Novel Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Woodwork.

One of the periods at school was woodwork. The boys were taught how to use a plane – not one of those that fly, but a tool to make a piece of wood flat. There was a certain technique in the way to hold the plane, and the action used when performing this task

Various joints were taught which was how one piece of wood was attached to another: the mortise and tenon joint, to be basic, was how to make a slot in a piece of wood, with a chisel, then paring down another piece of wood to fit the male into the female.

The woodwork teacher explained this to the class and the boys sniggered.

“That's right boys – time to snigger, but get over it”

He was Mister Spratt: he had quirky sayings and introduced him self at the first lesson with “My name is Spratt – Mister Spratt to you and when you have your laugh about my name remember it has two tees.”

If a boy ever said 'what' he would say 'Watt is standing outside the town hall with his hand out' and then carried on as if the meaning was quite clear. Then he would say “James Watt invented the steam train: he got his idea when watching a kettle boil and thought it could be used as motive power. He was Scottish but came to Birmingham where he had access to the best iron workers in the world. - In the world; that's Birmingham for you.”

Some of the boys went to the town hall and found that there was no statue of James Watt there at all, but there was one in Broad Street, with Matthew Boulton and William Murdoch, outside the Register Office.

When Finbar had a look at the statue he couldn't tell which one of them had his hand out, and wondered if William Murdoch was anything to do with the shoe salesman at the top of his lane.

They told this to Mister Spratt who took no notice, in fact the next time a boy said 'what' he repeated “he's standing outside the town hall with his hand out; James Watt – Watt with two tees.”

Alan Pitt, was sitting at the back of the room, reading a comic, under his bench. “You boy” Spratt said “You!!”

Pitt looked up - “Yes you. What did I just say?”

The boy didn't know.

“Who is standing outside the town hall?”

“What?”

“That's right – and how many tees?”

“How many teas?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know – some of them might have coffee.”

Spratt looked at him with a face a long as Livery Street.

“See me after school when you can write out 'I must listen' one hundred times.”

“Yes sir” said Pitt.

“What's your name?”

“Pitt.”

“What?”

“Pitt, sir” said Pitt, “with two tees.

The boys made wonderful things in the woodwork lessons, mainly little boxes to keep tiny things in. They usually had a little lid which was supposed to sit neatly on top, and a tiny handle, which was so tiny, on most of them, due to the boy sanding it down for too long. “Well you've spoilt that, haven't you?” was Spratt's usual response.

Those little boxes went on the sideboards and shelves of their parents and, invariably, stayed there for years and years and were still there when the boys took their own children to see their grandparents and 'who made this, granny?” was their reaction. Then there was a strange look given to the creator of that tiny masterpiece.

Finbar had a great philosophy, and it always kept him in good stead. His first lesson was on the football field. He knew he wouldn't get any better at the game, and was satisfied to play whilst it was fun, but if he tried to improve himself it would mean hard work with no reward. Not that he wanted reward from everything he did, but he got the feeling that he was more of an ideas man than a doer.

Another example of this was after the little box period, the boys turned to something of their own choosing. These were a little harder to make, maybe a waste paper bin, a little table or anything domestic and useful in the home; Finbar chose a guitar.

“A guitar?” said Spratt “What are you going to do with that?”

“Play it” said Finbar.

“Can you play the guitar?”

“No” said Finbar “but I'll learn.”

“What's the point, if you can't play?”

The teacher, in one of his many woodworklearning tomes, sorted out a design and Finbar set about making the guitar, which he had told scoutmaster Bishop about when he offered Finbar a half-a-crown. Who knows, he thought, that if he had accepted the half-a-crown it might have set him on the road to a successful skiffle group, and he could give Lonnie Donegan a run for his money.

At the next lesson, a lot of plywood was delivered to Finbar's work bench – for it was a bench he had to use in woodwork lessons, and he would fantasise that he was a grown up at work. He knew what guitars were made from and knew that plywood wasn't exactly Mahogany, Ash, Maple, Basswood, Agathis, Alder, Poplar, Walnut, Spruce, or even holly. He pointed this out to Spratt telling him that his grandad in Dublin had a guitar and told him his was made from spruce and his other was made from poplar.

“Hepplewhite used plywood and if it's good enough for him it's good enough for you.” said Spratt.

“Who?”

“Hepplewhite was one the greatest, and most famous, carpenters in history.”

“I thought Jesus was.” said Finbar,

“What?? - what” Spratt shook his head, Finbar nearly said 'he's outside the town hall' but didn't. He started to work with the plywood and knew he had to shape it and then either put a hole on the front or some 'F' holes.

As soon as he started and made the general shape of the guitar, the boys of the class gathered around to watch. Finbar needed a lot of help, particularly with shaping the guitar, which Spratt did for him, and he had a long piece of plywood which he had for wrapping around the side of the guitar shape.

He seemed to be persevering but because the other boys liked what he was doing, decided to change what they were making and started to make guitars. Finbar's guitar never got off the ground but most of the class made guitars some of them were excellent.

Chapter 22

Scouts.

Sleep - the cure all and Brafield-on-the-green.

Some time ago, when the children were growing up, we lived, what seemed, miles away from anywhere. We lived in a little village in Northamptonshire (above) called Brafield-on-the-green; I think it was around four miles south east of Northampton and about sixteen miles north west of Bedford.

I caught trains to London from both railway stations and then it was about one hour into London via Bedford and a bit longer from Northampton; the journey might seem ideal on paper but in real life it was a pain in the arse – especially when the journey was just for a five minute audition.

But life in Brafield was very peaceful and the children were brought up in, what their memories seem, idyllic conditions. They had to travel the four miles into Northampton when they left their village school in Brafield for the big wide world on the big bad bus as we couldn't always take them there and bring them back home in the car.

The kids in the village were children of farm workers and were raised up as country lads and lasses with a knowledge of the countryside and were not necessarily 'street wise.' It was strange for me to go from my life in a village, where I would brew beer and wine and even baked my own bread, to the metropolis of London with my work in films and TV and my time away in the theatre in other cities of the UK.

Once in a while youths of the village would knock our door carrying a few dead rabbits they had shot and offering them to us very cheaply. We never bought any preferring to buy our rabbits from the market in Northampton which had been skinned and dressed and ready for our stew. I can't believe how expensive rabbit is now from the butchers here in Los Angeles compared to what it was back then in Northampton.

The house we lived in had three bedrooms but was rambling with lots of nooks and crannies, a big walk in pantry and a Rayburn cooker/oven, with a kettle of water always on the go and which kept the house really warm during the cold winters. I remember one really cold snap when we were, more or less, trapped in our houses for a day sitting by that Rayburn, reading The Guardian whilst the kids played in other parts of the house or into the one hundred foot garden to make a snowman.

We had an abundance of cats which came and went frequently particularly when they were killed on the main road that split the village between the middle and working classes. That part of the village has slowly become middle class now, I hear, so I can imagine what it's like with the use of coasters, doilies and fish knives catching on.

One cat we had was a beautiful big white one called Flossie. She was a clever cat and would manipulate the door handle and let herself into the living room from the kitchen. Then she would settle herself on top of my stereo unit, or even one of our laps, and sleep.

We didn't have a cat-flap so the cats would jump onto the living room window and meow then we would let them in.

One night Flossie jumped up on the window ledge and she looked in distress. When I let her in I could see she had been shot. Obviously some kid was taking time off from hanging around by the telephone box (which is what the kids of the village did in those days) and shot her; the pellet had lodged around by her hip. She ran passed me and jumped onto the top of my stereo unit and cleaned the wound; then she went to sleep.

She seemed quite comfortable so we left her and she slept till the following afternoon; when she woke up she seemed fine so we left her and didn't bother to take her to the vet. The pellet stayed in her hip for the rest of her life which ended some time later when she was killed on the main A428; she was the last one of our cats to die that way run over by some vehicle or other.

What cured Flossie that day was sleep; sleep has been the greatest cure since records began and an estimated 30 to 40 percent of the U.S. population suffers from insomnia and is considered second only to cigarette smoking as dangerous for your health. It has been linked to a variety of health problems, such as diabetes, obesity, heart disease, and chronic pain.

When my wife had pneumonia recently she slept for days; the body knows what it needs and it induces sleep to cure – why then can't anybody sleep when they are in hospital?

I know – I have a strange way of making a point!!

A friend of mine left hospital last week and was glad to get home to get some peace. The nurses, doctors, ancillary workers, orderlies, auxiliaries and even the security people talk and move about as if it's the middle of the day. Patients have the TV on full blast, call out loud for the nurses and the para medics even take patients home on the middle of the night.

My friend was dropped home in an ambulance at 10:45 pm last week. When she queried this with the para medics, they told her it was nothing; they took people home all through the night.

What kind of sense if it when the greatest cure for nearly everything is sleep that the people running hospitals keep you awake.

I rest my case.

Novel Chptr 20

Chapter 20

The Boy Scouts

Ever since Finbar saw the school teacher that day in his garden, he knew he was a scoutmaster and he should approach him about joining the scouts. But he hardly ever saw him and didn't know which troop he belonged to; that is, of course, if he was a scoutmaster and wasn't just a boy scout himself albeit at that age.

He asked Patrick to find out if he could join his troop. “I know who you mean” said Patrick “he's a friend of the shoe shop man.”

“Mister Murdoch” said Finbar.

Patrick went into Murdoch's shop. As he entered a big bell rang as he opened the door. He looked around and there were single shoes priced at more than Patrick's weekly wage if not a great deal more, scattered artistically around the shop.

Murdoch came into the shop “Hello – er Patrick?” he said.

“Yes” said Patrick “you are?”

“Murdoch.”

“Hello Murdoch.”

Murdoch smiled “I mean Mister Murdoch.”

“I know, what you meant, but I'm not calling you Mister anything.” said Patrick.

“Oh” from Murdoch.

“If that's okay?”

“Yes' said Murdoch “but perhaps Jack!”

“That's better – Jack.” said Patrick.

“What can I do for you, Patrick?”

“Mister Callaghan, to you.”

“Oh I'm er sorry I . . .”

“I'm only codden' yeh”
Murdoch looked confused.

“I'm joking yeh; the scoutmaster lived along here – a schoolmaster?”

“Yes.”

“I need to see him. Finbar wants to join the scouts. Do you know where does he lives?”

“Yes thank you” said Murdoch.

“Who's being smart now?”

“He's next door – Mister Bishop; Robin Bishop.” he said.

“That's all I need.”

With that he shook Murdoch's hand and headed for the door.

“How is Finbar, by the way?”

“He's grand” said Patrick.

“Recovered from his chicken pox?”

“I should hope so” said Patrick “that was years ago.”

“Are you interested in a pair of shoes?

“Interested?” he said “Yes! But they're out of my league.”

When he went to Mister Johnson's house an old lady answered the door. She told Patrick that her son was, indeed, a scoutmaster of the local scout troop. She also told him where to go to enrol Finbar and it was just the other side of the main road, about a quarter of a mile south, in Tindal Street School. "You need to be there at six thirty" she said "every Tuesday."

The following Tuesday, Patrick and Finbar set off to Tindal Street School. It was easy to find, once you found the school, as there was a hub-bub from a room along a corridor, and inside were various groups mingling and chatting. One of the adults turned out to be Mister Bishop and Finbar identified him to Patrick. As they approached, Bishop saw them coming “Hello Finbar” he said “Come to join us?”

“We hope so” said Patrick.

“What does Finbar say about that?”

“I should imagine he'll agree with me” said Patrick.

“Is that right, Finbar?”

“Yes” said Finbar.

“Good.” said Bishop.

“But my dad already told you” said Finbar.

The one thing about Finbar is that he may have been small, but he wasn't shy, and wasn't intimidated by Bishop at all.

He was told he could wander around and speak to any of the boys and then, when the activities started, he could observe.

Patrick said he would go for a walk and ascertained what time the session finished before wandering off.

There was a boy from his class, Alan Pitt, who looked smart in his uniform, in fact Finbar hardly recognised him, and he spoke with such authority; “Hi ya Finbar” he said “Did you bring your mouth organ?”

“Of course I did” said Finbar “Have you ever known me to be without it?”

“Suppose not.” said Alan.

Then someone tapped Finbar on the shoulder and when he turned around the big kid was his former nemesis from the piano lessons. “Remember me?” he said.

“I do.” said Finbar.

“I was an awful shite to you, wasn't I?”

“I think you were.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I don't even know your name.” said Finbar.

“Dan” he said “Danny. And you're Finbar. Do they call you Fin?”

“No they don't – they call me sir.”

“What?”

Finbar laughed.

“I heard that in a film.”

“Well can I call you Fin?”

“I don't mind – nobody else does.”

“Well I won't – how's that?”

“That's good.”

“And I'll fight anybody who does.”

“Oh no – it's okay . .”

“ . . I heard that in a film too.”

They both laughed but the pair of them remembered the thumps and the bumps and the bullying from years ago - and also Mister Ferris.

“Did you hear about Mister Ferris?” said Dan.

“Yes, I did; he had a fit when I was there once.”

“Yes – when I was there too. I robbed him. Took all the money out of his pockets.”

“You didn't did you?”

“Of course not.” then he tapped Finbar on the shoulder “Tigg – you're 'it' ” and ran.

Finbar ran after him and made a flying tackle around his neck and they both fell on the floor.

“Now – you're it.”

“Okay- okay' said Dan.

A whistle sounded and the boys formed in to groups.

Finbar loved the evening and when his dad came to pick him up he didn't stop talking about the evening all the way, on their walk back home, to hos mother and even when he got to bed.

“Good night, little man” said his mother as she kissed him on the forehead.

“Night night mammy” said Finbar as he settled down.

Chapter 21

Woodwork.

Novel Chspt 19

 

Chapter 19

Football

Football didn't come naturally to Finbar, even though he enjoyed it. In the playground the boys played with a tennis ball and the goals were chalked on the wall of the lavatory.

The idea was, as there was only one wall, the boys played as individuals and shot at the same goal. Nobody ever wanted to go in goal. Finbar joined in every time there was a chance and as he'd only seen football on television he didn't really understand the rules.

There was an announcement by the headmaster, at the morning daily assembly, that there was a trial for the school football teams and those interested should be ready for it.

On the day, and as the school was an inner city school, a bus arrived to take the boys to the playing fields which were in Kings' Heath.

The trials were for the first year, the intermediate year and the seniors. Sometimes if a boy was good enough, for example playing in the intermediate league, he could play in the seniors.

The gym teacher called the boys together and said he wanted the junior boys to go to the side of the football pitch.

“What position you going for” said a boy to Finbar.

Straight away he said “Centre forward.”

A centre forward is usually fairly tall as they jump up to head the ball and have to be strong.

Finbar was probably the shortest boy in his year.

“Oh,” said the boy, “what about Roger Cook?”

“I don't know” said Finbar, and the boy shrugged.

“Boys: when you come forward, I want you to state which position you want to play – but first, are there any goalies?”

Nobody came forward.

“Any goal keepers?” he said again.

The same as before.

“Okay” said the teacher, and he pointed to Roger Cook “You, boy” he said “you can be in goal, in the first game . .”

“But sir” said Roger “I play at number nine – centre forward.”

“You can do that in the next game – we're only playing short matches. As soon as I see what I need, I'll stop the match. Right – you boy” he pointed at another big boy “you can be a goalie as well.”

He had his two goalkeepers. Then he chose the full backs, the wing halves and then the forwards.

“Wingers?” some came forward “inside forwards?” - the boys seemed confused “Number eights and number tens” a few came along.

“Now – centre forwards?” Finbar came over. “Are you sure?” the teacher said to the big smiling Finbar.

“Yes sir.”

“ - and where are your boots?”

“I can play in my pumps, sir” said Finbar.

“I see” said the teacher.

“Yes sir” said Finbar “and if I get into the team, my mom can get me some football boots.”

“Fair enough.”

The boys gathered, and he split them into three teams. Finbar was in team number one and Roger Cook was in goal, so Finbar thought he might have a chance. The other team was team number two. Team number three was not quite eleven and the teacher planned o use some of the boys from another team to play with team three. It couldn't last too long as he had to trial the intermediate and senior teams.

The boys were ready and Finbar was ready to go. He watched the movement of the ball and ran after it and if it came close he tried to get into the action.

He loved it, he was running about in his football shorts, green team shirt and his pumps. Sometimes they were a bit slippy but he didn't fall.

Roger Cook saved a shot from the other team and threw the ball out to Finbar. He was facing his own goal, at the time, and as the ball came to him he tried to kick the ball over his head towards the opposing goal, so he took a mighty kick and caught the bell beautifully but it hit him in the chin.

That was it – his football career, which had just started ground to a halt.

He didn't care as he loved it. As he came off the field the boy who asked him which position he was going to play said “You only got the ball once and it hit you in the chin.”

“I know” said Finbar, laughing.

Some of the other boys were selected for the teams and the better they became the better they were at it. However, they never enjoyed the game as much as Finbar did that day. As far as he was concerned: he wasn't a winner, but he was happy.

He went to the park, on other days, and played games with two coats at each end to denote the goal posts and when a goal was scored some of the boys argued in every game that the ball didn't go between the two posts and sometimes it was too high.

“No it isn't.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn't” were the rules of the game.

Finbar loved it, he even liked being in goal.

Chapter 20

The Boy Scouts

Novel Ch 18

 

Chapter 18

The Atomic Flyer.

Finbar's eleventh birthday came which meant two things. He would be able to join the Boy Scouts and he would leave his junior school and go to the seniors. He had heard a lot about the senior school, he heard it was a rough school. The new boys had to have 'the bars.' This frightened him and he wondered what were The Bars – were they some kind of torture; they were supposed to be an initiation ceremony to the big school. When he asked he was told that as the school was surrounded vertical bars – green, of course – the idea was to place a new boy with his back to the bars and push his arms between each bar and squeeze. It didn't sound very enticing but from the day he started the school, the dreaded subject of the bars was not brought up.

When he was asked what secondary school he was going to he told people whch school it was, but If he was with his parents, when asked, they would say The Oratory. He knew that the Oratory School was in Ladywood, the same district as the Children's' Hospital, and he knew it would be a bus ride each day, so he let the subject drop; in any case, he didn't know they'd applied for him to go there. They had failed to get him into a Catholic School, primary and junior school, which meant him falling in love with most of the nuns at Saint John's Convent. He knew them all by name, but he didn't fall in love with the Mother Superior as she was too old and the sisters were mysterious. They all wore things over their hair and he wondered if they were shaved bald and if they prayed all day. One of the boys he was attending Saturday class with one day said ruddy. 'I couldn't remember all the ruddy Catechism' he said and the nun said 'Donald, we don't use such words here.'

The senior school was a longer walk than his junior school and it was next to Ladypool Road Park, which some people called, Balsall Heath Park. This confused Finbar as he lived in Balsall Heath and the park was in Sparbrook. Strange old days when some people called the place Sparkhill and others Sparkbrook, when they were two different places, so he started calling Sparkhill, Spark Mountain and his pals asked where is the mountain to which he replied 'where is the brook?'

The first thing he learned was that the school had a tuck shop where he was introduced to wagon wheels, which was chocolate shaped like a wheel, and a chocolate bar called a Penguin but why it was called that he never knew.

The first year, at the new school, he was in the 'A' stream, 1A, and introduced to a Welsh teacher, who would grab him by his little sideburns, but called them sideboards – his daddy called them side locks which seemed better description and as his name was Finbar John Timothy Joseph Callaghan that's what the teacher would say as he pulled on his side locks if he got or did something wrong.

One day the class room door opened and Mister Bill came in; he was the school secretary “Is there a Finbar John Timothy Joseph Callaghan here?” Finbar put his hand up and Mister Bill said “You're supposed to be at the Oratory.”

“Well he's here” said his teacher; he looked at Finbar “are you happy?”

Finbar nodded his head.

“He's here” he said to Mister Bill.

“Okay.” and off he went.

That was the start of Finbar John Timothy Joseph Callaghan at every opportunity. He looked out of the window and could see the outside buildings, as his class was in an annex on the other side of the street from the main school. It was a balmy September morning, am I happy, he thought, my friends are here and the bars are on the other side of the street in any case.

He didn't tell his parents about the Oratory confusion but at play time his pals were saying Finbar John Timothy Joseph Callaghan, and it made them laugh which he liked.

On the other side of the school was a sweet shop on the corner, where the boys would crowd into at breaks, and the man in there would send boys outside to form a queue “come in one at a time – I've had enough stuff nicked so take your time – AND have the right money ready.”

Finbar didn't bring toast to the new school as he liked the tuck shop. His mother Carmel, had taken a job in the city centre at Lyons Tea Shop in New Street. It was where she and Patrick would go before going to The Forum Picture House.

One evening she asked a waitress, who were called 'Nippies' at Lyons, about working there and took it from there. She had to wear a neat little waitress outfit which was a blackish dress with a white collar and a white apron. The money she earned, with tips added, helped with the budget as Patrick's wages as a milkman were not that great.

Finbar was late for school a few times as he had terrible trouble getting out of bed in the mornings, and his teacher would say 'oh look who has decided to come and see us – the one and only Finbar John Timothy Joseph Callaghan.'

Finbar didn't care what he called him, Mr E.L. Morgan, indeed. He wondered what the 'E' stood for and the 'L' and then he thought, who cares.

There were two classrooms in the Annex and a science lab with a mad looking science teacher where the boys went for their science periods.

When they had to go to the main school, or in the early mornings, a group of women would gather by the school gates after they had delivered their children to school. They were waiting for the other teacher next to Finbar's class who was in his mid twenties and, for that time in the fifties, had long hair and wore tight trousers, almost drain pipes, and a long jacket. As he passed the women they commented and almost swooned. He was Mister Forster, who went on to be an actor; his hair was in a Marlon Brando style as Brando had it in Julius Caesar.

I wonder what he's wearing today, could be heard and Forster must have heard it too but ignored it.

Partick came home and told Finbar that he'd found a bike for him at work. Finbar's eyes and ears picked up and if he had tried he would have danced but the knife and fork in his hand stopped him.

“What's it like?”

“It's an old bike” said Patrick “you could work on it – do it up – and take it to school. How does that sound?”

“It . .it - it sounds great.”

“You can go to the bike shop” said Carmel “get the bits you need. Your father will help you.”

Finbar went to the dairy, where Patrick worked, to see the bike.

There it was leaning against a wall, Finbar could see it hadn't been moved for years as cobwebs were attaching it to the wall; the whole thing was very rusty and it didn't have dropped handlebars or even straight ones; it didn't even have cable brakes. A very old bike with 'sit up and beg' handlebars but he was delighted with it.

A few few days later, Patrick stopped the milk cart with his horse and brought the bike down the lane. Finbar rushed out of the house when he saw his father – there it was, the Bike!!

The kind of bike that nobody would steal.

Lot of kids at the school had bikes; some with dropped handlebars, some with straight handlebars and some that were a very strange shape; rather like the shape of some of the Harley Davidson motor bikes seen now and again in films.

A lot of these bikes would have their handlebars taped with a kind of white sticky tape; this would cover up various imperfections such as rust and that's what Finbar had in mind.

Finbar looked at the bikes in the bike shed and the saddles were almost taller than Felix; just how did they ride them, let alone get on?

So he went to the bike shop on the main road and bought brake blocks, white tape and other odds and ends. It really was a big job and kept it in what used to be his 'sheriff's office at the end of the lane.

Patrick helped him with the brake pads and he tried to clean the rust from the wheels. They bought new tyres, and inner tubes and a bicycle repair outfit in a little tin.

After working on it over the weekend he proudly rode it to school on the Monday. At school he told his pals he had a bike and heard one of them answer back 'you should see it!'

They all came out at play time and laughed at it; to a man – or a boy – they stood there and laughed and then one of them saw the sticker Atomic Flier! 

That was the cue for everybody to laugh; including Finbar; suddenly he thought it was hilarious too.

The senior school was not as frightening as Finbar had envisaged, in fact he really liked it. His school pals got used to his bike, they looked at it with a mixture of mirth and love as they could see the work he and his dad had put into it, and there were lots of new boys from other junior schools in the general area. The girls from the junior school had been transferred to a school over the other side of the main road from where he lived and he missed them especially Carol Balmond and Winifred Ecclestone. He never ever saw them again and after a little while the marriage to one of them had gone out of his head and since he had the bike, and would wander miles from home, sometimes, and in any case, he had fallen in love with Sofia Tabone.

She was the one who pinned his shoulders to the floor after the Saturday matinee – but they never really spoke after that formally; she just smiled sweetly when he passed her in the street; sometimes that would be very near Brighton Road, which, he remembered, was where she lived..

She attended a girls' school somewhere else but because he now had a bike he could get to Brighton Road, on the way to school, or back, to gaze upon her beauty and be the recipient of her radiant smile as she walked along.

The difference between wrestling with her, and the time he started at the senior school, was spectacular: she had blossomed into a very beautiful thirteen year old, too old for Finbar but he lived in hope.

With the bike he was able go down Brighton Road on the way to school, which was where she lived, and once in a while she saw him pass on the Atomic Flyer.

Chapter 19

Football