it m-m-m-makes ’em fizz in their p-p-p-p-per-per-pah-pah-pi-pi-poo-poo-poo-panties!’
Two rows in front, Squelch suddenly vommed back up a party-sized tube of Smarties he’d wolfed to win a go on Ant Little’s Space Invaders calculator. A tide of multi-coloured vomit advancing up the aisle was enough to distract Wilcox. I got off at Drugger’s End and went round the back of the village hall and over the Glebe, alone. It takes a while. Over by St Gabriel’s some way-too-early fireworks streaked spoon silver against the Etch-a-Sketch grey sky. Someone’s older brother must’ve bought them from Mr Rhydd’s. I was still too poisoned by Wilcox to pick the last watery blackberries of 1982.
Was it the same poison that spoilt Dad’s incredible present? John Craven’s Newsround was about the Mary Rose. The Mary Rose was Henry VIII’s flagship that sank in a storm four centuries ago. It was lifted out of the sea bottom recently. All England was watching. But the silty, drippy, turdy timbers lugged up by the floating cranes look nothing like the shining galleon in the paintings. People’re now saying the money should’ve been spent on hospital beds.
The doorbell rang.
‘Chilly day,’ rasped an old man in a tweed cap. ‘Nip in the air.’ The man was today’s second surprise. His suit had no obvious colour. He had no obvious colour, come to that. I’d put on the the door chain ’cause Dad says not even Black Swan Green’s safe from perverts and maniacs. The chain amused the old man. ‘Crown jewels you’ve got stashed away in there, then, is it, eh?’
‘Erm…no.’
‘Ain’t goin’ to huff and puff and blow yer house down, yer know. Lady of the house at home, by any chance?’
‘Mum? No. She’s working in Cheltenham.’
‘A shame that is. Year back, I grinded her knives sharp as razors but no doubt they’ll be blunt again by now. A blunt knife is the most dangerous knife, yer know that? Any doctor’ll tell yer as much.’ His accent skimmed and skittered. ‘Blunt blades slip fierce easy. She’ll be back soon, will she?’
‘Not till seven.’
‘Pity, pity, don’t know when I’ll be passin’ here again. How ’bout yer fetchin’ them knives now, and I’ll make ’em nice and sharp anyway, eh? To surprise her, like. Got my stones and my tools.’ He thumped a lumpy kitbag. ‘Shan’t take no more’n a second. Yer mam’ll be that pleased. The best son in the Three Counties, she’ll call yer.’
I doubted that very much. But I don’t know how you get rid of knife grinders. One rule says you mustn’t be rude. Just shutting the door on him’d’ve been rude. But another rule says Never Talk to Strangers, which I was breaking. Rules should get their stories straight. ‘I’ve only got my pocket money, so I couldn’t afford—’
‘Cut yer a deal, my chavvo. I like a lad who keeps his manners about him. “Manners do maketh the man.” A proper clever haggler, yer mam’ll call yer. Tell us how much pocket money’s in yer piggy bank, and I’ll tell yer how many knives I can do for what yer got.’
‘Sorry.’ This was getting worse. ‘I’d best ask Mum first.’
The knife grinder’s look was friendly on the surface. ‘Never cross the womenfolk! Still, I’ll see if I can’t call this way in a day or two after all. Unless the squire o’ the manor’s at home, that is, by any chance?’
‘Dad?’
‘Aye, Dad.’
‘He won’t be back till…’ You never know these days. Often he calls to say he’s stuck in a motel somewhere. ‘Late.’
‘If he isn’t fierce worried about his driveway,’ the knife grinder tilted his head and sucked air, ‘he needs to be. Tarmac’s cracked serious, like. Pack of tinkers laid it originally, that’s my guess. Rain’ll freeze inside them cracks come winter, prise the tarmac up, see, and by spring it’ll be like the moon! Needs tearin’ up and re-layin’ proper. Me and my brother’ll get it done faster than—’ (His finger-click was as loud as the popper in Frustration.) ‘Tell yer dad from me, will yer do that?’
‘Okay.’
‘Promise?’
‘I promise. I could take your phone number.’
‘Telephones? Liarphones, I call ’em. Eye to eye’s the only way.’
Knife Grinder heaved up his kitbag and walked down the drive. ‘Tell yer dad!’ He knew I was watching. ‘A promise is a promise, mush!’
‘How generous of him,’ was what Mum said when I told her about the TV. But how she said it was sort of chilling. When I heard Dad’s Rover get home I went out to the garage to thank