18 Dec 2018, 13:08

‘To keep my hands from picking and stealing, and my tongue from evil speaking, lying, and slandering’. – Book of Common Prayer.

I have never been Christened, as a child my father was seemingly an atheist, or at least an individual who had a dislike of religion.  And my Irish left-handed mother was happy to play along, as she had  lots of non-nostalgic memories of right-handed nuns in her school days,  with their interesting theories about the hand of good and the hand of evil.

I was well drilled in the difference between right and wrong though. I could easily paint a picture of what a wonderful angelic child I was, but the picture would be a lie.

I was a thief, a petty thief, a pretty good one. A few pennies and silvers from my mother’s purse, from my father’s money bell jar. Sweets, cakes, stickers, matchbox cars, pieces of Lego, you name it, I stole it, from a friend or family member at some point.

I could wax lyrical about when I was about nine, and my only friend who was about three years my senior, who was from a very unhappy home, I could say I was led astray and just got in with the wrong crowd, but I am not going to do that.

One damp day in the summer holidays, a nine year old I was riding my bike around the fields and the alleyways and through the spinneys of New Thorley, waiting to bump into Alan, my friend. He didn’t like it when I knocked on his front door, to see if he was ready for our next adventure in the old country. I had only ever heard his Dad’s voice, it was very loud and intimidating. Alan’s family did not like visitors.

Alan was obsessed with food, on many occasions he insisted we go to my granddads for a hot beverage. The beverages were always accompanied by biscuits of some sort, and Alan would chomp the biscuits down, almost without chewing – there was always crusts and crumbs in his pockets, of that I’m certain.

My Granddad was not at home this morning. So I assumed we would just ride to the nearby playgrounds, trying to find fellow adventurers who might be interested in exploring the secret woodland amongst the flat farm fields situated a mile or two behind the church in Old Thorley.

Instead, we were headed to an old people’s home, where his Granddad resided. I had gone with him once, but his Granddad scared me. I was not very keen to go there again, but Alan was adamant. We walked into the home and were confronted by a long corridor, he started crawling on all fours and I followed his lead. We were on a mission to find biscuits, preferably custard creams. We avoided detection and eventually found ourselves in a large kitchen. Alan pointed to the cupboard where the biscuits were kept and while he kept lookout, I quietly found an unopened double packet of custard creams, and I took them.

We made our escape without being noticed and rode towards the New Thorley playground behind the Sainsbury’s ugly bricked precinct. There were no boys in the playground area, and no one I knew except for two girls on the swings that I knew from class in school. I went to the climbing bar area opposite them, and starting monkeying about in the hope of impressing, as they were friends of the girl that I secretly loved.

Then suddenly I lost my grip on the raindrop covered monkey bars, and I fell awkwardly, winding myself and hurting my wrist. I remember people laughing, that evil laugh that you only here when a winded boy is struggling for his breath. My lungs eventually remembered how to function, but I was left with a pain in my wrist so intense that I could not help but scream and cry like a baby.

Alan rode off fast, and it wasn’t long before he, my mum and my granddad were tending to me.

The next thing I remember was waiting for three or four hours in the local hospital with my mum.

It didn’t look broken, but the x-ray confirmed my wrist was fractured.  

I ended up at home just before my father arrived home form work. I was still in pain as my arm was only covered by temporary bandaging. The six-week, over the elbow plaster was due to be put on the next day.

My father arrived home and I couldn’t help but cry and apologise for breaking my arm. I do not know why, but I was scared he would be mad at me, of course he wasn’t.

I went to bed early after supper. I struggling to relax because of the pain.

My mother came up with a tray to distract me from my fractured left wrist. On the tray was a mug of tea and a generous plate of custard creams…