The Driver
And The Spider-man Collection...
In that instant, Jimmy knew two things: he'd ignore the Driver's advice, but it was now imprinted in his mind that fighting at football was considered stupid by blokes like the Driver. Cool ones, that was. Silence resumed, but with the failed attempt at conversation hanging over them, it felt more oppressive than the one previously. The Driver was about to seek refuge in his A to Z, but instead;
“Whose your favourite then?”
“Charlie George.”
This was an automatic response as Charlie, having reputedly stepped off the terraces and straight onto the pitch, was the idol of all young Arsenal fans. It was, though, a lie. Jimmy’s favourite was the captain, Frank McLintock. He secretly imagined the Latin-looking Scot as his father. Jimmy knew, of course, that Frank wasn’t, but had there been any choice in the matter, any whatsoever...
“Like them comics, don’t you.”
Given that his nose was permanently buried in that A To Z, Jimmy found it surprising that The Driver’d noticed him browsing the Marvel titles. He hoped this vigilance didn’t extend to spotting the Paperboy’s habit of slipping them under his jacket? Jimmy’s nod, therefore, was somewhat guarded. They fell once more into silence, but this time it was the twelve-year-old who took responsibility for breaking it:
“American ones, really.”
“Superman and all that?”
The boy was aghast, but for a split second thought he’d detected a mischievous glint in the Driver’s brown eyes. Jimmy felt duty-bound to continue as the man clearly needed educating. Superman, Jeez...
“No. It’s boring, Superman. I mean, he can do anything, can’t he. Spider-Man's much better, more realistic.”
The Driver raised his brow. The twelve-year-old continued:
“You know, he’s got problems and everything. I collect them.”
“Problems?”
“Spider-Man’s. Got quite a few as it goes.”
The Driver went to say something, stopped himself, then did so:
“What about that one on the surfboard?”
“Old Introspective? More for brainy kids and that.”
Jimmy took up the offer of a stick of Wrigleys. Still, they sat in silence, though this one, for reasons unknown, felt less awkward.
“Those two pick on you?”
“Don't like me but they’re not going to do anything.”
“No? Why’s that?”
“They’re not sure of the outcome.”
“You are?” Jimmy shrugs. The Driver leans back against his window-
“Can have a punch-up then?”
“Lived in a village for years. Didn’t get on with the locals.”
“Where’s this?”
“Middle of nowhere.”
Jimmy’s world-weary eye-roll induced the Driver’s face to break into something the Paperboy realised he’d never before witnessed: a smile. It was a good one, too. Jimmy wanted another glimpse so that he could practise it in the mirror. If he got another look, he’d end up smiling the Driver’s smile. That’s how it worked for Jimmy.
“You box?”
“Not really.”
“You either do or you don’t.”
“Don’t then.”
“Want to learn?”
Jimmy shook his head emphatically. The Driver shrugged.
“Change your mind, get up to The Times and I'll teach you - OK?”
Though the youngster nodded, the chance of him changing his mind on that subject was nonexistent. He’d no idea where The Times was and imagined a club in the basement of the newspaper’s offices. Besides, as far as he was concerned, he’d done enough fighting to last a lifetime. It began the very day he’d arrived in that village and continued on a more or less weekly basis until the day he departed.
Pop, having seen the way the wind was blowing, felt it important that if his grandson was going to fight. He was going to win. Jimmy glanced at the knuckles that bore the evidence of his time “on the bag”. The long, sand-filled canvas bag, his grandfather hung from a beam in one of the derelict old sheds which ran along the back of the pub’s grounds. It had been placed at a height that ensured the boy’s fist landed only on the lower half, where it was not only heaviest but hardest. Punching wet, compressed sand, the student soon came to understand, wasn’t terribly dissimilar to hitting concrete...
Staring at his enlarged, hardened knuckles caused the memories to come flooding back, and the thought of the birch wood Pop used to thwack him with generated a wince.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
Any part of Jimmy’s body that protruded from what the old man termed “correct stance” was fair game for the cane. While Jimmy considered that a bit on the harsh side, it was nowhere near as brutal as his grandfather’s wit. It was those barbed comments that compelled him to flick the mouldy old gloves from his wrist and stomp off in tears, but Pop soon came to understand that there was nothing wrong with the boy, physically. He may have flinched when that stick rapped a stray a knee or elbow, but he didn’t whine. The emotional side, though, was a different matter. On that front, the kid was a complete mess.
Harry had originally been reluctant to take Jimmy in as they’d done their bit, but when Becky enquired if he’d like his firstborn grandchild raised by the state, he’d relented. It was thus that the Publican, for the best part of two years, spent a couple of hours each week instructing Jimmy, as he had years earlier with his own son, on the bag. As a teaching medium, “The Stick” may have seemed somewhat outdated, but it had enabled Harry to become not only the Army Champion but that of the entire British Armed Forces. At what was known as the “Champagne Weight” Welter. Champagne, because Welter was the weight of the average man and the competition, therefore, greater. To fully appreciate the significance of his achievement would take a lesson in the social and economic history of 1930s Britain, but as this is a work of fiction, let’s just say it was no mean feat.
Once demobbed, Harry earned a living, for a while at least, as a booth fighter. These were fairground attractions. Punters paid to get into the ring on the promise of a prize for laying a glove on the boxer. Needless to say, few walked away with a toffee apple. As impressive as his grandfather’s ring career may have been, it wasn’t that which caused the child to suffer endless hours of caustic comments. Jimmy’s dedication to Pop’s stewardship stemmed from an event he’d witnessed right there, in the middle of those swinging sixties...
(An unpicturesque, East Midlands Village, 1967)
Though technically standing beside his grandfather while he studied the Mirror's form guide, in his own mind, Jimmy was thousands of miles away. His feet weren’t encased in those solid lace-ups but were bare, and his hair wasn’t butchered in a short back and sides but long and adorned with flowers. These magical transformations were the work of the American recording artist Scott McKenzie, whose record ‘If You’re Going To San Francisco’ was playing on the pub’s juke box at the time.
After careful deliberation, Harry wrote his choice and his grandson looked at the betting slip to see Pop's two bob going on ‘Headstrong’. It was running at sevens, which caused Jimmy to wonder if Pop knew something, as it was unusual for him to punt beyond fours. Nan’s two bob rode ‘Just My Luck’ and Jimmy’s tanner on ‘Top Cat’. He liked the name.
As Scott's masterpiece reached the second chorus, it came to an abrupt halt, on account of the rockers banging the jukebox. These leather-clad hooligans had arrived earlier that Saturday morning and taken up residence in the “Young Bar”. This wasn’t the first time they had banged the record machine as Jimmy had, while dropping in for crisps and fizzy orange, heard Pop remonstrating with them over the matter.
His grandfather was clearly tired of discourse because the next thing Jimmy knew, he’d leapt the high bar and begun knocking the ruffians out. Three went down in quick succession, and those left standing were instructed to drag their pals out. What impressed Jimmy, the one-handed leap aside, was the economy of effort. Pop threw three punches.
“Don't let things get you down.”
So, the reason Jimmy returned to face Pop’s barbed wit was because, when it came to knocking a man senseless, the old man knew his onions.
“Hello?”
Coming round, Jimmy saw the Driver staring at him, quite intently:
“Sorry?”
The Driver sighed: “Don’t let things get on top of you. All right?"
Jimmy nodded, but the adult’s gaze seemed to demand a verbal confirmation and since it was no skin off the Paperboy’s arse...
“No.”
“Swear?”
Jimmy, who had no intention of letting anything get on top of him, was beginning to find it all a bit weird. Nonetheless, he nodded. Once again, though, it appeared that only verbalisation would do.
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, what?”
“I swear.”
“What?”
The Driver was as mad as a hatter, but Jimmy felt an unfamiliar regard for him. This, much to the teenager’s surprise, was respect.
“I swear not to let things get on top of me.”
Thankfully, it was then that Albert’s rather incongruous red Ford Capri turned into the side street and parked opposite the shop. Dressed in shirt, slacks and slippers, the newsagent climbed out and waddled round to the passenger door. From the van, they watched as Albert helped his peroxide blonde and inappropriately dressed wife out of the passenger seat and across the road.
On spotting them, Albert’s wave was a combination of apology and impatient beckoning. Jimmy reached for the door, but The Driver put a hand on his shoulder-
“Give them a minute.”
The boy found the Capri’s arrival most timely as he’d feared the Driver was about to say something weird. While he had no sense of the geezer being a poof, something was troubling him and being spared whatever that might have been, came as a huge relief. By the time they entered the shop, Albert was sporting a dry shirt and an expression that suggested questions would not be appreciated.
The following Sunday, while Jimmy’s bag was heavier than usual, his heart was considerably lighter. This was because on entering Albert’s kingdom that morning, the shopkeeper had lit a cigarette and nodded at a bin-liner. It sat beside the bulging canvas bag containing Jimmy’s workload. The Paperboy eyed it with a sense of instantaneous irritation. His Sunday round was ridiculous enough without this fat fucker adding to it. Picking up on Jimmy’s annoyance, Albert clarified matters. Or at least, tried:
“Bobby dropped it off last night.”
Jimmy was none the wiser, and the Newsagent took another lug on his fag:
“Van driver, one you’ve been working with for the last fucking year.”
“Oh...” Watching the boy’s cautious approach to the bag, Albert remarked:
“Ain’t a bomb. He’s not Paddy!”
“I am.”
Albert’s grin was replaced by a look of embarrassment tinged with distrust. Jimmy was unsure what possessed him to declare himself a Celt, as he certainly wasn’t. Not as far as he was concerned at least. If it was just to get up the fat bastard’s nose, it seemed to have worked. After casually hoisting the sack onto his shoulder, an effort that almost killed him, Jimmy scooped up the plastic bag and breezed out.
On his return, Banana Nesquik’s presence deterred mention of the present from The Driver, but as the following day was Monday, he could bypass talking to Albert and just thank the man directly.
Along with the first eight editions of The Amazing Spider-Man and issues 50 through to 62, the bin-liner contained the much sought-after Amazing Tales 15. All he noted, in perfect condition. Added to this was the entire Silver Surfer collection, and while this equated to only eighteen editions, it included various Fantastic Fours in which Old Introspective featured. Full, no doubt, of him flying around on that board — thinking. This held no real appeal to Jimmy as he felt he did quite enough of that himself.
He already had a few of the Spider-Mans, including number 3, but while those on the bed were encased in clear plastic covers and looked unread, his were scattered around the room, looking very shoddy. Included in the bonanza were a few Batman and Supermans, and while not a fan of either, or DC Comics in general, he suspected they might be worth a few bob. As he examined his windfall, two things sank in. The first was that he’d not been collecting comics so much as haphazardly accumulating them. Armed with the understanding that pristine condition was essential, he began sifting through the forty-odd Spider-Mans he owned and found that only twelve passed muster. The second realisation was that this was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him. The rest of Jimmy’s evening was spent trying to work out why The Driver had done it.. Eventually, he fell asleep, with the mystery remaining unsolved.