LITMIR.BIZ

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framework was hinged, designed in a controlled swing from the wall, as a basis for preliminary trapeze work but I was no kind of a graceful gymnast. If I concentrated and never looked down, I could climb about half way up, which was about my own height from the ground. A flimsy rubber mat on the floor was positioned should a student fall.

      Each week I was encouraged to climb a little higher up the bars. And each week, believing I’d made strides in a worthwhile direction, I attempted a higher level of accomplishment.

      After some weeks I approached the top. I was euphoric. When I turned my head I could see cobwebs on the strip lights higher up, level now with my line of sight.

      I looked down.

      Catastrophe! I wasn’t my own height above floor level at all. I was a lot higher.

      It looked higher when I focused downwards.

      Terrified, I froze.

      After a while a small crowd gathered. At first a few of my fellow classmates wanted to see what the fuss was about. As the news spread, more came. The crowd grew. Others came to view the excitement as some emergency had developed in the gymnasium. They saw me clung to my bar afraid to release my grip to get down.

      Only when I’d been assured every rubber mat the school possessed had been stacked one on top of another, and below me, and I could feel the security of many hands ready to catch me, did I dare loosen my grip and allow myself to be helped down.

      I finished up panting, face-up on the mats.

      Afterwards they banned me from the bars but Dad was quick to support me.

      ‘I see no reason for you to do well at physical training,’ he said, ‘not unless you want to become an athlete.’

      ‘Were you an athlete, Dad?’

      ‘Not in the least.’

      Next day two significant things happened. The old Talbot overheated and Dad had to borrow a watering can and use of a tap from a kind lady to top up his radiator. That reopened talks about their new car, and while they were discussing colours, we had an unexpected visitor.

      Sandy had not seen Mum and Dad since I was a baby. He’d been Dad’s bomb aimer back in the RAF, and he brought me an expensive drum set from Harrods department store. He laughed and slapped Dad’s arm. ‘Your boy hitting that drum might remind you of knocking noises in motors, Bill.’

      Dad became overly excited. He smoked more than usual, which had Mum trying to clear the air while he and Sandy consumed vast quantities of Scotch and soda. I was told if I wanted to play with my new toy I should go to the bedroom but I preferred to listen in.

      After a while Sandy grew serious. ‘Our war, Bill, was it worth it, do you think?’

      Dad was thoughtful before he replied. ‘No, of course it wasn’t. How could it be?

      War has only ever been worthwhile for those who profit from it. We nearly paid with our lives.’

      Both men became sad. They finished another bottle of whisky that Sandy had brought with him and Mum’s meal spoilt from being left too long in the oven. Sandy was invited to stay, but departed.

      Afterwards there were angry words from Mum.

      ‘The war is over, Bill. You’re not the only survivor. You need to forget and move on with your life.’

      Dad never replied. He was a million miles away. I believe clouds passed over the sun for him when the faces of dead friends now ghosts in his mind from the past returned to haunt him. And when they did, he disapproved of Mum’s attitude.

      Dad didn’t speak to Mum for days after that. Not until she gave in and begged him for forgiveness, for whatever indiscretion he had committed. After Mum waved the white flag it was smiles all round and back on track until the next time.

      We never saw Sandy again, which was a shame because when I got older I would have liked to thank him properly for the drum set.

      

      I knew nothing about boxing and cared even less but the custodians of my future attempted to teach me.

      ‘It’ll do you good, Son, make a man of you,’ Dad smirked.

      Mum was concerned. ‘Bill, he could get hurt.’

      Dad was thoughtful, lit up his trusty pipe, and sucked hard. ‘That’s unlikely, Alice, young men dancing around like the Marquis of Queensberry. They’ve no idea how to fight, no idea at all. At worse he’ll get a bloody nose.’

      The school’s efforts were as numerous as raindrops from a summer shower, but I proved a difficult student. I wanted to make Dad proud of me, but I was also a coward.

      I worried too much about getting hurt.

      Our boxing instructor was seriously puffed up. A self assured cocky little man from the east end of London, he had a cockney accent and dressed as if he was about to clean the school rather than teach within it. He was the opposite of goatee master in every way. He moved heavily on his feet and was not in the least artistic in his movements, but according to the school blurb he had great skills.

      Reputably he’d taught many well-known icons as children how to defend themselves in a boxing ring. Among the names he dropped was no less than Prince Charles, the Prince of Wales, our future King of England who at that time would have been by Dad’s calculations about eight years old.

      Mum was impressed but not Dad. ‘I don’t see any need for Prince Charles to defend himself at any age either in a ring or outside it, protected from harm as he is and always will be by countless minders, Alice.’

      Dad also agreed padded gloves and above-the-belt rules had no place in the real world. ‘The sport’s obvious artificiality turns me off, Alice.’ And yet Dad remained adamant that I, his son and heir should take part.

      I put the gloves on. Things started badly and grew worse. I clearly had no idea what I was doing.

      Genteel to a fault and proud of it, my newfound pugilist friends and I took turns to prance like morons around the ring. We grunted as men are supposed to while we tried not to trip over our own feet.

      Under pressure to appear focused, we each attempted to jab our opponent hard on the chin to gain points. Dad came to watch. He was unimpressed. ‘You in particular resemble a fair impersonation of a three foot slide on a dog turd.’

      ‘If combatants fall down for any reason they stay down and wait until the count of my ten to resume,’ our coach explained in his rough cockney accent. ‘Do you all understand?’

      We nodded.

      I first realised my nose to be vulnerable when a light jab jerked my head backwards. It felt like a crippling blow. Pain engulfed me, soon replaced by a tingling sensation when I leaked blood all over the floor.

      There was no count of ten.

      I panicked.

      Seated on a stool with my head tilted right back for about ten minutes, I waited for swelling to clog my nasal passages. Drawing of breath felt like inhaling red-hot coals. After my blood had congealed coach said, ‘ Enough! Get up and go out there and go do it again. But do it properly this time.’

      Boxing soon lost its appeal.

      Whether it was the sight of my own blood pooling at my feet, or I had trouble coping with involuntary losses of my own bodily fluids, I wasn’t sure. I decided bloodletting, especially my own, was not for me. The bully in me, when I could find him, had no such compunction about dealing out similar discomfort or hardship to my opponent. But at the first indication of any personal pain or suffering, I became undone.

      I tried to get out of it. Mum was on my side, but I had no chance. Dad made it clear. ‘You’ll complete the boxing term.’

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