant, he was off. He charged through the shrubs and bushes and was on the towpath within seconds.
‘What’s up with you? We’re not going to beat you up or owt.’
‘Fuck off,’ he yelled and jogged away.
No comments:
Post a Comment