Novel. 1.

Chapter 1

                                            Piano Lessons

Where are we?

The city is Birmingham and the time is 1950, or thereabouts, when two Irish boys met each other once a week. One of them was a year or two older than the other, and when they met the elder boy bullied the younger.

They didn't know each other's name, but there was a look about them, that they could see, which was Irish. Two Irish accents had disappeared, after they started school, and metamorphosed into the guttural sound of a Brummy accent; Brummy being the sobriquet for Birmingham. Some say the Birmingham name was originally something like Brumagem, but it wasn't; the original place was called Beormingahâm.

Try saying that, after a few pints.

That name, Beormingahâm, with the little accent over the 'a,' was the furthest thing from the mind of the two little Irish boys, who met, every week, in the parlour of their piano teacher.

The elder had the first lesson, and when the lesson had finished and the teacher went out, the big fella usually jumped on the little fella as he came in. And, without any further ado, jump and wrassle him to the ground. Then, with one arm around his neck, he loved to squash the little fella in the face.

Not a word was spoken till the piano teacher came back.

As they got up he thumped the little fella in the ribs.

Then with a look that said 'don't say a word or I'll wait for you outside' he'd smile at the piano teacher.

The teacher's speciality was 'The Teddy Bears' Picnic' which he played to the new kids when they were introduced by their parents.

He had hooked fingers with long nails, and as he played you could hear the clickety click of his nails on the keys. He delighted in playing it and his sister, who's duty it was to open the street door to let the kids in, was delighted in hearing it, as if for the first time; even though she must have heard it hundreds of times. 

“Oh that's lovely, Leonard” she might say, and usually the new boy clapped; and the lone parent, who was usually the mammy.

The piano teacher picked up a little stick, rather like a knitting needle, and said “when you play the music, I use this to point to the notes; not to hit your knuckles when you make a mistake. So don't be frightened.”

As the years moved on, the mammy became 'mom' and only called the mammy in the confines of their homes.

The big boy, the elder of the two, usually arrived in a car, which waited outside for the lesson to finish and when the little boy came along, and saw the car. he knew he was getting a thump in a few minutes.

His mother, chain smoked as she waited, for it was of the time when everybody smoked.

Everybody means, those that smoked, smoked and they were in the majority; in fact at the age of sixteen, fathers gave their sons their first cigarette, and the boys coughed and spluttered, nearly bringing their ring up, till they relaxed and took another drag.

The fathers could tell if their offspring had been smoking on the sly if they didn't cough, but it was too late for any chastisement, as the deed had been done.

Smoking on the sly was very fashionable with kids at school and took place in the lavatories, which were in the playground. The boys' lavatory usually had an open roof so from outside the smoke rose to the heavens – and all that from one cigarette, which the kids passed around like a joint. Coughs and noise emanated from there and maybe the teachers could see the smoke, but maybe too, they were in the staff room smoking their own cigarettes.

In 1952, The King, died of something caused by smoking, and his doctor had advised that he should smoke menthol cigarettes – to clear the lungs – poor fella, getting iffy advice!

But that was later.

In the feature film, Alfie, which came many years later, there is a line from the likely lad, who said he always started the day with a cigarette to clear his lungs. Alfie'was years later, so the King's advice took a long time to disappear.

It was like a foggy day in London Town when the big kid came out from his lesson, but he was used to it.

On every street sign in Birmingham, there was a number as in all major cities, which was the district number, and the number of the street, Woodfield Road, the piano teacher's street, was Birmingham 12; the bully lived in Birmingham 13, which was a bit more of a leafy suburb.

There was that little bit of a difference in class conscious Britain, where people living on the end of a row of terraced houses looked down on their neighbours considereing them inferior and unimportant.

Not that Birmingham 12 was without its salubrious large Victorian houses, as there was a row close to where the little fella lived, but he had never been in any of them.

It was the days of skiffle with home made double basses, made with a tea chest, a broom stick and string; they worked too.

The little fella didn't want to learn to play the piano, as he wanted a guitar so he could form a skiffle group.

As he was passing the posh Victorian houses one day, a school teacher, whom the little fella spoke to, on occasion - nothing more than a hello - saw him and said “hello, Finbar, and how are you?”

Oh yes, his name was Finbar; the fair one.

“I'm fine.” he said.

“Looks like you're off to your piano lessons?”

She could see his little music case.

“Yes.”

“Are you enjoying them – do you like the piano?”

“It's all right but my hands are not big enough.”

“Too small for the octave?”

“Yes” he said “I want to form a skiffle group.”

“Oh?” said the teacher “that's interesting. How are you getting on with that?”

“I haven't started properly – I'm saving for a guitar.”

“Look” he said, and took some money from his pocket.

“Will this help?”

He waved half-a-crown in front of Finbar's face.

He looked at it. It kind of shone against his black woollen gloves.

“Would you like that?' he said.

“Oh – I don't think so.” said Finbar.

Of course he did; he was only being good mannered.

“Okay” said the school teacher, and put the half-a-crown back into his pocket.

“Enjoy your piano lesson – and don't forget – your hands will get bigger.”

With that he walked away.

Finbar looked after him, as he walked off. 

He knew he was a school teacher, but didn't know the school where he worked.

Finbar's school was a mixed infants to juniors school, for children up to the age of eleven. He or she could attend if they were due to reach the age of five during the coming term. They stayed till the age of seven then transfer into the junior school, where they stayed for four years, each streamed into three: one two and three or 'A' 'B' and 'C.'

From the very first day at school, Finbar screamed and kicked as soon as he was taken there. His first teacher was Miss Jones, who picked him up and carried him in, as he kicked and screamed all the way.

This upset his mother, Carmel, as she heard his screams fade into the distance, and the quieter they became the bigger were the tears in her eyes.

This happened for the first few days, then she asked her only friend, Phyllis, who came from Limerick, to take him to school.

For some reason he didn't mind 'Aunty' Phyllis, leaving him off at school, although it wasn't the easiest to part him from his mother. The tears were not so bleating as time went on.

Even though he hated school, Finbar got used to it. He learned to read as quickly as the other children and his first teacher was very fond of him even though he had kicked and screamed on the first few days.

Carmel, of course, was the wife of Patrick, who would have been there on the first day of his son's schooling but he was at work.

He worked as a milkman which, in those days, would arrive in a horse and cart, which meant he didn't have to drive between houses as the horse would walk forward and stop, without being told or pulled up.

Patrick noticed the horse first and as was saying hello to it by rubbing the top of its head and, by force of habit, he took a lump of sugar from his pocket and have it to the horse.

“How are you doing” he said to the horse, which was the ultimate in rhetorical questions.

Billy Jones was the milkman, that day, a pleasant little rotund Welshman and he could see that Partick was a lover of horses.

“What do you call him?” said Patrick.

“Spot” said Billy “look at his nose.

There was the spot.

“How did you get such a great job?”

“I asked the milkman who delivered my milk.”

“How about me asking you?” said Patrick, more in hope than civility.

“Of course” said Billy “meet me in the wagon and I'll give you the info.”

“All right er when?”

“When they open tonight – the Wagon and Horses – there.” and he pointed at the pub on the main road opposite the lane where the Callaghans lived.

That was a good start for Patrick, and his family; he knew how to treat a horse and that was the main reason he was given the job. He learned about milk later.

The second year at Finbar's school was not so good. He didn't like that teacher at all because of the way she treated him.

One time at school she was giving him a reading lesson and his desk was right at the front; she was sitting at the other side of it.

The archetype school mistress with hair tied tight in a bun; Miss Coates.

He really wanted a wee but she wouldn't let him go: “You should have gone at play time” she said.

“I did go.”

“No you didn't; now read.”

There were little drops of wee falling down Finbar's leg and the more he read the wetter his underwear became.

“You can go” she said “but you'll stay in at lunch time till you've read the page.”

They were due to go to lunch at midday and it was eleven forty five; oh how could he hold it that long, but the alternative was staying in at lunch time when he wanted to go home.

He carried on reading. He read a bit, peed a bit, and again, read some more and drip drip drip – oh dear. He'd look at Miss Coates and the old sadist ignored him a if he was as pretending?

Eventually the bell went and they broke for lunch; he ran to the loo and emptied his bladder standing there like a locomotive getting rid of steam.

When he got home his mother noticed the wet underpants so he told her what had happened.

After he got changed she accompanied Finbar back to school, went up to the teacher; “I need to see you outside” she said.

“Outside?”

“Yes. I'm not embarrassing my son in front of the class, come with me” said his mother.

They walked outside and Finbar took his seat in the classroom.

“What do you think of these?” said his mother, waving the wet underpants under her nose.

The teacher looked at them.

“That's no way to send a child home?” she said.

Miss Coates was lost for words.

“Or do you think that is a way to send a child home?”

“I . .er . ” stuttered Miss Coats.

“That will not happen again”

“No.” said Miss Coates.

“Did you hear me?”

Miss Coates nodded.

“Well heed me!”

“Heed?”

“Yes, heed: it's a transitive verb, if you did but know it.”

Miss Coates was shocked and impressed by the fluidity and poise of this posh Dublin accent and didn't know what to say.

“That will NOT happen again.”

She said that last bit quietly and clearly.

Then she turned on her heel and left Miss Coates standing there.

Chapter 2

School and The Life Boys