1992
‘I asked my mum. She said no. And not just a regular no, but a no with her hand up.’ He pictured her serious face and pose, like a policeman stopping traffic. ‘That means a forever no and not an “I’ll think about it” no, which usually turns into a yes, eventually.’
Ten-year-old Nick sat on the kerb outside his house and kicked his scuffed trainers at the softening tarmac floor warmed by the hot sun, huffing at the injustice of it all.
‘She said she had asked my dad and he said he wasn’t about to go into debt just so I could have a bike.’ Nick had heard his father before on the topic; it made his face red and his nostrils flare. Debt provides the right level of worry to send a working man to an early grave. I saw it rip my parents apart and it’s a state in which I will never live. Better to go without than go into debt. Mark my words . . .
Nick wasn’t sure he agreed with this, figuring that to have a bike would be the best thing in the whole wide world, early grave or not.
Alex, his classmate, folded his arms across his faded Alvin and the Chipmunks T-shirt and bounced his small rubber ball repeatedly on the same spot, catching it with one hand. The sound was both captivating and irritating.
‘Well, my mum said if we could afford things like bikes then she wouldn’t be pulling extra shifts at the Co-op and stacking shelves when she’d rather be at home with a cup of tea and her feet up, watching Corrie.’
Eric, the third member of this esteemed yet nameless gang, whose Yorkshire twang was the strongest, sighed and looked from Alex to Nick. ‘My mum said, “Get out of the sodding kitchen, you little bas’tad,” and then she threw a potato at me.’ He let this sink in as their snickers burbled. ‘I’m taking it as a maybe.’
As ever, Eric, their sharp-witted friend, was able to turn the upset of having asked and been denied the one thing they truly wanted – bikes – into something hilarious. Nick was in awe of how his lanky mate trotted out swear words and funny responses, unafraid to answer back at a particular volume from the side of his mouth, which meant adults didn’t always hear but he and Alex always did, making it a battle to keep those giggles in and their faces straight until they were able to explode. This was one of Eric’s skills. This and his enormous capacity for food; they called him the ‘Human Dustbin’, and how much he ate was mightily impressive. It was the norm that Eric would quickly finish what he was eating, whether it be a bag of crisps, a school lunch or a biscuit, and then stare at him and Alex in the way a family dog might, watching with wide eyes and a mouth that quivered at the possibility of a share in the food Nick or Alex was eating. It was usually out of kindness or guilt that Nick would hand over at least a bite to Eric, who would be so happy, his reaction so grateful, it far outweighed the discarded morsel he had been cast.
Nick was stumped. With a flat-out ‘no’ from all parents, how were they going to get bikes so they could roam the moors, get from A to B with haste and, more important, circle the market square, looking casual while showing off to anyone who might be loitering? This particular mode of transport was, in Nick’s opinion, the one thing that shouted out, LOOK AT ME! I’M A KID WHO IS GOING PLACES! He clamped his top teeth over his bottom lip, as he did when he had to try to figure something out.
It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair! He hadn’t asked to be born in this small, rubbish town in the middle of nowhere where there was only one rubbish cinema, one rubbish shop, no ice rink – something he had seen on television and was very keen to try – and no motocross club (ditto). In fact, the only places to hang out were the garage at his parents’ house, the Rec, Market Square and the Old Dairy Shed on the outskirts of town – a rather dilapidated steel-framed barn, long abandoned and where the older lads and lasses went to snog. This he knew for a fact because he and his friends would sneak up from the east side and climb on an old crate to peer in on the shenanigans from the little window in the side where the glass had long been pelted away by forcefully chucked stones. There the three would stand and gawp, fascinated, offended and delighted by the moans, squeals and fumblings that took place on the cold concrete floor of the Old Dairy Shed, which was scattered with pigeon shit, discarded cigarette butts and old chip wrappers. On one occasion they had observed fumblings taking place up against the steel girder in the middle of the echoey space. Nick had loped home in silence, more than a little unnerved by this athletic feat. It didn’t seem right standing up. Not that it seemed very right lying down either.
The other place they liked to congregate was the long green-painted iron bench in Market Square. The bench, with its worn brass plaque to Albert Digby, the son of a farming family who had lost his life serving his country, carried a fiercely adhered to ‘hierarchy of occupancy’ code. It was quite simple. Grown-ups took precedence. After them, if you were in upper school the bench was yours, followed by junior school attendees and then primary school. But then there were caveats: boys who played football for the school team could oust just about anyone; the footie team players really were like mini celebrities. Then there were the groups of girls who took ownership of the bench by dint of the fact that no one wanted to intervene, get too close or talk to the huddle. They were intimidating – a seething mass of flicked hair, cheap perfume and loud, loud laughter. Nick and his mates thought these huddles were glorious. Contained within were all the mysteries of the universe and the only two things they coveted and admired as much if not more than the racing bikes which eluded them: boobs. They found boobs fascinating and hilarious in equal measure. The sight of boobs was enough to transfix them, and hearing the word ‘boobs’ enough to send them into paroxysms of laughter.
‘So, if our parents aren’t going to buy us bikes’ – Nick continued to ponder the dilemma in hand – ‘how are we going to get them? There has to be a way.’
‘We could rob some!’ Eric suggested enthusiastically.
‘Who could we rob bikes from?’ This seemed to be Alex’s concern, rather than the illegality and immorality of the suggested act.
‘Dunno.’ Eric chewed his thumbnail. ‘Ooh!’ he shouted, jumping up in a lightbulb moment. ‘The postman. He has a bike!’
‘That big red one with the rack on the front where he rests his postbag?’ Alex hinted at the rather distinct nature of the man’s standard-issue bike, the only one in the town. ‘I think people might notice if it went missing and we were doing wheelies on one very similar in the street!’
There was a beat of silence.
Nick stared at his mate. ‘Anyway, isn’t the postman your uncle John who lives next door to you?’
‘He’s not next door,’ Eric fired back. ‘He’s next door but one.’ As if this might be all the difference needed to give his idea the possibility of success.
Nick and Alex exchanged a look.
‘You’re such a div, Eric!’
‘And you’re a knobhead!’
And so it went, the trading of various insults that covered everything from mental impairment, physical defects and sexuality, all standard fare in these exchanges.
‘You’ve got a girl’s foo-foo instead of a willy!’
‘You’ve got a girl’s foo-foo, no willy and you wear frilly knickers!’ Eric retorted.