The Still Wind (standard:drama, 4974 words)
Author: MartinC	Added: Mar 16 2012	Views/Reads: 3102/1930	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A Small boy grows up in west London in the 60s

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

were millions and millions of the black balls lying on the ground.   
Superballs, with huge bounces, were just appearing in shops and it 
looked like men from the factory had tipped a load over the wall for 
the kids. We were beside ourselves with joy at this unexpected 
treasure. We picked up as many balls as we could. Some bounced them, 
others threw them into the fog where they disappeared. We crammed our 
coats and trouser pockets with balls. Others arrived. Girls too. Lucie 
ran over. She tucked her hair behind an ear. I gave her a ball. She 
bounced it and caught it and smiled briefly at me before running back 
into the playground. I watched her disappear in the fog, fading out of 
my world and back into her own. 

At first playtime, the fog had almost gone. I felt a sense of loss as I
walked into the re-familarised playground. I wanted the fog to come 
back. It took the ordinariness away and reminded me that there was 
wonder in the world. Even in west London. 

Someone ran up to me and held out his hands. He had half a ball in each
hand.  I had pockets full of balls. I took out  two and gave him one. 
Without the fog now at least I could see how high the balls would 
bounce. I jumped into the air and threw my ball with as much force as I 
could muster. The ball split like some fissioning nucleus and the 
pieces shot off at unexpected angles. Teachers on playground duty were 
throwing balls to each other. and laughing The balls made your hand 
smell funny. 

Brandon was my best friend. He'd been my best friend on and off for two
years. Playground friendships were always subject to fads and boys fell 
in and out of favour. Girls were never friends, not even Lucie. Brandon 
stayed more or less my best friend as he lived across the road from me 
and we walked to and from school together. He'd come in for tea once a 
week or so during term time to watch telly. Mum would make an extra 
plate of meat or fish paste sandwiches and Brandon would wolf them down 
always saying, Thank you Mrs. Preston. Looking back he always seemed  a 
bit on edge but I don't think I noticed that much at the time. When the 
evenings were long and summery we'd go out to play. 

Two paces beyond our flimsy back garden fence and gate was a railway
shunting yard. Where the railway tracks weren't hard up against back 
fences, they gave onto narrow and overgrown wasteland and this was our 
park. Wagon movements were relatively rare when we were playing; mum 
and dad always told us to be careful where we went. We came from a 
railway family so I'm guessing fear and respect of trains was taken as 
read. There were tales of boys playing and being trapped between 
buffers and losing legs, believed in earnest at first then dismissed 
later as scare tactics.  They were probably true. At least somewhere. 

Brandon taught me to sneak. At least I remember that he taught me.
Perhaps it was the other way round. The school building itself was like 
a castle with turrets and an irregular roofline inset with attic 
windows. That's what I tell myself. It was probably far more prosaic. 
Vauxhall Victors and Vivas and Morris 1000s sat in the teachers' car 
park. There were cycles too. The headmistress would pay with sweets any 
boy who washed her car during the lunch break. In my memory she looked 
like Mrs Thatcher's Spitting Image puppet. The boys' toilets were 
outdoors and had no roof. I don't remember where the girls went. The 
bogs were covered with brown glazed tiles. We would see who could piss 
the highest. We'd try, in vain, to get it over the wall. Haha, what if 
we did and a teacher was walking past? Snigger. 

Wet playtimes were the worst of all possible school days. Screaming
children confined to an ancient building playing with bean bags and 
Cuisenaire. Brandon curled his finger and motioned to follow him. We 
were in our last year at the school and were on the top of three 
floors. There were  boys and girls cloakrooms, one in each wing. Rows 
of low benches hunched, with coat-hooks above. Damp duffle coats and 
anoraks hung listlessly and a musty smell was all pervasive. There was 
a door next to the cloakroom that was usually locked. I don't 
remembering being curious about it before but Brandon turned the knob 
and it opened outwards. Stairs led straight up from the doorway into 
the gloom above. What's it...., I asked and Brandon shushed me with a 
finger against his lips. He went up leaving me alone. I could follow 
him or go back to the classroom. If I returned I wouldn't know what lay 
at the top of the stairs. If I followed him I risked being caught out 
of bounds and would feel the the cane across the back of my legs. I 
looked back. No-one had seen us. I went up and two steps later Brandon 
whispered down to close the door. I protested that it would be dark and 
as I said the words there was a pointed click and a light somewhere 
above cast a gloomy, fly-spotted and dismal light down on me. I closed 
the door and as it clicked shut I felt a momentary pang of panic as I 
thought it might have locked. I crept up the steep wooden steps holding 
on to a tall handrail not meant for small children. When I got to the 
top Brandon gestured with both hands to the expanse. I didn't know it 
at the time, but I'd just entered the Hall of the Bright Carvings in 
Gormenghast. An attic that stretched across the whole school. I had 
never been in an attic before and this was immense. Wooden trusses held 
up the roof and made for an intricate structure that checkered views in 
all directions. Ancient chimneys thrust their way through the floor and 
out the roof. It felt cold and I could hear rustling. Birds, Brandon 
told me, they live here. There was dust on every surface. There was an 
eerie silence about the space despite the birds. I could hear my heart 
beating inside my chest and Brandon said, Look. I followed him to a 
trellis table. It was covered with balls. As I got closer I realised 
they were not balls but small heads. Closer still and they became 
puppet heads. Heads made from plasticine. They were were the first 
stages of papier-mache puppet heads. Each one had a little tube coming 
from the bottom for a an index finger to poke up. They would be cut 
open and the modeling clay removed before being rejoined, painted and 
dressed. Then some sort of end-of-term puppet show would ensue. There 
were Punches and Judys. There were babies and mums and dads and 
brothers and sisters. Maybe even a teacher or two. They were 
proto-heads. Heads waiting to be properly born, as yet devoid of of 
eyes, lips, freckles colour and hair. All they had were noses. Brandon 
picked one up. He put his finger into the tube and made a funny voice. 
Hello, I'm mister Graham and you will play the triangle or I'll slipper 
you. I picked up one too and we played a grotesque puppet show. I had 
one on each hand now; they were looking at each other and talking. What 
are you doing here big-nose? Who said that?, I can't see you; I haven't 
got any eyes, ha ha. With a quick silent movement Brandon brought down 
the head on to the table with a thump that stirred up eddies of dust in 
the still air. Bam!, he exploded. He looked at the puppet head, laughed 
and showed it to me. Its nose was flattened. It no longer looked much 
like a head. He took one of the puppets off my hand and Bam! he did it 
again. He hooted triumphantly. I looked at the crazy glint in his eyes 
and felt my puppet nestle into my palm, exactly the right size to be 
pounded. Smash! Nose-less. Whack! Another. I stopped. Brandon was on 
his sixth or seventh. Stop, Brandon. We'll get caught. I didn't say 
Stop, Brandon, it's wrong, but Stop, we'll be discovered. He shook his 
head and picked up another puppet. His eyes never left mine as he 
pounded it into the table. 

Lucie lived the other way from me. In a posher area. She had a real park
to play in. As I came into the hall after leaving the attic I could see 
her with her friends. They were playing catch with small rubber rings. 
Sometimes she'd miss one and it would roll across the floor and she'd 
chase it screeching with laughter. As I sidled over to her as casually 
as a ten year old could, I realised my hands were dirty with attic 
dust. I hid them behind my back. Hi, I called. She ignored me, winding 
her hair behind her ear. D'you wanna know a secret? I said. P'raps, she 
replied non-commitally. Come over here then. She put her hand through 
the ring, pushed it up her arm and followed me to the side of the hall. 
She looked at me distrustfully. What? she said. You know Brandon, I 
replied, well he's been out of bounds. Doin' what? she asked. My 
courage deserted me. He was my best friend. You can't tell a girl that 
even if you do love her. Dunno, I finally managed. She turned, pulling 
down the ring, and went back to her game. I don't remember ever ever 
speaking  to her again. 

Maisy was in my class. She arrived before Christmas and spoke strangely
Mrs Taylor told the class that Maisy was from America and would be 
staying at the school for a while. We were to be friends and look after 
her. But she sounded funny. And she was tall. After Christmas  she 
handed out little envelopes to everyone in the class. They were 
birthday party invitations. I'd never been to a birthday party and she 
was quite cute and talked to me where Lucie ignored me. Maisy talked to 
everyone. She hardly ever stopped talking. About how her dad was real 
important. I told her my dad drove railway trains and she said that was 
nice but her daddy flew planes. Mum said I couldn't go to the party 
because we had to go to nan's that weekend. She told me to write a 
thank you to Maisy anyway. Brandon said he wasn't going to Maisy's 
party cos she was a yank. I said it wasn't her fault she never stopped 
talking. Maisy was crying in the class and said that no-one was coming 
to her party, Cause I'm different. I handed her my letter telling her I 
was going to my nan's. She didn't believe me and that always haunted 
me. I felt very sad for her. 

Brandon's dad was a deep-sea diver. And he was a soldier who lived in
the army. That's why I could never come round to his house. His mum 
didn't want strangers in their house. He told me that while we were 
watching Do Not Adjust Your Set on the telly, eating bread and jam. I 
only saw his mum once in three years. I was in Woolworths with my mum 
and brother. I saw Brandon take some sweets from the Pick ‘n' Mix and a 
woman slapped him across the face as she gabbed the sweets and threw 
them back. He saw me watching. I tried to say hello but he was too far 
away and so I just waved. His eyes welled up but he bit his lip as big 
red mark spread across his cheek. His mum yanked him  by the arm and he 
was gone. He didn't speak to me for a week and went to school on his 
own. I knew he was cross that I'd seen him because he played with Gavin 
that week and he never played with Gavin. 

Next week it was forgotten and we went to the sheeting shed to play.
No-one knew why it was called that or even what it meant. My dad told 
me it was an abandoned hostel for railway men who'd worked trains down 
from the north and stayed overnight before running trains home the next 
day. Dad said he'd stayed in similar places in Leeds and Manchester. I 
only remember one day there. I'd gone round to Brandon's back gate. I'd 
knocked and shouted, but he hadn't come. I lifted the latch and the 
tall wooden gate opened slightly as I pushed it against rusty hinges. I 
was just about to call him again when Brandon came out his back door. 
His house was the same as mine and this door led from his kitchen. Like 
us, the Railway had knocked down his old outside toilet and built a 
bathroom and toilet accessed from the kitchen. Get out, he whispered 
loudly. Mum'll clump me if she sees you in here. Is your dad back yet?, 
I asked for the umpteenth time that month. Brandon had told me before 
he was looking forward to seeing his dad back from China or somewhere. 
No, he replied, He's still stuck. Next month. Maybe. 

We ran down the alley towards the sheeting shed. Mark, Tony and Vincent
were going to meet us inside and we were going to look for tramps. 
Since the place had closed no-one but vagrants lived there. We were 
excited. I felt anxious - a sense of adventure. If there were tramps 
there they'd shout and chase us. We'd outrun them easily, but they'd be 
smelly and might throw bottles at us. We went through the bent and 
loose corrugated iron fence and through the broken window of a tiny 
downstairs room. It was dark here but we could see light ahead in the 
main part of the building. Tony was already here. There ain't no-one 
here, he reported., Me ‘n' Vince looked. On cue, Vincent let out a 
whoop from somewhere out of sight. QPR, he shouted. Vince supported 
Queen's Park Rangers and was always shouting it. All of his school 
books were covered with those three letters. He was useless at football 
and was always the last to be picked. Where's Mark, Brandon asked. He 
ain't here, said Vince coming into the room from the main hall. He held 
a chair leg in his hand and swung it with a thump against the door 
frame. We've looked all over and it's empty, he continued. We walked 
into the the main stairwell of the square building. Looking up we found 
ourselves in every schoolboy's dream. A huge empty building. The 
staircase wound its  way round all four walls of the vestibule. It 
seemed to go up dozens of floors but dad told me later there were only 
four. Landings went around two side of each floor leading off to 
corridors. There were many small rooms on these landings and 
passageways. The top of the stairwell was glazed with dirty, cracked, 
bird-spotted glass. It was impossible to see the sky above but a 
uniform greyness bled through. It seemed silent although we could dimly 
hear the main road traffic seventy yards away. The place was a wreck 
but it was our wreck. Chairs and some tables had been thrown down the 
stairwell as fragments of furniture could be seen here and there. Our 
voices echoed in the stillness and motes of dust could be seen dancing 
in the beams from steeply angled light streaming in through cracks in 
the glass roof. As we ran up the stairs it was as if we were stirring 
the dust from some ancient tomb. It would float back down insouciantly. 
Small, boy-sized footprints, were left across the stair treads and 
floors. Tony was lucky enough to have a pair of Wayfinder shoes and he 
left little animal track footprints wherever he went. I once asked him 
to show me the compass I knew was hidden in the heel, but he's said his 
mum had told him not to show anyone.I think he'd lost it. My mum said 
the shoes were too expensive for me. 

First we played hide and seek in the maze of dusty broken cells. We soon
tired of that as it involved lots of stair-climbing and there were 
hundreds of rooms. Vince came out of one of the rooms dragging a 
striped mattress. He and Brandon heaved it over the banister rail and 
it fell two stories to the floor. It landed with a whump and a puff of 
dust. Let's get them all, shouted Brandon. Yeah, we all screamed. 

I pushed the door nearest me. It opened a little way. I put my shoulder
to it and the door groaned open pushing the bed away. Pigeons flapped 
noisily away from the their perches on the window sill. At the time it 
never struck me as odd the door had been blocked from the inside. The 
room was as broken and dusty as the rest. The straw-filled mattress sat 
half on a low iron bed-frame. Some of the supporting springing was 
hanging as though it had been kicked through. The bottom half of the 
sash-window was smashed. I could see out through it to the road. A 266 
Routemaster busied past. It was my red, diesel-engined anchor back into 
the real world of school and home. I turned back to look at the room. 
Apart from the bed there was a small chair with one of its legs snapped 
off. A small cupboard had been upended against a wall and there was a 
book on the lino floor. That was it. Nothing else. I picked up the 
book. It was a Bible. I flicked through the creased and dusty pages. 
Mum was always telling me me that it was the most important book in the 
world. It didn't look very important that day; lying on the floor, its 
spine broken and pages folded back on themselves. I righted the 
cupboard and put the book into the drawer. I had one more glance back 
out through the grimy window before hefting the mattress out through 
the door. It was as though my ears had been switched back on - the 
noise of three excited voices was deafening. I pushed and cajoled the 
musty-smelling palliasse over the rail and down it tumbled, joining the 
half dozen already there. Vince and Tony were at the bottom puling the 
bits of chairs out from under the growing pile. 

We spent the next hour launching as many of the stained and split
mattresses into space as we could find. In the end we had a tall pile 
in the stairwell. We rushed downstairs to survey our work. It was a 
fine landing bed. Unusually, I went first. I strode up half a flight 
and climbed over the bannisters. Holding onto the rail with my arms 
behind my back I leaned out. Jump, shouted Brandon. I thought better of 
it and edged back down a few stairs before leaping outward and 
screaming. I hit the unforgiving pile with a dull thump. I couldn't 
breathe from the dust I'd stirred and was swallowed up by at least two 
layers of bedding. I swam to the top of the mattresses wheezing, 
coughing and sneezing. Brilliant!, was all I could manage to say 
through the coughing fit. Brandon was next and he went to where I'd 
first climbed over and threw himself down into the cushioned pit. As he 
landed a roar of triumph and a jet of dust shot skywards. He climbed 
out and was a different colour. I looked down at myself and realised 
that I too was no longer my usual wan self. 

We worked our way up the outside of the staircase until we were almost a
whole story up before we heard the police siren. We froze as one. 
Looked at each other before some instinctive reaction took over and we 
all ran. We squeezed out the window into the afternoon sun. Following 
Vince closely I realised how smelly he was. I looked down. God, mum'll 
kill me if I come home like this, I said to no-one in particular. Me 
too, said Tony . Brandon just shrugged his shoulders and ran for the 
outside fence. We exited speedily and ran full pelt for Vince's 
backyard. We banged each other's backs to try to dislodge some of the 
dust and grime. There was a bucket of water and we washed hands and 
faces and looked ten time dirtier. At home Mum was asleep in front of 
the telly so I took off my t-shirt and washed. 

When we went back the next day the fence had been mended and our
wonderland had been taken away. 

The prospect of moving to high school was exciting and scary. Brandon
and I would be going to the same school. It just couldn't get any 
better. Mum had taken me shopping to buy my new uniform. I loved the 
bold colours - they stood out more than the blander tones of the 
junior's ties and jumpers. Blazers were new to me and somehow the 
prospect of an inside pocket excited me. I wanted to go out to play 
with my shirt and tie on. I knew passers-by would be impressed by how 
smart and grown-up I looked. Mum said no. It would keep for another 
week until I started the new term. I sneaked out my tie in my pocket 
and rushed round to Brandon's to show him. I could never hear his 
doorbell ringing so never knew if it worked. After what seemed like an 
age I decided he wasn't coming and ran round the back. I knew he wasn't 
allowed to have friends anywhere in the house but I couldn't contain 
myself. The gate gave as I pushed it and I entered the unfamiliar yard. 
Our yard led up steps to the garden, his just led to the alley. There 
was an old-fashioned washing boiler with a mangle on top and a single 
bicycle wheel. Washing hung desultorily in the still air. It looked 
grey; as if it had been there for years. I could hear shouting from 
inside the house. Brandon was crying. This numbed me - I'd never seen 
him cry, even when he fell off one of the huge cable bobbins we used to 
 climb on and roll like circus acrobats and got a massive splinter in 
his hand and gashed his face and knee. But he was crying now, I was 
sure. His mum was screaming. I edged closer to the back door. All I 
could hear Brandon shouting through his tears was no, no, NO! Then he 
said, I don't wanna go to Parkhurst, I wanna stay here. Why couldn't 
they stay at the Scrubbs. His mum screamed back that they were leaving. 


Leaving? Leaving! No, Brandon can't leave. Not now. We're going to high
school together. I backed away from the door and knocked into the 
boiler. The mangle fell on to the concrete yard. The shouting inside 
stopped. I turned and ran as I heard the kitchen door being unlocked. 
As I sped through the gate I turned back. Brandon was looking at me 
through the grubby net curtains. His face was contorted with crying and 
tears and his hands were pressed, fingers splayed, against the window. 

Dad later told me that Parkhurst was a prison, like Wormwood Scrubbs. 

The first year at big school was OK. I soon made new friends and before
I knew it a year had gone and Brandon was a memory. I'd left Lucie 
behind for a year. I hoped and prayed that she would come to my school. 
I made little pacts with God telling him I'd stop biting my nails if 
Lucie came next summer. Then I stopped biting, reasoning that God would 
see through that plan and expect me to fulfill my part of the bargain 
first. At the start of my second year, and swaggeringly experienced in 
the ways of high school, I was exactly the sort of friend Lucie would 
need to navigate her first couple of weeks. She didn't come. I waited, 
thinking maybe she's been on holiday with her family, but she never 
arrived. 

I never saw Lucie or Brandon again. I started to bite my nails again,
realised that often it's not enough to want something badly and had my 
first niggling doubts about God.


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