‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’
‘That’s because it’s now called Moby Dick Terrace. It used to be Chinatown. But they all wiped themselves out during the great Brentford tong wars of ‘fifty-three.’
‘I think my dad once mentioned those.’
‘And when did you last see a pygmy around here?’
‘I don’t think I ever have.’
‘Well, there used to be a whole tribe of them living in Mafeking Avenue until they fell out with the Zulus of Sprite Street. And you know the Memorial Park?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘That was once an Indian reservation. The Navajo lived there for hundreds of years until they fell out with the council, back in Victorian times.’
‘Why was that?’
‘The council wanted to put up a slide and some swings. The Navajo said that the land was sacred to their ancestors.’
‘So what happened?’
‘The council sent some chaps to parley with the chief. Heated words were exchanged and scalps were taken.’
‘Blimey,’ I said.
‘The council called in the cavalry. The Third Brentford Mounted Foot. They made short work of the Redskins.’
‘I’ve never seen that in a history book.’
‘And you won’t. A shameful hour in Brentford’s noble history. Kept secret, you see. The only reason I know about it is because my great-grandfather was there.’
‘Did he kill many Indians?’
‘Er, no,’ said the Doveston. ‘He wasn’t fighting on that side.’
I opened my mouth to ask further questions, but the Doveston drew my attention to a display of wolf-cub sausages. ‘I’ll get some of those for my party,’ he said.
We shuffled away from the butcher’s and passed the Laundromat just in time to see Chico being forcibly ejected.
‘You sons of bitches,’ cried the ganglord from the gutter. ‘Since when is sniffing socks against the law?’
‘Bring him,’ said the Doveston. ‘He sounds like fun.’
We left Chico to it and shuffled off to the Plume Café. Here the Doveston talked me into borrowing half a crown from him to buy two frothy coffees so that we could sit in the window with them and look cool.
‘So what’s this party all about?’ I asked as I spooned in sugar.
‘It’s a coming-of-age thing really. To celebrate puberty.’
‘I’ve done that twice already. And you’ve er...‘ I made chicken motions with my elbows.
‘You’ll get a smack’, the Doveston said, ‘if you ever mention that again.’
‘So are there going to be balloons at this party and jelly and games?’
‘You haven’t quite got to grips with puberty yet, have you? And do you really still fancy jelly?’
I thought about this. ‘No, I don’t. I really fancy beer.’
‘Then you’re getting there.’
‘Are you going to have girls at this party?’
‘Girls and beer and a record player.’
‘A record player?’ I whistled. ‘But I thought only rich toffs—’
The Doveston raised his eyebrows to me.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘The Sixties, I know.’
‘And it’s going to be a fancy dress party, so you’ll have to come in a costume. Make it something trendy and don’t come as a policeman.’
The Doveston brought out cigarettes and we sat, taking smoke and sipping froth and watching as the Brentford day went by.
About an hour after his forcible ejection, Chico returned at the wheel of a stolen Morris Minor in the company of several Pachucos. This he drove through the Laundromat’s front window.
The Laundromat staff were Ashanti and they replied to the assault upon their premises with the hurling of assegais. It seems clear that they must have had some long-standing feud with the Kalahari Bushmen next door who owned the dry cleaner’s, because these lads were soon out on the street and siding up with the wetbacks.
With all this fuss and bother going on, it wasn’t long before the volatile Incas from the chemist shop were in it, lobbing soap at the Spaniards who ran the haberdasher’s next to the Mongolian cheese boutique.
The Doveston took a stick of dynamite from his pocket and placed it on the table before me. ‘Now should I, or shouldn’t I?’ he asked.
I don’t think he should have really. But on this particular occasion it seemed to have the desired effect. The mob had been turning rather ugly and the explosion certainly calmed them all down. We felt it prudent to take our leave before the bomb smoke cleared and the appliances arrived to battle the fires that were starting up.
We had done our good deed for the day and did not need any pats upon the back.
I record this incident only because it was one of the rare occasions when the Doveston’s dynamite brought peace instead of mayhem. I mentioned in the opening chapter his love for what he called the ‘Big Aaah-choo!’. But, other than for a brief allusion to the infamous episode of the detonating dog, I took the matter no further. This is not because I fear the consequences that disclosure of his childhood bombings might incur. After all, most of the buildings that went up in smoke have long since been rebuilt and all the survivors rehoused.
The way I see it is this. We all make mistakes when we’re young and do things we later regret. Children behave badly, they shouldn’t but they do, and it is far better just to forgive and forget.
Of course what they get up to when they’re older is another matter and I have no hesitation whatsoever in putting that down upon paper.
Especially as it was my bloody dog that he blew up. Bastard!
We parted company at the allotment gates and the Doveston shuffled off to see how his tobacco crop was coming along on his ‘uncle’ Old Pete’s plot.
I went shufffing homeward bound, my head already full of plans for the costume I might wear to impress the girls at the party. Something trendy, the Doveston had said, and not a policeman. Not a policeman narrowed it down quite a bit. Whatever could you dress up as that wasn’t a policeman? A pirate, perhaps, or a parrot at a push. Or a parsnip, or a pimple, or Parnell.
I’ve always had a great deal of respect for Parnell. Charles Stewart Parnell (1846—91), that is, who led the Irish Home Rule movement in Parliament with his calculated policy of obstruction. He won Gladstone over in the end, but his career was sadly ruined through the scandal of his adultery with Mrs O’Shea.
Still, these things happen and Parnell was probably too obvious a choice. And I didn’t want to make myself look silly by turning up as Parnell to find three other Parnells already there and only one Mrs O’Shea to go round between the four of us.
I had plans for something clever. Clever and trendy with it.
The next day at school I told Chico all about the party and asked him if he wanted to come. Chico looked a might battered and somewhat charred about the edges. I had to speak quite loudly to him, as he said that one of his eardrums had been perforated due to an unexpected explosion. What did he think he would come as? I asked him.
I awaited the inevitable reply and was actually quite surprised when he passed over Parnell in favour of a chap called Che Guevara who was some kind of revolutionary, of all things. Outrageous!
Chico asked whether it would be all right for him to bring along a couple of new gang members. I said I felt sure that it would be, as long as he promised that they wouldn’t shoot anybody. Since it wasn’t my party.
He agreed to this and then asked whether there would be balloons at this party and jelly and games.
Kids, eh!
By the time Friday evening came around, there seemed to be quite a big buzz in the neighbourhood. Everyone was talking about the Doveston’s party. Everyone seemed to be going.