LITMIR.BIZ

      Jubblies, Pigeons and Lies

      Wooden crates of R Whites and Corona empties are stacked four high on the Big Step outside Plummer’s corner shop. The sun has turned the black-and-white tiles into a chequered hotplate. I’m sitting on its edge holding a Jubbly that was frozen ten minutes ago but is already turning to orange juice in its collapsing tetrahedron carton.

      ‘Hello Billy.’

      Sarah’s slender silhouette stands before me. A gentle fizzing in my chest has me rising to my feet. But a bigger outline moves alongside her and I sit down again. It’s Kenneth ‘Kirk’ Douglas. He’s blond, very blond. Girls like him, giggle when they see him, send him anonymous notes, and the younger ones use his name in their skipping games.

       On a mountain stands a lady

       Who she is I do not know

       All she wants is gold and silver

       All she wants is a nice young man

      The rope turns faster.

       All right Susan, I’ll tell your mother

       Kissing Kirk Douglas around the corner

       Is it true?

      Faster still, to catch the girl’s legs.

       Yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes, no, yes …

      The rope invariably traps their legs on yes.

      I listen out for my name but never hear it. When I was little, the girls never caught me in kiss-chase because I didn’t want them to. Even if I’d made myself catchable, they would have rushed past me in pursuit of Kirk, who was a good runner but enjoyed being caught. At the time, it made him a sissy. Not now, it doesn’t.

      I didn’t care much about girls at the time but it bothered me that they liked Kirk so much. They still do, especially his ‘lovely long eyelashes’ and his blond hair. What makes him bearable is knowing that he’s not too bright. Not backward or anything, only a little slow on the uptake.

      ‘Hello Sarah, watcha Kirk.’

      His push on my shoulder is heavier than playful. ‘Watcha Billy, hot eh?’

      He has this likeable, irritating way of talking without thinking, while I waste time searching for clever things to say that, once said, are rarely worth the effort. Inside Kirk’s head, there’s no space between thinking and speaking and although what he says isn’t funny or that interesting, it’s OK. I can’t stand him.

      ‘We’re going to have Jubblies too,’ he says.

      ‘We’re’? Because they’re both going to buy one? Or because they’re boyfriend and girlfriend, and he’s buying? An ache spreads in my stomach as I hold up my Jubbly.

      ‘Just the job in this heat, it’s … melty hot.’

      Melty hot? Melty bloody hot? Thankfully, they don’t seem to be listening. Kirk goes into the shop but Sarah waits outside. He is buying hers and she’s avoiding looking at me.

      Kirk emerges with a Jubbly in each hand, tearing along the top strip of one with his teeth to reveal the orange ice. He holds out the other one. ‘Here you are Sarah.’

      ‘Thanks Kirk.’

      It hurts to hear them say each other’s names. And is Kirk standing between us to make it clear she’s his girlfriend?

      Sarah squeezes the orange ice out through the edge that Mr Plummer has cut with scissors; girls ask for it to be cut, boys tear it. Kirk sits down, and jostles me to move over, pretending to be friendly but determined to make room between us for Sarah to sit next to him. I’m about to leave when I catch her glance at the space Kirk has made for her and pretend she hasn’t seen it! She walks in front of us to sit down beside me. One in the eye for Kirk, long lashes and all.

      She is wonderfully close and her bare arm is touching mine. She stretches out her brown legs on the pavement and, with her free hand, pushes her frock down to her knees. I clutch my Jubbly too hard and orange juice squirts on to the pavement

      ‘Ha,’ says Kirk, ‘what a waste.’ He leans over, knocking me against Sarah. His bulk doesn’t threaten in the same way that Griggsy’s does but with Sarah next to me, I hate him for being bigger than I am.

      ‘Kirk, do you mind?’ she says.

      ‘Looks like he’s peed on the pavement.’

      It does.

      ‘No, it doesn’t,’ she says.

      He smirks. I swig long and slow at my Jubbly, trying to think of a clever response. Nothing comes to me and we sit in awkward silence until relief arrives in the shape of Michael, who is toiling towards us, arms straight down like he’s carrying an invisible rucksack. One hand is cupped backwards as if ready to draw a gun; it’s hiding a cigarette.

      He flicks the brim of an invisible cowboy hat. ‘Howdy M’am, Kork, and if it isn’t Billy de Kid. Buenos dias, how are ye?’

      ‘Hello Michael, what’re you up to?’ says Sarah.

      ‘Not much señorita but I’m just after hearin’ on de wireless that de bandits who robbed that train vamoosed with more than two million pounds. Jesse James would have been proud of ’em.’

      ‘Oh yeah?’ says Kirk, dropping his jaw to mock him.

      Michael spits a shred of tobacco from the tip of his tongue. ‘I’m too late for de Jubbly swallying contest den?’

      ‘Contest? It’s not a contest,’ says Kirk.

      Michael winks at me. ‘Just as well, doesn’t Billy have yiz both well beat?’

      Sarah laughs.

      Kirk takes the bait. ‘Anyway, he started before us.’

      ‘Dat’s de way to win muchachos, dat’s de way.’

      ‘If we’d started at the same time …’

      ‘Ah Kork, if de moon were made of cheese …’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Oh nottn’, just a bit of poetry.’

      I suppress a laugh. Michael looks away, eyes narrowed against the sun and prairie dust, like Randolph Scott. He drops what’s left of his cigarette and shreds it with the sole of his shoe. ‘Will yiz be at the hoedown on Sunday?’ He’s referring to our street party that has been held ever since the Coronation, except that it now takes place in the school holidays. We nod. ‘Me ould fellah’s doin’ de announcements. Isn’t he after gettin’ ahold of won of dem loudhailer yokes to help with de organizin’?’

      Other Irishmen have difficulty understanding Michael’s dad’s accent and our Cockney neighbours will be taking the mickey as usual. Kirk shakes his head and smirks at me. I refuse to smile. Dad sticks up for Mr O’Rourke because he says it’s better to be a doer than someone who watches doers.

      Behind

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