ISSUE 4 - 1973

cover size 296 x 210 mm

NOTE BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION 

This is "Voices" No. 4. It comes in a new experimental format which may cause raised eyebrows. We cannot here go into details but the financial and economic factors involved in producing a periodical of this kind compel us to look into all possible economies. The continued existence of "Voices" is by no means assured. Our aim is a four times a year production. But this requires considerably wider support than we so far enjoy. We need more readers. We need more writers. We need more money. Please do not misunderstand this. Our support is increasing in all these respects, and we are grateful for this. But we need much more. The question is: do we deserve more? Does the poetry and prose in this issue justify a call for support from the progressive left? We think it does. But you are the people who must decide. If you think there is room for a committed publication which thinks of writing as a weapon in the hands of the Labour and Socialist and Communist movement help us. Make us known. write for us. Write to us. Ask your branch or district Committee to make a bulk order of "Voices" to distribute to your members. Introduce "Voices" to friends. 

All enquiries to Ted Morrison, 110 Edge Lane, Stretford, Manchester. (061 865 5862).

BENJAMIN STOTT 1813-1850

It is most frustrating at times when one is trying to find information about a particular person and all ends seem to be blocked. We first became acquainted with Benjamin Stott through his poems. We found the little volume, 'Songs for the Millions' in a bookshop in Stockport. We have never seen another copy. The poems are not only of a high literary standard, they also tell us quite a lot about the political opinions of the man.

 Fitting the loose threads together, the picture looks rather like this. Stott was born in Manchester on 24th November, 1813. His father was a hairdresser and later an auctioneer and came from a respectable Rochdale family. His mother came from one of the ancient families in the vicinity of Hope and Bradwell in the High Peak. Possibly they may have been miners and sheep farmers. Benjamin was the youngest of thirteen children and when he was under six years old both his parents died. He was brought up by a maiden Aunt, his mother's sister who worked as a fustian cutter and managed to keep him until he was nine. He was then admitted to Cheetham's Hospital. Friends of his father exorted influence to secure this admission. His education before that had been at the National Free School in Granby Row where he had learnt to read and write. Although he attended Cheetham's from 1822 to 1827, he apparently made little educational progress although he must have begun to develop a facility in the use of the English language of which he made good use in his poetry.

 When he left school at 14, he was apprenticed to a bookbinder for seven years and he remained a journeyman in that trade until he died in 1850 at the early age of thirty seven.

 We can only sketch in the blanks in his political life. He dedicated his poems to Thomas Slingsby Duncombe. He wrote of the "disinterested patriotism and eloquent advocacy of the rights of suffering humanity" which he said would "be cherished by, and live in the hearts of, generations yet unborn". Slingsby Duncombe was a well known Radical Member of Parliament.

 Benjamin Stott apparently only left his native Manchester once in his life and that was to go to a conference in the Isle of Man. He went there representing a society to which he belonged. We know that he was a prominent member of the OddFellows Friendly Society. He wrote a long poem extolling the virtues of that Society:

 "Blessed OddFellowship : thy aim and end
Is to promote the peace of man on earth,
The sick to cheer, the friendless to befriend".

 There was, however, in December 1829, a Spinners' Conference on the Isle of Man at which an attempt was made to form one "grand General Union" of all spinners. John Doherty, the leader of the Manchester Spinners returned to Manchester imbued with the idea of forming a much wider movement. It is not impossible to conjecture that Stott as a well known radical poet, attended the Spinners' Conference. His interest in the Trade Union Movement is shown by the poem that he wrote in memory of John Roach, a Manchester boiler maker. The verses were printed and sold to Union members. Stott called John Roach "A son of labour - a true democrat - a firm friend - a determined advocate - an unpaid patriot - a pure philanthropist and an honest man."

 "Shall we forget", he asks, "with that undaunted brow,
Though dared resist the foes of labour's rights?
Shall we neglect those virtues to avow
Which shone in thee and are men's chief delights?"

During the 1830s, the Bookbinders' Consolidated Union was passing through formative struggles and the Manchester Branch took the lead in attempting to coordinate the activities of the different Lodges. It is possible that Stott, having attended the Spinners' Conference and accepted the ideas of general union, played no small part in these Union affairs. In one poem, "Beware ye white Slaves of England" he tells the people to

 "Be firm and unite, but be cautious in words,
On your prudence depends the success of your cause.

 Much of Benjamin Stott's writing echoes the stirring calls of the French Revolution - the demands for natural rights that were voiced by Thomas Paine. His poetry was obviously influenced by Shelley and Byron and it reflects his deep sympathy with suffering, injustice and oppression in their manifold expressions.

 At the Sun Inn in Long Millgate, the Manchester and district literary circle held meetings to exchange views and appraise each others writing. The poems read at one of these meetings held on Thursday, 24th March, 1842 were published in a slight volume called "The Festive Wreath". Benjamin Stott contributed a poem in memory of William Grant, one of Dicken Cheeryble Brothers who had recently died. One of the circle, William Axon, thought sufficiently highly of Stott to walk to Northenden Churchyard soon after his death in 1850 and copy the inscription on the tombstone. It read:- "Here resteth the body of Benjamin Stott, of Manchester, who died July 26th 1850, aged thirty six years. He was an influential member of the National Independent Order of Odd Fellows, and by them much esteemed.

 "Pause, gentle stranger, for a man lies here
Whose hand was open, and whose heart sincere
To truth and kindness rendered homage due;
His friends were many, and his foes were few.
Errors he had, but they were such as he
In the frail nature of humanity;
Virtues he had, but they were such as claim
No noisy greetings from the voice of fame:
His virtues we remember, but the rest
We leave to Him whose mercy doeth best."

from 'Songs For the Millions - Benjamin Stott

Gaunt Famine Rides Rampant

Gaunt famine rides rampant o'er all the land,

And none but the drones can his power withstand;

The industrious bees that produce the wealth

Are his victims alone and he kills by stealth;

For the wounds which he makes they never bleed,

Although they are painful and piercing indeed;

But the wasted form, when the soul is dead,

Tells the tale that it died for want of bread.

Oh, gracious God, that governs all,

Thy attributes are wise and good;

Arise, and make the tyrants fall,

That rob the poor of life and food.

How hard is the fate of the suffering poor,

What toil and privation, and pain they endure;

And yet they are patient, forbearing, and kind,

Though the drones of the earth are against them combined;

Humanity shudders with grief and despair;

When it thinks and reflects on their woes and their care;

And the heart of the patriot burns with desire,

That the days of their thraldom may quickly expire.

Oh, gracious God, that governs all,

Thy attributes are wise and good;

Arise, and make the tyrants fall,

That rob the poor of life and food.

It Comes! It Comes!

It comes! It comes the glorious day,

When holy freedom shall prevail,

When battle strife and bloody fray

Shall be as a forgotten tale -

When virtue shall triumphant rise,

And vice be swept from off the earth,

When man shall look up to the skies,

And bless the God that gave him birth -

When joy, and charity, and peace,

And love, shall cheer the human heart.

Odd Fellowship

Blessed Odd Fellowship! thy aim and end

Is to promote the peace of man on earth,

The sick to cheer, the friendless to befriend.

Oh! that my yearning heart could speak thy worth;

Thrice happy they who unto thee gave birth;

A glorious reward is theirs to gain

In that immortal life where neither dearth,

Disease, nor famine ever more shall reign,

Nor grief nor misery shall be, nor aught of pain.

Benjamin Stott

Ruth and Eddie Frow

With each nodding daffodil I feel her presence;

A kinship with that country woman; an essence

Abounding, as the fragrance of foot-crushed flowers

Arises with each step. In the voice of showers

Each glorious Spring; every blossom-bending breath

Of breeze whispers her name; informs of her living

Still; she who laboured in this garden, giving

This valley extra life. It is almost as though

She knew she would be returning later. I know

She has indeed achieved a life after death.

Alf Edwards

BEING AN IMPROBABLE CONVERSATION OVERHEARD THROUGH THE HALF-OPEN DOOR TO A PREMATURE BABY UNIT

 

First Voice (high & clear)

They've gone now ... the Doctor and the Sister. Everything's quiet now...

Second Voice (Clear & high)

Yes, it's lovely to be quiet ... Warm, wellfed, comfortable, almost as if you'd never been born

First Voice (Sadly)

Some babies are born wanted, some unwanted, some are just born, and some, like us, are born too soon

Second Voice (Cheerfully)

Yes, but we stand a good chance of surviving don't we? They've made great advances in the treatment of premature infants they say don't they?

First Voice

That's quite true. They can create conditions that are almost perfect, almost like those of our mothers before we're born. They can give us the right degree of warmth, piped oxygen, injection, blood exchange transfusions, tube feeding, everything necessary to make up for our premature births ...

Second Voice

And when our weight is satisfactory and general condition is good, they can discharge us to our homes

First Voice (Harshly)

And that's the rub ... Here we're kind of prisoners, but happy prisoners Home is another kind of prison for some of us, cold, grimy, airless, sunless, a twilight area

Second Voice (Uncertainly)

But they send a Home Visitor to see if the conditions are suitable don't they?

First Voice

Oh yes, they do that, but the report has to be pretty bad to keep you here, and even then, you have to go "into care". They leave it largely to your parents to make the conditions suitable ... And sometimes that's impossible...

Second Voice (Fearfully)

Oh, I don't know anything about mine... Do you know anything about your home conditions?

First Voice

None of us know anything. It's called an accident of birth ... Some go home to a basement flat, some to a semidetached.

Second Voice

But if it's an accident why doesn't somebody do something to prevent it? What about the doctors and nurses? Their work will be wasted

First Voice (sadly)

Some don't even think that far Some do, but haven't the vision to tackle such a huge problem. A few, very few try to work in co-operation with all the other folk interested in environment, housing, education, to make it less of an accident and more of an opportunity

Second Voice

Somebody said children are the flowers of life ... but many a flower will never bloom if it's like you say

First Voice

That's true. Lots of babies are deformed or stunted, mentally and physically. Never expand, never reach their full height, never enrich the earth, are never unreservedly glad they were born ... Yet they could be, all of them, if only

Second Voice (Hopefully)

If only, if only what?

First Voice

If only the weeds of poverty and ignorance, exploitation and greed were wrenched from the soil of our environment ... Then every baby born could flourish ...

Second Voice (Joyfully)

And flower ... Flourish and flower.

(A pause - silence for a second)

Second Voice

Listen, listen, music, I can hear music. Can you?

(Softly very softly the strains of music are heard. It grows in volume, and the words become clear

"These things shall be; A loftier race than e'r the world hath known shall rise...

 

W. Froom (Mrs)

PASSING THROUGH

He was polishing his shoes with fierce concentration, with short sharp light strokes, of the brush, his interest in this nightly ritual was so intense as to render him deaf to his child's repeated cry for attention.

"Dad, Dad, Dad?"

The woman sitting by the fire looked up. For a moment she gazed in silence, watching the arm moving backwards and forwards over the shining, well-worn leather. Her eyes were inscrutable. Her voice, when she spoke was tinged with a hint of scorn.

"He's talking to you His head jerked up guiltily.

"What son? What do you want?" but the little boy had already vanished, his incessant questioning forgotten by the magic cry of "Cartoon" from the front room, where his two sisters were watching the television.

"You never listen do you?"

"I never heard him luv".

"He spoke to you three times."

He decided on retreat as the best strategy, and walked out into the back kitchen. He whistled as he filled the kettle. "Where's the coffee luv?"

"Outside in the bin", she answered flatly.

She raised exasperated eyes to the ceiling as she heard him open the door into the yard. "It's on the shelf, where it usually is, stupid". "Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, my love", he replied as he shut the door again. He hadn't really believed her. He was just playing along. He recognised the signs of battle, and he was a coward. It suited him to play this role tonight. Last night's repartee had upset him, so much that he had a whisky as soon as he entered the "Club", instead of leading up to it with five or six pints. Women, there was no understanding them. He worked hard, was always ready to lend her a few bob when she was stuck, took her out on Saturday night, yet she still pulled her face when he went out for a pint through the week.

The boiling of the kettle interrupted his indignant thoughts. "Do you want a cup luv?"

"No", her answer was short, but said more than it implied. Stick your rotten coffee, and don't come trying to get round me, you won't get a pat on the head. These thoughts chased bitterly round in her head. He came back into the room and sat down opposite her. He placed his mug of coffee onto the mantlepiece, and reached for his cigarettes.

"Want a fag?"

"No thanks, I've got my own." She had transferred three of his to her own packet, while he had been busy making the coffee. "There's a good turn on at the club on Saturday."

"Is there?" She conveyed her lack of interest by not raising her eyes from the book she was reading.

"What are you reading?"

"A book."

He regarded her through narrowed eyes, and blew out clouds of smoke. He didn't speak. He recognised defeat. He decided to ignore her, but knew she wouldn't let him.

She didn't, for long. After a few minutes of silence on her part, and tuneless whistling on his, she raised her eyes and looked at the clock. "You'll be late won't you, it's seven o'clock." She spoke dryly; she knew he didn't go out quite as early as this. What she meant was - Don't dare, and he knew it. If she had ventured to say this out loud, he would have retaliated, and dared, to prove that he was a man, and not ruled by his wife. She knew this, and thrust home her ironical comments, with a thinly veiled sarcasm, which didn't help the situation, but nevertheless made her feel better.

He didn't answer this comment. Hew was a shrewd man, and knew the value of silence at a loaded moment. Like so many women, she couldn't keep her mouth shut, even when she knew she was beaten. She would go down fighting. She justified acts of dishonesty - like the secret pilfering of his cigarettes with the fact that he had more than her, and if he could afford to go out drinking most nights, and she had to juggle with her housekeeping then this was justice. It was the class struggle, on a smaller scale. He was the party in power. Politics a wage war in most working class homes -money, struggle for survival, conflict of personalities, the don't do as I do, do as I say, policy of most parents (on a level with the Capitalists towards the workers). We are told money isn't everything, from those who have it, but this is a great asset, and would help bridge a gap, between classes. The bridging of this gap is feared by Capitalists. Children, unfortunately stand as the main, conflict between man and wife. How many women have said - Wait till the children are grown up - just watch me. Perhaps men secretly fear this, and while they hold the whip hand, however lightly the reigns are held, it will be a drop in status - once the birds have flown, and one should feel a certain amount of pity for the floundering party, who has brought about his own downfall.

After a considerable silence in which she escaped into her book of poems, and he smoked and watched her. Keeping an eye on the enemy, he decided it was safe to move. He rose from his chair and stretched. "What's up that you didn't have your usual after tea sleep tonight?" she asked.

"Oh for god's sake, shut up", he threw caution to the winds. She was secretly delighted at this retaliation. It was what she wanted. She couldn't change him, so she goaded him into displaying the worse side of his character. She was intelligent enough to see that these tactics lowered her own behaviour, but was past caring. She was developing into a nagging wife - an expression invented by men to hide their own selfishness.

Having delivered his parting shot he went upstairs for a bath, or thought he did. He bellowed from the upper regions of the house.

"Who's had a bloody bath? The bloody water's stone cold, Christ it's four days since I had one, I'm supposed to have one every day y'know, of course I don't count, I only bring the money in - Jesus."

His disapproval was given greater emphasis by his feet stamping around the bathroom.

His wife, feeling that round one had been won, shouted sweetly up the stairs.

"Mrs Jones next door said she's sorry you haven't been able to get a bath."

The bathroom door slammed. The front door opened, a head peeped round enquiringly.

"Is my Dad in?"

"He's just passing through luv, just passing through."

"Oh never mind."

Thus answered, but not enlightened, the head disappeared.

Jean Sutton

FRANCES THOMAS, now aged 9. Used to live in Walmer Street, Rusholme which is being knocked down. Now lives in Wythenshawe. These words are exactly what she dictated to me in answer to the question, "What do you want this story to be about then?" I have not added or changed anything, but perhaps two points could be explained:

"Ten bob winders" refers to a window shaped like a 5Op. piece "Stashun dogs" = Alsation dogs.

R.G.

WALMER STREET

House shop fish and chip shop bookies Pet Shop Motors Men - no women women! Winders getting smashed. Lickle girls going to bed. Mummies going to bingo, and all the houses are coming down. boys going to pubs. big men going to work. ten girls going to pubs with fellers -boys. Bombed houses + cellars + people goin in it. Bockles gettin smashed, lorries crashin, people servin in the shops. big girls gettin dressed up. Red doors with ten bob winders big girls ridin in the bike. Old men and women, Men drivin in cars an crashin (have we got that) Nice curtains in the winder. Green houses with pink curtains, blue door with blue curtains an green leaves. Dogs are gettin run over.

The men are just about movin in women wheelin a pram with no baby just shoppin. boys goin with men to pubs. boys goin to army cadets like my brother, black men with white girls, skies are blue and white an red sometimes. Clubmans like you get things off for the kids, like dresses and skirts and shoes and boots and high heel shoes and couch furniture and he comes in a green car and little girls washing dishes helping their mum. Old men ridin bikes, lickle black girls runnin to the Bendix and well have somebody lookin out, of the curtains - like somebodys just looked out. Chimbleys are smoking - that means the fires. we'll have white men going with black girls and we'll have driving in the afternoon and night and morning. (guess what Im on - 5a - Im in the juniors) lickle babies have dummies an we'll have one raggy man saying ragbone Like that man (pointing) he's a raggy man. An we'll have 430 on a car, an we'll have drunken men (man looks round sharply) -drunken men singin in the night carryin little girls. The men are kidnappin little girls an the women are cryin an the police have gone to find the kidnapper who has kidnapped the lick. girl.

Bricked up houses, doors open, women walkin by an cars running by +      stopping on the main road. Boys runnin to the ice cream man, lickle boys about 10+11 will go to school tomorrow. Dogs birthday + the dogs about 1 2 or 3 yrs old. Stashun dogs come an bite you.

Frances Thomas

CLEAN-UP JOB

Manolo pushed his Cleansing Department handcart through the empty streets. It was early morning and the only noise was a distant rumble of steel tracks, as a tank several blocks away rattled over the cobbles.

Every twenty yards Manolo stopped the cart and advanced with a hard-bristled broom, sweeping the rubbish into a neat pile in the gutter. Then he swept it into the handcart, using a battered old tin scoop.

Today's rubbish was different from usual. Naturally, there was the normal daily accumulation of cigarette ends, paper, straw and other debris, but there was additional garbage. Manolo looked sad as he swept spent rifle cartridges into the tin scoop. This was the debris of death and destruction. Broken glass, shattered wood from window frames, a dead black cat - caught in the crossfire, no doubt. Dozens of empty cartridges glinted in the early morning sun.

There was a woman's handkerchief lying in the centre of the street. It was embroidered 'CF' in gold thread, and stained with dark blood. Manolo picked up the pathetic reminder, a cold memento of human agony, and dropped it into the handcart. As it fluttered down, Manolo made the sign of the cross on his chest. God rest the soul of CF, whoever she was. But how could Manolo believe in a God in whose name this horror had been committed? It was not possible.

Manolo was a conscientious worker, and this sadness and despair was slowing his task. He dismissed his thoughts of the previous day's events, half-heartedly began to whistle, and swept with faster strokes of his broom.

It was only when Manolo arrived at the Plaza del Sur that he again took a pause. He stopped the handcart and looked at the body that lay in the gutter, his gutter. It was the body of a man, lying face-down, but Manolo recognised that old brown corduroy jacket.

Slowly, he approached the corpse and reached down to the head. Pausing a moment, as his fingers neared the short-cropped black hair, Manolo took a deep breath, heart quickening, and turned the cold face towards him. A large tear ran down Manolo's cheek.

"Why this? he asked, softly, "Why, Carlos, why?"

The corpse remained silent, but a voice spoke sharply from behind Manolo.

"You Get up!"

Startled, Manolo turned, standing slowly to face the steelhelmeted soldier who pointed that ugly black weapon at his stomach.

"Did you know that man?"

"We drank together at the Bar Paradiso," replied Manolo. "What will I tell his wife?"

"Tell her not to associate with traitors in future". The soldier smiled, cruelly. He evidently found his own remark amusing. "Now get on with your work."

But Manolo was looking at the body of Carlos again.

"Surely," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, "Those who supported the President cannot have been traitors. The traitors are those who murdered the President, and are still shooting such loyal people as Carlos."

"You mean that the army are traitors?" asked the soldier, finger hovering over the trigger of his machine gun. "Well?"

"I don't understand what is really happening," answered Manolo. "But if it is true, as they are saying, that the army murdered the President, then - yes, I say they are traitors and assassins."

Less than half an hour later, Manolo sat in a large green lorry with twenty other prisoners, speeding out of the city on the main road southwards. He still clutched his broom, but was anxiously wondering about his handcart. When he was marched away, Manolo had left the cart in the Plaza del Sur. It was Cleansing Department property, and his responsibility. According to the sad-faced men around him, they were being taken to be shot. That would happen to his cart? The lorry turned off the main road, and bumped over a rough road, stopping near a clump of trees. Another lorry, empty, was just leaving the spot for the return run.

Juanita busied herself about the house, listening to the ancient radio on the kitchen table. She was pleased. It seemed that the fighting had finished already. So there would be no civil war, after all. Juanita was also pleased because she had a surprise for Manolo when he returned from work. It was his birthday, fifty-two years old, and she had bought him a scarf.

Yes, it was good that there would be no civil war. And the man on the radio was very reassuring. It seemed that the army knew what they were doing. But Juanita had no interest in politics. Whatever happened, whoever was in power, it could not affect her, could it?

Under the trees, Manolo stood at the end of the line of men, facing the ugly tripod, manned by a bored-looking soldier. Still clutching his broom, Manolo muttered to himself. "But it's Cleansing Department property. The handcart's my responsibility. What am I going to do?" He raised his hand to cross himself, but lowered it again without doing so.

The soldier braced himself for the recoil and squeezed the trigger.

Juanita turned off the radio. The news did not affect her, and there were more pleasant things to think about. Manolo would be pleased with his scarf. She polished the kitchen tiles and began to sing.

Gareth Thomas

A MATTER OF FORM

There were seven of them. They tumbled out of the underground train with a cheer, "Let's go!" Seven of them, their boots clattering up the elevator, shouting at the late night courting couple on the down elevator. "It's gone!" "Never mind you can always stuff her on the platform", - "After you mate!" Seven of them pushed past the ticket collector. "Get stuffed," - "We've all lost our tickets."

It was late. The ticket collector didn't argue. There were seven of them. They burst out into the cold night air. "Up the gunners!" But the street was empty, just one car growling in the distance; otherwise the street, cold and damp, echoed their footsteps; the orange street lamps casting a smoke-like halo in the mist. The city like some mist-hung poem of desolation gazed back at them, empty and unyielding.

For a moment they all stood quietly on the kerb listening to the roar of the night. Filled for a moment with the sense of oppression and of their own insignificance, "Chalkie" the oldest, a red headed sixteen year old, half heartedly kicked a Coca-Cola tin along the gutter, its clatter for a moment breaking the stillness and the sense of loneliness, he quietly muttered, "It's a piss off isn't it."

Nobby shifted his feet, blew out into the night air and watched his own condensation. "Yeah you're not kidding." Nobody moved, nobody wanted to call it quits and go home. The whole evening had been a 'piss off'. They had hung about outside a disco. No-one had enough money to get in, but they still waited. Something might have happened to break the boredom. They had shuffled their feet and shouted at the girls going in, but nothing had happened; then of course the "fuzz" had come hustling them, telling them to either go on or "clear off" or they'd be done for loitering, so they went off wandering round the area, but it was all 'a piss off'; no money, nowhere to go, a right drag, so they had come back home before the tubes stopped running.

"Let's loon around for a while", said Chalkie. "See what's happening", He made off, walking slowly down the main street, the rest followed without a word. "Jumbo" punched a cigarette machine as he passed and Nobby fumbled in his pockets singing to himself:

"Well yer mother don't care
All right, all right, all right,
And yer daddy ain't there
All right, all right, all right."

A couple of the others joined in singing as they aimlessly wandered on. "Hey look fellas", Dave pointed at a notice on the wall. The others gathered round, more as a matter of form than of interest. The object of Dave's attention was one of the National Front's posters, showing a Union Jack with the slogan "SEND THEM BACK" printed in bold letters across it. Somebody had added at the bottom in pen "No Englishmans' jobs for black wogs."

"That's against immigration innit?" mumbled Chalkie, without much real interest. Nobby sang out "Black, black, send them back, white, white you're all right."

Chalkie, seeing a chance for a laugh sprang out of his trance and crudely imitating a West Indian accent carried on, "None of der lip man" and to a chorus of laughter from the others he flicked his lips, while Ken swung from a lamp post scratching underneath his arms like a monkey. They left the poster and continued walking as Nobby explained about some Pakistanis living in his block:

"Yer, and this Paki grub - it don't half stink, don't it?"

"Not half", chipped in Jumbo, "They eat bleeding cat food, don't they?"

"Filthy bastards."

They carried on past the blacked out front of Woolworths with Nobby clicking his fingers and carrying on with:

"All right, all right, all right,
All right, all right, all right."

A police car drove slowly past, its occupants staring at the boys but it didn't stop, just driving slowly on, slipping along, down that desolate highway.

"Stinking old bill", muttered Jumbo beneath his breath, "Pigs off!" They reached Putney Bridge and began leaning over the side, peering down into the murky water of the Thames. Its inky blackness hardly showed any movement beneath them. Jumbo affected the accent of the middle class,

"Anyone for a swim chappies?"

Dave the blonde-headed one joined in.

"I reckon you could walk across that, they say that it's so polluted that if you fell in you would have to go to hospital."

Nobody answered. Their moods and interest in things altogether lacked consistency. Things interested them for a very short time indeed. They would buy a record and a week after they never listened to it. They would go and see "Clockwork Orange" and for maybe up to a month afterwards they would be wearing 'bowlers' and calling each other 'my druggie' then it would fade out to be replaced very quickly with something else. Nothing really meant anything. It was all a 'matter of form , as Dave the more philosophical of the group would call it. Things came and things went, different birds, different discos, different sounds flew past. It was all there to be taken or discarded as they wished and they did so wish. The only thing that was missing, somehow stolen, was their youth, but there was always something to replace it. But there were times, there were these moments of silence, when somebody would come up with -"It's a piss off innit."

They moved away from the side of the bridge almost shy of each other, awkward, with only the sound of their boots on the paving stones to reassure them. Nobby started clicking his fingers again, breaking the spell,

"All right, all right, all right."

Then they saw him, coming over the bridge towards them, a youth like themselves, maybe he was seventeen. He wore flayed trousers, a tartan cap and he walked with a brisk swing in his step. Like them he also probably thought it was a 'piss off', but unlike them, he was black.

Maybe if he hadn't done what he did, nothing would have happened. Nobby just rubbed his hands together. "Hallo, hallo", his voice was hard. The youth stopped in his tracks, the boys fanned out across the road slowly walking towards him. Then he did it. Without a word he turned and ran. The boys yelled triumphantly and with a thunder of boots on concrete set off after him. There was something self-hypnotic in the motion of running, their eyes became glazed and their nostrils spread, and a hatred flared up to an insane, almost sexual lust. "Black bastard!" they shrieked as they pounded after him. "Ba-aa-stard."

The black youth dived down some steps at the north end of the bridge, closely followed by the pack, but he took the wrong turn and found himself with his way blocked by the closed park gate. The boys found him terror struck, his eyes wide and white and his hands showing white as he held them up in front of himself. "No man please", he stammered. "That for you pick on me, I done you no harm."

"Gonna do you, black bastard", growled Jumbo, and he smashed his fist into the black face. "Stick the bloody boot in", screamed Nobby. They began to push and punch him. One of them snatched off his cap and threw it. It went into Dave's face. He caught hold of it and glanced down. It was wool, hand-knitted and still warm. It all seemed like some dream. He looked at the others as they pushed and punched the black bloke.

Suddenly they did not seem to be the same friends that he knew a few minutes ago. It all seemed to be like some slow motion film. Suddenly Dave thought to himself, "Supposing it was me, supposing I was being done by a load of black blokes. Supposing they were sticking the boot in on me. This bloke ain't got a chance, neither would I, unless of course ...

Sometimes, maybe only once in your life, you find yourself thinking and doing something you never believed you would do. You find yourself feeling something you can't understand. This was how it was with Dave. Suddenly it was so important for Dave to help this black bloke. His brain worked fast. The others had the black fella pinned against the fence and were going to boot him in the crutch.

"Hold it fellas for christ's sake", shouted Dave. He had to be careful. He didn't want the others thinking he was chicken or a wog lover. He had to play this one very shrewd, very shrewd indeed.

"Listen will yer, use your loaf", he shouted pulling back Jumbo.

"What's up with you", spluttered Jumbo shaking him off.

"Listen you fool", said Dave in breathless excitement. "Look", he continued. "The fuzz have just seen us, ain't they. Think man they'll do us good if we do this black."

"What's up then, chicken?" sneered Chalkie.

"Look", Dave feigned anger. "I aint gonna get a three year for any black bastard."

This sobered them, but Dave had to be careful. He pulled the youth towards him by his collar. He had to make this sound good, real good. "Listen", he breathed, "You filthy black scum - you go and tell your coon pals this: you'd better get out of this country and go back to the jungle see." He gave the youth a shove, "Get me? you tell 'em that - okay man?"

"Oh yeah man, I will man." The black youth sensed his reprieve at the hands of this white fella. It was more than he had dared hope for.

"Now!' shouted Dave giving him a shove. "Piss off quick!" The black youth ran off being given a parting kick by Jumbo. A couple shouted "Run black bastard, run."

They emerged onto the bridge again. "What you let him go for?" muttered Jumbo sullenly.

"Listen", answered Dave. "I don't like blacks any more than you do, but if I'm going to get jugged for doing someone I'll make sure that it's someone worth getting jugged for, see?"

"The police wouldn't have bothered about a blackie." mumbled Jumbo. But no-one said any more.

Dave thought, "Well that's true, the police don't give a damn if a black bloke gets beaten up." But he was satisfied. He had pulled off a good stroke, saving the black bloke's skin without losing face. Why he had suddenly wanted to save this bloke he had no idea, but he had to admit it, he felt somehow satisfied with life. Maybe he didn't really hate blacks, but it was all a matter of form.

They quietly walked back over the bridge, Chalkie putting his hands in his pocket. "It's a piss off isn't it?"

For once Dave didn't feel the same way.

Ian E. Reed.