The Credit Draper

Episode 14

Avram got the message even though he didn’t understand all of the words. “You lie to me.” “No, I don’t. Ye’ll see. He puts a towel over yer wrists now to stop it happening. Ye should see the line of sick notes for gym class. Begg takes it as a compliment.”

“Why will this Begg want me?” It was Avram’s turn to pick up a stone. He looked for a suitable target, let fly at a broken wheel.

The stone clattered off a spoke into a muddy puddle. “He does not know me.” “Coz yer a natural.”

Avram smiled. “A Patsy Gallacher.” “Aye, maybe. And d’ye know why yer so good?”

“At throwing stones?”

“At the football, ye daft bampot.”

But the connection between football and stones wasn’t lost on Avram. For he recalled his initial inspired touch of the ball during that first street game in Biblical terms.

He’d felt just how he imagined the young King David must have felt, kneeling down to pick up a pebble for his catapult. Feeling in his palm the smoothness, the roundness, the effectiveness of the selected stone.

Knowing instinctively this was the object that would fit perfectly in his sling, that would fly most accurately, that would shape his destiny.

“God gave me a gift.”

“Don’t get so big-heided.”

“What is it then?”

“Naw. It’s not that, Patsy. It’s something else. Something I’ve noticed.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s that ye never take yer eyes off yer feet. Other boys’ll look up to set up a pass, or a cross or a shot. Or they’ll be put off by a defender rushing at them. Ye just keep yer eyes on yer feet.”

Skipped

Celia skipped ahead, singing as she went: “You’ll never meet your mither till she’s gone

Gone wi’ yer claes tae the pawn

If you dinnae meet her there

You’ll meet her on the stair

Blind drunk, wi’ the ticket in her haun.” Avram was caught between catching up with her or waiting for Nathan who was lagging. “What’s ‘the pawn’?” he called after her. “Stupid boy. I’m not telling you.” “Come on. What is it?”

“I told you. I’m not telling you.” “You don’t know, that’s why.” “Course I do.”

She stuck out her tongue at him then waltzed further ahead, singing: “Avram doesn’t know what the pawn is,” her voice niggling him until he longed to chase after her, to prod and tickle her into confessing she did not know.

But Nathan was groaning behind him, tangled up with the straps of his satchel.

“Are you happy or sad today?” he asked him as he helped the younger boy’s arms through the straps. The boy beamed at the question. “Nathan is happy.” “Why?”

“Because you are.”

He thought about this. Yes, he was happy. He had been looking forward to school for months now. His street friends were there. There would be proper football. Not just with a tanner ball on the streets, but on pitches with a real leather ball and goalposts.

Absorbed

He looked forward to the lessons in a language and dialect he was beginning to understand. He looked forward to studying with numbers.

“Is Nathan happy because Nathan is happy? Or only because Avram is happy?” “Nathan feels nothing about himself.” He looked at the boy. He seemed so fragile. Nathan never played out in the streets. At the very most, he would sit on the close-step and watch. Never taking part, hardly speaking to anyone.

He could become totally absorbed in scratching a stone on the pavement surface or watching the drip, drip, drip from a cleaning cloth left out to dry. And those deep circles around his eyes. So much pain hidden there, yet for the moment Nathan’s lips were fixed in a serene smile.

Celia was back, running round in teasing circles. “Avram doesn’t know what the pawn is.”

“What’s wrong with your brother?” “You keep asking me that. And I keep telling you. There’s nothing wrong with him. Are you all right, Nathan?”

Nathan nodded. “See. He’s even smiling.”

“But he’s so quiet.”

She took Nathan’s hand, pulled him along with her, chanting her taunt. Nathan twisted his head back awkwardly to look at him. He was still smiling.

“School’s for bampots,” Solly said authoritatively, his mouth and tongue stained black from sucking on a liquorice stick. “There’s nothing worth learning. ’Cept reading and writing.”

“What about your times tables?” Avram asked.

“I already know ma ’rithmetic.” Solly boasted that ever since he was seven years old he could work out the return on a penny bet at 13-8 on the favourite at Ayr.

“That’s about it,” he declared. “The rest is a waste of time. I’m leaving soon as I reach 15. I’m going to earn a wage.”

Occupants

Avram didn’t agree with his friend. He liked school. He liked to learn. He liked his jotters and his blotting paper.

He liked the double desks with their inkpots and ink stains, and to read and feel the deeply scored desecrations made on the hinged lids by previous occupants.

He liked the display of maps on the walls from which he could constantly review the journey he had made to this country or wonder at the extent of the British Empire. He liked to monitor his progress in learning by his movement away from the front of the class.

As the new boy, he had been seated right next to the teacher’s desk on the first day. But after each test he had slowly moved backwards until he was now well into the top half of the class.

Sometimes there would be a space when someone died. Then the seat would be left vacant for a week with a black ribbon tied to the back before everyone again moved up a space.

You keep asking me that and I keep telling you. There’s nothing wrong with him. Are you all right, Nathan?

More tomorrow.

The Credit Draper is the first in a trilogy by J David Simons. He has written five novels and is published by Saraband. His work can be purchased at saraband.net.